Adirondack Audacity (38 page)

So much for slipping quietly into his life. But oh, with
a mother’s unconditional love, I’m enamored with him.
There is an air of quiet confidence about him, and he
obviously has patience with idiotic woman. Regaining my
senses, I say, “I’m sure it must be past closing time and
I’m interrupting your dinner.”

“We tend to eat late around here
. I come home and
play outside with the kids before it gets dark. It gives
Claire a chance to start dinner and have a few moments
of peace.” A considerate husband. Someone raised him
well. “They just went up to the house. Hand me your gear
and we’ll get you up onto dry ground and headed home.”
I hand him my backpack and place the camera gently on
the dock.

“Let me help you
.” He offers; taking my hand in his,
the kayak wobbles as I shift my weight to climb out, his
fingers strong and warm as he pulls me up. Standing in
the evening twilight with his hand in mine, I give him a
polite smile for the assistance, but fear I’m staring at him
like I’ve seen the coming of the next Messiah.

“Thank you.”
My wellspring of conversation dries up
as my gaze drops to his hand. My son’s hand, I am
standing here holding my son’s hand. A few scars stand
out white against his bronze skin, giving his hand depth
and character.

Let
go of his hand. Now! I admonish myself. Release
your grip, before you look like the village idiot or an old
lady on the make. Reluctantly, I let go of his hand and
transfer my stare to his face.

“So,” I say
, rallying the few wits I have left, “Where
do you store the kayaks at night?” And cringe at the
inanity of the question.

“Do you need any help?”
I ask, realizing I’m grabbing
at any excuse to prolong the conversation. Like this wellmuscled young man needs any help from the likes of me,
to offer is an insult to his masculinity.

“I’m good but thank you.”
He gives me an amused
grin as he effortlessly hoists the kayak onto his shoulders;
his attention diverts to my camera lying on the ground
next to my daypack. “Do you like photography?”

“Actually, yes,” I answer
, praying he doesn’t ask any
in-depth camera questions. Photography is Vic’s forte,
not mine. “My husband is the camera buff. I’m more of a
shoot and go girl, strictly amateur. I wanted to take a few
pictures so I could email them to him tonight. He’s in
Miami on business. I thought he’d enjoy seeing the marsh
and river.”

“I’m sure he would.”
Josh nods in agreement. “Say, if
you’re interested in photography and kayaking, this
Saturday, I’m running a clinic. We’re going to take an
informal paddle down the river, stopping along the way
to discuss aperture settings, lighting, and just general
aspects of photography. Maybe you’d be interested in
joining us? I think there’s still a few spots open. Check
with Claire.”

“Yes! That sounds wonderful, I’d
love to come.” I
reply, trying to contain my joy at the prospect of seeing
him again.

“Excellent, call Claire tomorrow and she’ll
give you
the details.” Josh says leading me up the path toward the
parking lot. “And we will see you on Saturday.”

I mentally chide
myself to say good bye…..and no,
don’t shake his hand again… just…
go.
“Yes, see you then.” I call out to him with a wave.
Wait, wait….don’t start……no, don’t twirl around
and dance with joy until I’m home….. alone…. in the
woods…. by myself. If he sees me joyously cavorting
around in the parking lot and finds out I’m his mother…
he’ll fear insanity runs in the family.

I don’t cook, I clean. Cleaning is a legacy from my
stepmother, Helen, the
only
common bond in our
tortuous relationship. They didn’t call me
Cinder-Ellen
in
high school for nothing. Helen’s idea of a prom dress was
an apron paired with a toilet brush.

Yet, surprisingly, I like to clean. Cleaning is
therapeutic, when life knocks me off balance and the
universe sends me into a whirl, I clean. A broom, a mop,
a dust cloth slick with lemon oil, these tangible symbols
of domestic stability give me a purpose, a reason to move
forward, if you keep moving trouble can’t catch you. I
tried jogging for stress relief, but after ten minutes of
running, I’d collapse in a heap alongside the road begging
for Para-medics and oxygen.

But cleaning, a person starts early in the morning and
can still be working by nightfall. Exhausted, replete,
spent, you’ve made it through another day. Cleanliness is
next to Godliness, so they say. My way of praying when
Jack died……well, it was better than eating my way
through grief.

Not that I’m troubled or upset at the moment, just
restless. With Vic gone and little to occupy my time until
Saturday, I need a project. I thought of making a batch of
muffins for Claire and the children to apologize for being
late. Then I come to my senses……. I’ll stop at the
bakery on my way into town on Saturday.

Unfortunately for me, the Adirondack lodge was left
in immaculate condition. Not a cobweb, not a dust
bunny, not a slick on the windows, but…… the attic of
the old boat house situated on the water’s edge proved to
be a veritable treasure of collectibles, some
less
collectable
than others.

I called the owners and they were delighted to let me
“straighten up”. Apparently over the years, what the
family didn’t want in the main lodge, ended up stashed in
the boat house. Old sports equipment, lawn furniture,
gardening tools, lifejackets covered in mildew, and
cardboard boxes full of outdated clothing. Bursting at the
seams and starting to smell. Untouched for years, the
boathouse was the dream of every fanatic cleaner.

Standing on the dock after a long day of cleaning, I
stretch and tentatively flex my aching back while
surveying my progress. Not bad for a day’s work, I’d
applaud my efforts but my arms ache too much. Scattered
across the lawn are three piles; one goes to the garbage
dump, one to the fire pit and one box of articles still
usable.

Pulling the dusty bandana off my head, I study the
boathouse edifice. While one can’t help being impressed
by the grandeur of the great camps sitting like crown
jewels at the edge of a mountain lake, I’ve secretly
coveted the tiny boathouses clinging to the shore.
Designed to match the main lodge, the boathouse acted
as a garage for boats, while the second story serves as a
guesthouse for visitors. Many great camps require a boat
or water taxi, being accessible only by water. Seen from
afar, the boathouse with the camp’s signature flag flying,
announces the family is in residence.

Walking around the building, I imagine it painted a
deep brown with red trim, window boxes spilling over
with bright crimson geraniums and Adirondack chairs
dotting the overhanging porch. The leaded glass
windows, washed and open, with curtains billowing in the
summer breeze. Climbing the steps, I envision the
upstairs room decked out in vivid reds, greens and
orange, colors symbolic of the Adirondack Great Camps.
Casting a wistful glance out the window at the lake, I
realize how hot, tired and dirty I feel from hours of
crawling through cobwebs, musty lifejackets, rotten
wood, and a conglomeration of dirt and unidentifiable
smells. Though the temperature is dropping, I long for a
quick dip in the velvet cool of the lake, to sink below the
surface and feel the cleansing waters wash away the
grime.

Wiping the sweat from my brow with the corner of
Vic’s old shirt, I think, why not? All I need is a towel;;
since there is no one around for miles, why bother with a
bathing suit. It’s just me, Cyrus and the deer. So before
the sun sets any further and I lose my nerve, I sprint to
the house. Dropping my dirty clothes on the bathroom
floor, I grab a towel and lock Cyrus in the kitchen.
Otherwise, he’ll follow me into the water and I’ll have a
wet smelly dog in my bed. Poor substitute for Vic.

I dive off the dock into water the color of black ink,
slicing through like an otter on a hunt. Surfacing, I float
on my back, watching the last rays of sun sink below the
hedge of pines rimming the mountain range. My initial
euphoria over the invigorating cool water is quickly
replaced by a slow body-numbing chill. Scooting up the
ladder of the dock, I hastily wrap a towel around me, and
dash across the lawn to the house, questioning the
wisdom of skinny-dipping in May. Am I
stupid?
I know
how cold the water can be, even at the height of summer,
anything more than a brief swim is for the hardy.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints across the deck, I
yank on the handle of the sliding glass door and almost
pull my shoulder joint out of its socket. The door’s stuck.
I yank again. Still stuck. Pull harder.
Oh, my God, it’s locked.

What,
no!
I used that door only minutes ago, how can
it be locked? Did the latch accidentally fall into the locked
position, did Cyrus lock it?
ehhhhh………….
the security
code! The owners programmed the security system to
lock the doors at 7 p.m. The wife’s father has Alzheimer’s
and tended to wander at sundown. Vic and I left it in
place, using the keypad to let ourselves in, only he
punched in the code and apparently I paid no attention.
Bloody hell, where is the code!!
Inside the house on a little
piece of paper, stuck to the refrigerator, is the entry code.
Behind the locked door.

I hear Cyrus barking in the kitchen.
Okay, don’t
panic; one of the windows or doors must be open. I
always leave a window open. After a quick survey of the
ground floor entrances to the house, I panic. All of them
are locked.
Shit, shit, shit, and double shit!
Temperatures are
predicted to be in the forties tonight. Resting my head
against the door jam, I imagine the newspaper headlines,
middle aged blonde woman found dead, outside her
palatial mountain home, naked and frozen, cause of
death: stupidity combined with pre-season skinny
dipping.

I can’t even get into my car;; the keys are in the house.
In desperation, I try wedging the handle of the hose
under the windowsill in a vain attempt to pry it open. No
luck, closed up tighter than a drum. In utter and absolute
hysteria, I start beating the hose handle against the
window, but to no avail. Constructed of high tech
security glass, the windows are shatter proof to prevent
vandalism. The house is miles from any other residence.
Peering fearfully at the darkening woods, I don’t relish
the idea of running barefoot through miles of wilderness
roads, clad only in a towel.

Oh, boy,
I’m really starting to get cold, I can’t stop
shivering and my teeth are chattering. Ummm, think
Ellen, think. You’ve taken survival courses, what did they
teach you……. Nothing!!

Making
a shelter out of sticks, doesn’t work well in a
pine forest without a hatchet. Very little scattered
branches and leaves needed for building materials. I’m
going to die, Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m going to die of
hypothermia. Vic is going to kill me, even if I’m dead,
he’ll resurrect my corpse and kill me again for being so
stupid.

First rule of survival;
don’t panic!
Not working, I think
I just ran in a circle chasing my tail. How much time has
passed? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Judging from the
darkening sky…..a half hour? There must be something I
can use to get warm. The boathouse!! Maybe some of
those old smelly clothes. I think I saw a gas tank; maybe I
can start a fire. Matches, I don’t know if I saw matches.
But I have to look, I’m desperate with cold.

Without the aid of a flashlight and relying on the
meager moonlight filtering through the trees, I pick my
way gingerly down the path to the boathouse. Reaching
the building, I realize I padlocked the door. I can’t believe
I locked this stupid building full of worthless junk. It’s all
trash. Just because the owners locked it, doesn’t mean I
needed to lock it too. From what? The raccoons!!

Shivering with cold, I squat down and twirl the dial,
trying to remember the combination numbers. Just as I
hear the tumblers click into place and release the lock, I
hear a twig snap behind me. Wheeling around to see what
creature wants to eat my frozen carcass, I’m blinded by a
sudden flood of light. Screaming in terror, I throw my
hands up shielding my eyes against the glare of a
spotlight…….
And
my towel slips to the ground. And
I’m standing butt naked with nothing but what God gave
me, caught in the glare of a search light, screaming
hysterically.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.”
I hear a disembodied voice
calling from the dark reaches behind the light. “
Lady!
It’s
okay. It’s the
Police!
We’re not going to hurt you.”

“
The police?” My mind frantically wonders. What the
hell! How in God’s name did the police show up?
“Here, you dropped…..ahhhh…….your towel.”
Another voice comes from the dark. Good Lord, how
many of them are there? I see the towel, but before giving
it to me, the shadow of the man stands up, and settles
back on his heels, as if enjoying the view.
Jerk!
“Give me that!” I snatch the towel from his hand.
“Put down the light, you’re blinding me.” I yell through
chattering teeth. I’m shivering convulsively with a
mixture of cold and fear. “Who are you?” I demand, not
sure if I’m relieved to be rescued or embarrassed at being
found in such a ridiculous situation.
“Old Forge Police, ma’am.” the first voice answers, as
he lowers the blinding light away from my face. “The
security alarm at the house was tripped and a call came
into the station. We came out to investigate a burglary.”
“Hey Frank, give her your jacket,” says the second
voice in the dark. “She looks like she’s freezing. Just look
at the goose bumps on her, she can’t stop shivering.”
Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s my goose bumps the two of
them are looking at, oh hell, what does it matter, I’ve
reached a new level of mortification, just give me the
jacket before I freeze to death.
“Ma’am, what are you doing out here?” The voice
named Frank asks as he hands me his jacket.
“Do I look like I’m committing a burglary?” I snap at
them, trying to slip my arm into the jacket without losing
my grip on the towel. One strip tease a night is enough. I
wrap my arms around my body, holding in the warmth,
inhaling the faint scent of the man’s aftershave. Smells
like my father. Old man cologne.
“No, Ma’am, you do not,” replies the police officer in
a calm even tone reserved for soothing raving lunatics.
“But Ma’am, the alarm has been tripped and we’re not
aware of anyone in residence. Usually the owner contacts
us when the house is rented. We have not received any
communication as to the occupancy of the house.”
“My husband and I are renting the house from the
Bellamys for the summer.” I say through chattering teeth.
“I can’t help it if they didn’t contact you.” I throw back at
him. I’m tired, hungry and convinced I’m turning into a
human Popsicle. “Listen, I went for a late swim and
accidentally locked myself out of the house. Pleaaasee,
help me get in, I’m freezing.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We don’t have the authorization
to open the house without the owner’s consent. We have
access to the code for the key pad, but first we need to
contact the owner.”
“Seriously?” I ask querulously, now I’m getting riled
up. “Are you insane?” I stomp my foot and point an
accusing finger at them. “Do you really think I decided to
come out here and try to break into a house not wearing
any clothes, and carrying no weapons or tools? I just
happened to be wandering through the woods naked, so I
could break into a vacant house and steal a new
wardrobe.” My voice raises several octaves, I’m on a
roll…… and
nothing
is going to stop me. Fueled by fatigue
and numb with cold, I launch into the two police officers.
“Do you two narrow minded, small town, Barney
Fifes really think that is what I was doing? Really! Do you
have nothing better to do than harass a freezing woman
locked out of her house? Is your small town life so
pathetic this is how you get your kicks on a Monday
night?”
Oh, please…..
someone gag me
now
….anything….
shut me up…..but I keep on going… “If you lived in the
real world, away from this two bit backwater town, you’d
be arresting criminals committing
real
crimes, rape,
murder, gang warfare, but no, you are so pathetic for
excitement that bullying a defenseless woman is your idea
of entertainment. Just how stupid can you be?!”
Apparently not as stupid as I am at this moment…..
freezing, naked women do not insult their would-be
rescuers. First rule of survival.
“Excuse me! What did you just say?” Asks the
incredulous voice of the one named Brian.
“I think the little lady just called us Barney Fife, living
in a two bit back water town,” says the second cop.
“Maybe we should leave her in the cold, and go up to our
warm patrol car and investigate what’s really going on
here. Excuse me, ma’am, I’ll be needing my coat back.
It’s getting a little nippy out here, wouldn’t you agree?”
His hand reaches for the coat. I slap it away.
“I think that was assaulting an officer. Don’t you,
Frank?”
“Absolutely Brian, boy howdy, when the sun goes
down in these here mountains, a body sure could freeze
to death. We, country bumpkin cops, don’t want to catch
our death of the cold. So little lady, why don’t you just
wait here, all bundled up in that little towel while we
figure out the situation. Sometimes these matters can take
hours to straighten out. I know you big city types don’t
mind waiting around. After all, you come up to the
mountains to get away from all that hustle and bustle, so
why don’t you just sit back, relax and enjoy the view.
We’ll call you when we have the information, might be
tomorrow morning. Will that be fine with you? We hate
to inconvenience you with our small town investigation
process.”
This was just too much for me at this point, in horror
I feel myself burst into great heaving sobs of frustration.
“No, no, I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.” I cry. “I’m
freezing. Please don’t leave me here to die.” A moan
escapes my blue lips, as I clutch the jacket with a death
grip. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just so cold; I wasn’t
thinking straight, my brain is frozen. I love Old Forge.”
“Well, seeing as how you put it that way. Am I to
understand that was an apology?” The taller one asks.
“Yes, yes, please, please, help me get into my house.”
I plead, vowing to never take my clothes off again or
venture into the woods after dark.
“We did swear an oath to be servants of the people.
Be a shame, leaving the lady out here on a cold night.”
“Let’s go up to the patrol car. We’ll contact the
station and access the files for the entry code.” says
Officer Frank in an amused voice. The two of them
clearly enjoying my discomfort, if I wasn’t so desperate
I’d go after them with the baseball bat discarded on the
“to be” burned pile.
“I don’t think she was really breaking and entering,
do you, Brian?”
“Na.” says Brian. I swear one of them snickered. This
is not funny. The taller one presses the button on a radio
attached to his shirt, reporting into headquarters their
location then nods in my direction. “We’ll put her in the
patrol car with the heater on while we clear this up.
There’s a blanket in the emergency kit she can use.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the Bellamys
were contacted and clearance given to open the house,
along with profuse apologies for the inconvenience.
Apologies my ass.
Once I was deemed no longer a threat to the security
of the North Country, Officer Frank entered the security
code and the house miraculously opened.
Calling out my thanks and good byes to the police, I
dash up to the stairs for a hot shower and the warmest
snuggly pajamas I can find.
Imagine my astonishment when descending the stairs
wrapped in a fleece robe; I smell coffee brewing and the
distinct crackle of a wood burning fire in the hearth. A
rush of warm air rises from the furnace ducts followed by
the smell of bacon sizzling on the stove. Who’s here?
I peer cautiously around the corner and see the two
policemen sitting around the kitchen island holding
steaming mugs of coffee. The island is set with three
place settings, and a mug of coffee waiting for me!
“We didn’t want to leave until we were certain you
were okay.” Officer Brian comments holding up his mug.
“So we helped ourselves to your kitchen, we thought you
could use some hot food.”
“For me?” I accept the hot coffee with gratitude.
“You are my heroes, you probably saved my life.”
“All in a day’s work for us, narrow minded small
town Barney Fifes, ma’am.” Frank chuckles.
Over sunny side up eggs, hot buttered toast and a
steaming mug of coffee laced with brandy for me; the
next hour passes in a pleasant exchange of apologies for
the misunderstandings perceived by both parties. We
laughed over the hilarity of my situation while not
underscoring the dangers of hypothermia in the North
Woods. The officers good naturedly poked fun at me,
claiming I was the first woman in fifteen years of service
they almost arrested wearing only a dragonfly necklace.
Unable to keep my eyes open as exhaustion settles in,
I assure the officers I no longer need their services, and
send them forth into the dark night, to save more
damsels in distress. This damsel, after locking the door,
shall head straight to bed with dreams of the alarm code
swirling in her head, never to be forgotten, again.