Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

Irma shook her head. “Naw, I don’t think so. Why else would you be out here in the middle of nowhere? It’s in your eyes, dear.”

“What is?”

Irma ambled to the door and slid a key into the lock. “When I first saw you, I said to myself, ‘Irma, that girl’s running from someone. Or something terrible.’ I can see it in your eyes. And eyes don’t lie.” She peered over her shoulder. “But it’s none of my nosey ol’ business.”

The old woman pushed on the door. It groaned in rebellion, then swung open, releasing a cloud of black flies.

And the scent of death.

“Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus!” Irma said in horror.

Sadie gagged. “What’s that smell?”

Their footsteps disturbed the mud-covered floor, and a waft of fine particles—dust, cobwebs and God knows what else—ascended into the stale air, along with the overpowering stench of decomposed chicken skin, rotten fish and sour milk. It reminded Sadie of the time the garburator had clogged and backed up into the kitchen sink.

Irma rushed to open the windows. “I’m so sorry, dear. Got caught up in Brenda’s problems and kept putting off cleaning this place. I guess I shoulda come sooner.”

Yeah, I’d say so, Sadie wanted to say. But she didn’t.

Holding her breath, she crossed the room, flung back the heavy curtains and opened the sliding door onto the veranda. Light illuminated every grimy corner, and for a moment, she was tempted to turn around and leave.

And go where?

Her mouth curled in disgust as her gaze swept across the clutter of unwashed dishes piled in the sink and on the chipped laminate counter. In one corner, a garbage can contained two fat fly-infested fish heads and a slimy, black clump of salad greens—lettuce or spinach, maybe. A two-burner Coleman stove sat on the counter near the sink, a cast iron pot abandoned on top of it. She peered inside, then wished she hadn’t. Something brown and furry covered the bottom of the pot, a feast for the black flies, fly larvae and wriggling white maggots that squirmed over it.

She fought hard not to gag. “When did the last tenant leave?”

“About two weeks ago. He was in a hurry, that one.”

“I’d be in a hurry too, if I lived in a place that smelled this bad. The guy was a slob.”

She stared at the jumble of sheets on the sofa bed and the dirty socks and stained t-shirts scattered across the floor.

“Why didn’t he take his stuff?”

Irma shrugged. “Said he had a family emergency.”

“Was he an oil worker too?”

“Naw, some kind of doctor, he said. But I tell ya, I wouldn’t want him sticking no needles into me. He had the shakes real bad.” Irma eyed the room. “I think he needed a woman in his life.”

“Or a maid,” Sadie muttered.

“Let me show you around, dear. Over here’s the bedroom.”

When Irma opened the door. Sadie was shocked by the state of the room. It was pristine, clean, not a thing out of place. Only a fine layer of dust on the double bed, dresser and nightstand. There was a small closet with no doors at the foot of the bed and a rectangular window facing the woods lined the exterior wall.

“Guess he didn’t use this room much,” Irma said needlessly.

“I wonder why.”

“Dunno. Bed here’s more comfortable than that sofa. Don’t make much sense to me.” She puttered over to the closet. “There’s a bin with fresh linens on the shelf. Just drop off all the other laundry to me and I’ll get it done at Ed’s.”

Back in the main part of the cabin, Sadie noticed something in the corner of the living room that she wasn’t expecting. An old grandfather clock. A sinewy cobweb swayed above it, and although the glass in front was missing and there were a few chips in the wood, the clock seemed to be working.

“My mother-in-law’s,” Irma said with a scowl. “Can’t stand the noise myself—even though the damned thing doesn’t go off every hour like it’s supposed to. It won’t bother you, will it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good, cause I ain’t moving it.”

Irma showed her the bathroom, just off the kitchen. It boasted an antique clawed tub and a sparkling new toilet that betrayed the rustic simplicity of the rest of the cabin.

“You have to heat the bath water,” Irma said ruefully. “No hot water tank.”

“That’s fine. I’m just thankful there’s a toilet.”

Irma lifted her chin. “I still say, there ain’t nothing better than communing with Mother Nature in a good ol’ outhouse.”

You can keep your outhouse, Sadie thought. And the nature.

“I can’t believe your last tenant left you with this mess.”

Irma chuckled deep in her throat. “ Your mess, dear.” She handed Sadie the key to the cabin. “There should be a lantern in every room and oil under the sink. You gonna be all right bringing in your things? I know it’s a long haul.”

“I can handle it.”

“Yes, you’ve had more to cope with.” A frail hand rested on her shoulder. “Like I said, it’s in your eyes, dear.”

Sadie frowned. She’d have to be very careful around Irma.

“There’s a fireplace for cooking and heat,” the old woman continued. “You know how to get a fire going?”

Sadie nodded.

When it came to campfires, she was the queen of sparks. Three years at Girl Guides and a montage of rugged camping trips with her father and brother had taught her well. The few times she and Philip had taken Sam camping, she was the one who always got the campfire going—much to Philip’s chagrin.

Irma paused in the doorway and lit up another cigar. The sweet smoke mixed with the potpourri of offensive odors, masking the stink… slightly.

“Before I leave, Sadie, you got any questions?”

“Just one. How do I store perishable food?”

“There’s an old freezer outside my cabin. You’re welcome to use it. It’s not plugged in, but I pack it with ice every other day. Actually Ed does. And it’s still cold enough at night to keep things mostly frozen. Label your food though, or them men’ll eat it on you. Oh, and there’s a root cellar under that .” She pointed to a worn square rug near a wing chair. “Good for storing vegetables.”

Sadie apprehensively eyed the rug. There was no way on earth that she was going to crawl around in a musty cellar. God only knew what was growing down there.

“Course, you can always use the cooler outside for the small stuff,” Irma added. “I’ll bring you a few things. And if you need anything else, you come see me.”

“I’ll be fine, Irma.”

“I’m sure you will. But these woods can get pretty lonely and quiet. ’Specially for city folk. None of them all night fast food restaurants here. But we don’t got that god-awful traffic either.”

“Speaking of traffic, is my car okay by your cabin?”

“Yeah, just lock it up at night. We don’t get fancy-schmancy vehicles like that here. And you don’t wanna tempt me.” Irma stepped outside and flashed her yellow teeth. “Always wanted to drive a sports car.”

When the woman was gone, Sadie felt strangely bereft. One look at the interior of the cabin made her realize she’d soon be far too busy to feel lonely. With hands on hips, she surveyed the room in dread, her mouth turned down in a scowl.

“Bet you miss your central vac and Swiffer now.”

She found a box of garbage bags under the kitchen sink. The sheets, towels and men’s clothes went into one. The garbage and three occupied mousetraps went into another. When she opened the door half an hour later to toss the bags outside, she discovered a box with cleaning products, a bulky blue flashlight with a sticker that read Infinity Cabin , fuel for the stove, a map and a note from Irma.