Sarah St.Vincent - Ways to Hide in Winter

An owl called softly in the woods, its sound reaching us once, then twice.

“I would say ‘thank you,’” he said. “But that wouldn’t really be enough.”

“You can thank me by picking a place to go. That’s one thing I can’t do for you. Believe me, I tried.”

He looked down at his fingertips. “Whatever you think is best,” he said eventually. “Just not a city. I don’t want—it wouldn’t be good for anyone to recognize me.”

“Recognize you?” I looked at him, unsure whether to laugh or yell. “I don’t understand how to get through to you. If you don’t want to be recognized, then a city is exactly where you want to be. Not a place like this. You have no idea how much you stand out by hanging around in places that have a population of basically zero.”

He laughed, although it was somehow a sad sound. “I do have some idea. And yes, I’m aware that you disagree with my current choice of residence. Maybe you’re right.” His gaze swept over the silent tableau around us. “Still,” he went on, “there are many things about this that I don’t regret. I have felt, in these past weeks—I don’t know. There’s something about being in such a place that reminds a person he’s alive, in a way I probably couldn’t explain.” He rose to his knees, pushing against the sand. “And of course, I could never have imagined I would be shown such kindness.”

I shook my head.

He stood and dusted the sand from his palms, bending over to brush off his jeans and extending a hand to me. I felt the ground tilt beneath me, and he caught my elbow as I stumbled forward.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I think maybe you shouldn’t drive anywhere.”

“Probably not. It’s okay—I’ll sleep in the car. I can check on things at home in the morning.”

We left the beach and followed the path to the parking lot, the trees hovering over us and blotting out the sky. I concentrated on following the faint trail, lifting my feet over roots that suddenly seemed to be moving and shifting deceptively. It was several minutes before I realized that he seemed to be slowing behind me.

Finally, just as we reached the end of the trail, he stopped.

I sensed that he was gathering himself to say something, but for a long moment, he kept still. We both stood at the edge of the parking lot, the small clearing hemmed in by the pines that towered so steeply on all sides.

He looked at me. Putting his hands in his pockets, he seemed to pause, as if he were unsure of something. It wasn’t until I heard the breath rushing in and out of his lungs that I realized he was shaking.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Even as I said it, I knew. His fear filled the air around us, surrounding us in something metallic and cold.

“Come on,” I said softly. “Come on. You’re all right.”

He nodded with a jerking motion, biting his lip, but the short, jagged breaths continued. He raised a hand to his face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just the whiskey. We’re going to get you out of here—you’re going to be fine.”

He was looking at the ground, rubbing his wrist briskly across his eyes.

I reached out and touched his sleeve.

“It’s all right,” I said again.

He didn’t answer. Slowly, he let out the breath he’d been holding, wiping his face with his fingers.

“Here, come on.” I gestured for him to follow me, leading us toward the path that ran back to the store and the hostel. “Can you find your way back? If not, I’ll walk with you.”

“I can find it,” he said. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. But listen. We’re going to get you out. Tomorrow, I promise. I’ll open the store so nobody notices anything, but the minute I’ve done that, we’ll go.”

He swallowed. “Yes. Okay.”

We looked at each other. The terror seemed to be draining from his face, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The gravel crackled under his feet as he shifted his weight.

“You know,” he said, “if anything ever happens to me, I…”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you. Go on, you just need to sleep it off.”

We stood together, looking down the path, its entrance barely visible in the dark. Then he said goodnight and set off. I watched him walk into the woods, my eyes following his stumbling figure until it was gone.

In the morning, I walked into the house to find my grandmother sprawled next to the sink, her lips parted, unconscious. A shattered glass sparkled at her fingertips.

“No,” I whispered.

I called the ambulance and sat next to her, holding her hand and brushing the hair out of her eyes, talking to her even though I knew she couldn’t hear me, rocking back and forth as I held her. She opened her eyes briefly, looking at me without recognition, then closed them again.

I leaned against the cabinet, pressing my head against the wood, praying for the scene not to be real until the ambulance came and bore us away.

The hours passed with a torturous slowness. At the hospital, the nurses and doctors moved efficiently around my grandmother’s motionless body, like insects that swarm over an object only to lose interest and be replaced by other insects. She’d had a stroke, they told me—something I’d already known without putting it into words. To all my other questions, including the most important one, they would only answer “maybe.”

By the time I tore myself away from the gray cube of the building, the sun was high overhead. I stopped at the lights and made the turns automatically, moving like a machine, doing everything I could not to think or feel. Crocuses had begun to raise their heads through the snow, a scattering of violet along the roadside, but I barely noticed them. I barely noticed anything, even the through-hikers who had suddenly shown up at the hostel, the first of the season. They lounged on the porch and took it over, drinking the warm beer they’d lugged with them, but I didn’t actually see them, not really. They were just a strange sort of human furniture.

Martin, I learned, had hidden the stranger in a kind of hole in the hostel basement, a bizarre crawlspace beneath the game room. I’d never seen it or even had an inkling it existed; it was accessible only by passing through the maze of the old root cellar and pushing aside some rotten boards that led to creaking steps, an airless room. The darkness there was absolute.

“What is this place?” I asked Martin as I followed the beam of his flashlight, taking in the damp earth of the floor, the moldering bricks of the walls.

“Underground Railroad,” he said shortly.

“Oh.” My eyes roamed over the dank, close space, the long cracks running through the ancient bricks. “Right.”

“Either that or an old icehouse that got filled in. At any rate, it’s nobody’s idea of a good time, but it’ll keep him out of sight until I can find a way to get him out of here.” He looked more closely at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No. I’ll tell you later.”

Hearing us, the stranger emerged from the space in the wall, brushing dirt and cobwebs out of his hair.

“Welcome,” he joked feebly, blinking in the light. “It’s not the Ritz, as they say, but I suppose it will do. I’m afraid I’ve gotten spoiled by the first-class accommodations upstairs.”

I tried to answer, but the words caught in my throat. Standing in front of the crevice in the wall that led to the crawlspace, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, he looked like a hunted animal.

Quietly, Martin left us, handing me the flashlight.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is—it’s—”

“Don’t worry about me,” he interjected. “I’m fine.”