The Ice Harvest (4 page)

7

“H
ow long’s it been since you laid eyes on the old hellkite?” Pete asked.

“Two years ago exactly. Christmas Eve. I was out at the mall buying all my presents at once and I spotted her carrying a bunch of bags. She pretended not to see me, so I went up and said hi, offered to help with her bags.”

“She must’ve hated you for that.”

“She gave me that smile, you know, like this.” Charlie gritted his teeth, drawing the skin taut on his face and extending the tendons in his throat. “And she said, ‘Thank you very much, Charlie, I’ll manage.’ ”

Pete took a long drink from Charlie’s flask. “This’s almost empty. We can fill it up at the in-laws’. Get some of the good stuff in here.”

They were headed down an old residential street lined with solid old houses and tall, naked shade trees. Most of the houses had strings of big, conical multicolored bulbs running along their eaves and in the trees. Charlie slowed when he saw a house with tiny points of white light draped around its frame. As he pulled over toward the curb he overshot his mark and hit it with a solid jolt, lurching upward and halfway onto someone’s snowy lawn.

“Fuck! Spilled. Sorry.” Pete halfheartedly wiped at his lap with the sleeve of his sport jacket. “Wasn’t much left anyway.”

“Couldn’t see where the damn curb was,” Charlie said, a little embarrassed. “All this fucking snow.”

“You want to get down off the curb or just leave it like this? It’s Christmas Eve; nobody’s gonna fuck with it.”

“Let’s leave it like this. I don’t plan to be here long anyway.”

Pete was already scraping out white lines on the cover of a brand-new Rand McNally road atlas. “You going to join me before we go in?”

He almost said no, but he was feeling a little drunk and he didn’t want to slur in front of Melissa and Spencer. “Sure.”

He regretted it at the very first snort. After the initial burn in his nose the feel of the syrupy, bitter saliva running down the back of his throat nearly made him gag, but his grogginess was already beginning to dissipate as he climbed out of the Lincoln.

They walked around the east side of the house toward the back because Pete wanted to sneak a look into the dining room before they went inside. Charlie looked around the familiar backyard, feeling like a ghost in the feeble orange and purple light. It was so quiet he thought he could hear the snowflakes hitting the tops of the drifts. They turned the corner onto the west side of the house, where a faint yellow light shone through the dining room window.

“This is gonna be great,” Pete whispered, loudly enough to be heard fifteen feet away where Charlie stood watching him. Pete was on tiptoe, looking in at the last of the Christmas dinner. “They’re on dessert. Nobody’s talking. The kids are all pouting.”

“I should leave.”

“Too late. You’re in. You can’t let me go in there and tell your kids you were here and wouldn’t see ’em. Come on.” He dropped down and motioned for Charlie to follow him to the front of the house.

They climbed the porch steps and Pete opened the unlocked front door. Charlie stopped to scrape most of the snow off his shoes on the mat as Pete walked in, swaggering toward the dining room, clomping his wet boots across the solid oak floor, detouring for a brief hop to track snow and mud on a pristine, cream-colored couch. “Merry fucking Christmas!” he called out.

Charlie followed cautiously, several yards behind Pete, ready to bolt at the first sign of violence. Pete burst ahead of him into the dining room and held the door open. Charlie stood back, peering in around him from behind. The dark green wallpaper drained most of the light out of the room. Dottie sat silently at one end of the long table opposite her husband, and scattered around the table were five sleepy, cranky grandchildren, two women in early middle age, and a single, pudgy son-in-law, the only moving element in the tableau as his fork moved frantically back and forth from his pie plate to his mouth. The table was covered with half-empty platters: turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green beans. Of the three pies in the center of the table, only one had been cut into, and no one but Sarabeth’s husband had taken any.

“Hey, who died?” Pete yelled.

There was no response. Charlie shrank further behind Pete, considering a last-minute retreat. No one seemed to have noticed him yet. He caught a glimpse of Melissa, seated next to Dottie at the far end of the overladen dinner table. Was she six now? No, seven.

“It’s the silent treatment, Charlie.”

The mention of his name didn’t evoke any response from the adults at the table, but Melissa leaped up onto the seat of her absurdly oversize chair, vaulted herself out of it, and raced squealing around the long, solid table and past her uncle Pete to slam full force into Charlie. He picked the little girl up and held her tight for a second, then set her down. She pressed herself into his pant leg, crying and holding on for dear life. Now the other adults were staring at him, puzzled and angry.

“Hi, Spence,” he said to the little boy seated next to Sarabeth’s husband, trying not to play favorites. “Merry Christmas.”

The boy stared him down without a word. Pete and Betsy’s kids looked at Charlie, not quite sure who he was.

“Sorry to show up unannounced. Just gave Pete here a ride, thought I’d stop in and wish you happy holidays.”

Again no one spoke. Charlie’s ex-father-in-law was twisted around in his chair, staring openmouthed at Charlie as though trying desperately to place him. Sarabeth’s husband, mouth full of mincemeat, looked as though he might stand up and bludgeon Charlie with one of Dottie’s silver candlesticks, and Sarabeth herself looked away. Betsy shot alternating disgusted looks at Charlie and Pete, as though she couldn’t decide which was the lower form of life. Finally Dottie broke the silence.

“We’ve already eaten dinner, Charlie. Could I offer you a glass of wine?” She smiled more or less convincingly as she said it, possibly at Charlie’s obvious surprise at her unaccustomed civility.

“Don’t mind if I do, Dottie, thanks.” He walked toward her end of the table, passing Sarabeth without looking directly at her.

Dottie got up and poured him a glass of red wine and handed it to him. “You’re limping, Charlie. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Just a little tennis hip,” he said.

“I never heard of that,” Dottie said.

He turned toward Sarabeth, who wouldn’t return his gaze. She wore bangs now, and her dark brown hair fell below her shoulders for the first time since he’d known her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes moist. He had almost forgotten how pretty he’d always found that sad look of hers. She pushed her chair away from the table, and he was surprised to see as she stood that she was pregnant. He felt an odd twinge of nostalgia at the sight of her belly, a small but sharp pain he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of. He reminded himself that he hated her.

“Sorry,” she said, pushing past Pete. Betsy looked over at Charlie, something close to a snarl on her curled lip. Charlie had always liked her, had in fact had a crush on her at one of the low points of his marriage, and even this attention from her still gave him a tiny spark of pleasure. She started to say something, then stopped herself, got up, and followed Sarabeth out of the room, stopping long enough at the door to give Pete a hard shove in the chest. “You shitheel!” she hissed quietly. Pete grinned, but he was a long way from the fun and fireworks he’d anticipated and promised.

“How is your work coming along, Charlie?” Dottie asked.

“Me and Tom Hagen here made a guy an offer he couldn’t refuse, that’s how come we’re so fucking late.” Apart from a small, involuntary wince, Dottie made no sign that she heard him.

“Work’s fine,” Charlie said. Dottie had first turned on him in the course of a seemingly innocuous disagreement over whether or not Spencer was old enough for a bicycle. A shouting match had followed regarding Charlie’s decision to give up his only mildly successful law practice and go to work full-time for Bill Gerard and Vic Cavanaugh. After that day he had warily avoided her company, even on major family occasions, right up until the divorce. In the interim the phenomenon of the mostly absent son-in-law seemed to have become a Henneston family tradition.

“Who’s he?” bellowed the old man at the end of the table.

“You remember Charlie,” Dottie yelled back.

“Not Charlie,
him,
” he said, pointing at Charlie.

“That’s Charlie, Bert. Spence and Melissa’s real father.”

The old man pointed at Sarabeth’s fuming husband. “I thought he was Charlie.”

“That’s Tony. Now be quiet.”

Spencer stood up so suddenly he knocked his chair backward and had to grip the edge of the table in order to keep from losing his own balance. “Tony’s my dad! I don’t even know this guy!” Charlie was genuinely surprised at how big the little bastard was getting. When had he seen him last? Surely it hadn’t been more than a couple of months. “You didn’t even send us presents this year.” Shit, Charlie thought, he’s right. How did I let that happen?

Melissa looked up at Charlie. “I don’t like Tony,” she chirped. She sounded insincere, but it felt good hearing her say it.

“I think maybe it’d be better if you left now. Perhaps you could give Peter another ride. I think Betsy and the children will be spending the night here.”

“I don’t need a ride home, you bitch,” Pete said, but he was beaten and he knew it.

“Good-bye, Charlie.” Dottie smiled at him and sat back down.

“Well, thanks for the wine.” He knocked the nearly full glass back and drained it.

Melissa tugged at his arm. “Guess what? I was in this play,
A Christmas Carol,
and it was about this guy Bob Cratchit.”

“So what,” Spencer yelled across the table. “You were only Tiny Tim’s sister, and you didn’t even have any lines.” Melissa stuck her tongue out at her brother. “And
he
didn’t even come watch!” Spencer flipped Charlie the bird and ran from the room, adding himself in passing with a solid, well-aimed belly shot to the list of family members who’d hit Pete for Christmas.

“He would’ve come if Mom let me send him an invitation!” Melissa yelled after him. Sarabeth’s husband followed Spencer’s departure with an approving, barely suppressed smirk, and Charlie was suddenly aware of his bulk. He had a lot of fat on him, but he also had big, solid, hammy hands, and Charlie had no doubt that the man could beat the living piss out of him anytime he chose to. Wondering how long it would take before Tony found himself skipping Thanksgiving and Christmas, Charlie gave Melissa a little hug and left the room.

Pete was subdued as they moved through the living room to the front door. The triumphal rout he’d expected hadn’t happened, and Charlie suspected that in the long run the silent treatment would prove an effective means of subduing Pete as long as he still chose, and was allowed, to be around.

As he pushed the front door open Melissa popped out of the dining room and raced to the door. “Will you come see me this week?”

“Sure I will, honey,” Charlie said, and she turned and ran back to the table.

They crunched through the snow across the lawn toward the car. Charlie turned and looked back and thought he caught Sarabeth standing in a second-story bedroom window looking down at him, but it might have been her sister. She pulled the curtains shut before he could be sure.

8

I
t was five minutes before Pete spoke a word.

“Dottie is a bitch.” He said it slowly, with wonder, like a sudden revelation. “Shit. We forgot to fill the flask.”

“You want to go home?” They were headed west, and Charlie wanted to get Pete home before he went back to the Sweet Cage with Renata’s surprise.

“I’m gonna save the rest of Trina’s coke for later, but I think we need to stop for one more drink. Just one more and then it’ll be time to lay down my head and dream of sugarplums and jolly old elves and all that shit.” He laid his head against the side window and closed his eyes. “I’m not sleeping. Shake me when we get someplace that’s open.”

A few minutes later Charlie pulled off the access road alongside the old state highway and into the parking lot of Terwilliger’s Social Club and Grille. Pete stirred, coughing, and looked around. “Where we at?”

“Terwilliger’s.” Terwilliger’s was located in the corner of the parking lot of a shopping mall.

“Fuck, I hate this place. Watery drinks and all those old patent medicine ads all over the walls.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. We’re not going to find much else that’s open in this part of town.”

“Yeah,” Pete allowed. “I still hate it.” He opened his car door.

“It’s a pretty good place to get laid, actually.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna get lucky twice in the same night. Even if I was able.” Pete scowled and stepped out of the car into snow that came up to the middle of his shins. There were only three other cars in the parking lot. “You got a membership here?”

“I got a membership everywhere.”

The young woman behind the bar was stacking clean glasses. She didn’t stop when they came in. “I’m closing up. Sorry.”

“We just want one drink,” Charlie said.

“Each,” Pete added, in case she misunderstood and tried to serve them one to share between them.

“I’m closed,” she said. She wasn’t eager to debate the point with them. She was nice enough looking, Charlie thought, one of those Midwestern college-girl faces with just a little baby fat and straight auburn hair down to her shoulders. She seemed to him too young to be tending bar. In a corner a large young man was setting chairs on the tables. Around the perimeter of the restaurant the lights were out, leaving only the circular bar lit in the center of the room.

“How come the door isn’t locked? It’s eight minutes till eleven, by my watch,” Pete said. “I demand a drink.”

“I already closed my register.”

“Come on, Pete, let’s go.” Charlie took hold of Pete’s elbow. He shook it off.

“You know my brother here’s a mobster.”

“Come on, Pete,” Charlie said. “Sorry, honey.”

She looked over at the big kid stacking chairs. Then she softened. “Tell you what,” she said, “if you’ll drink it right up and leave, I’ll give you one on the house. I just don’t want to have to reopen my register.”

In the end she let them stay for two rounds. She and the large young man joined them for the second. They were both university students from out of town, neither of them able to go home for Christmas.

“So let me ask you something. What’s the deal with all the ads?” Pete bellowed.

“What ads?”

He made a sweeping gesture around the room. “All these old-time ads. And all the old junk on the walls. What the fuck is the point of the old bicycle up on the wall?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never thought about it before.”

“Me neither,” the boy said. “Now that you mention it, it does seem kind of stupid.”

“I think I made an impression on those two, Charlie.” They were standing under the awning outside the front door as the young man locked the door behind them. “You know, if that kid doesn’t get laid tonight it’s because he didn’t try.”

“I don’t know. She had on one of those little Jesus fish necklaces.”

“Fuck the fish necklace. Did you see the way she was swigging that margarita? Those were strong, too. I think she’s about to initiate that young man back there into the Campus Crusade for Cunnilingus.” He took in a deep, frozen breath. “That about hit the fucking spot. You know when you have that one drink that takes you to the exact perfect stage of drunkenness? That was the one. I feel like God. Let’s hit it.”

He took one step off the icy sidewalk and into the parking lot and slipped. “Fuck! Charlie, I fell.”

“You hurt?”

“I’m too drunk to get hurt.” He struggled to get back on his feet, slipping and falling repeatedly as Charlie stood watching. He finally managed to get up on his hands and knees. The car was only seven or eight feet away.

“You gonna make it?”

“Fuck yes, I’m gonna make it. Don’t tell anybody you saw me do this,” he said, and he crawled on all fours to the door. He pulled it open, leaned his head and shoulders in, and began spewing nine hours’ worth of booze and bar snacks onto the floor of the passenger side.

“For Christ’s sake, Pete, do it in the snow, not in the fucking Lincoln!”

Pete stopped for a moment, looked blearily up at Charlie, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, and then resumed puking copiously into the wheel well.

“Ready to go home now?” Charlie asked as they pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the access road. Pete had apologetically scooped most of his mess out of the car and onto the snow of the parking lot.

“I know my limit, Charlie. Take me home.” His voice was raw. He looked dejectedly out the side window and then back at Charlie. “You got any cigarettes? A cigarette would make this just perfect.”

“I quit three years ago.” In fact he had two-thirds of a pack in the glove compartment, but he didn’t relish the thought of cigarette smoke mingling with the Lincoln’s already overpowering odor of vomit. He rolled his window down to dilute the smell.

“Aw, Charlie, close the window; it’s cold,” Pete said. His eyes were shut and his arms folded across his chest.

“You’ll live,” Charlie said, and lowered Pete’s window a crack to get a cross-draft.

Despite the cold wind blowing across his face, Pete was in a deep sleep when they got to his house, and it took Charlie ten minutes to rouse him sufficiently to get out of the car under his own power. If the length of Pete’s body hadn’t been slick with puke, Charlie would have picked him up and dragged him to the door himself.

Pete sat with his legs out of the car, taking deep breaths, getting slowly ready to make his move for the front door. “Come on in, lemme show you the house, it’s nice, Betsy’s done all kindsa shit to it since you were here last. Even renovated the goddamn attic this year. I musta killed about a hundred, hundred and fifty bats up there.”

“You had bats?”

“Just about every house in the town, if you know where to look. This town’s the bat capital of the midwestern United States.”

As soon as he managed to open the door Pete shambled over to the living room couch and fell onto it, smearing its cushions with sour, half-dried vomit.

“You want me to help you to bed?” Charlie asked, but Pete was out for the night. He wandered around the room, examining the pictures on the walls, Betsy’s pricey knickknacks, the expensive furniture. He wondered how much the couch Pete was ruining cost. In the corner was a Christmas tree, trimmed with tiny, quaint Victorian-looking ornaments and—Charlie had to look twice to be sure he was seeing it right—tiny candles instead of electric lights. It occurred to him that, contrary to his old fantasies and despite that sweet face, life with Betsy would actually have been more terrifying than life with Sarabeth.

In the garage was a brand-new black Mercedes-Benz. Either someone had picked up Betsy and the kids tonight or she and Pete had three cars, and one of them was a new Mercedes. Charlie bent down and looked in the passenger window. The keys were in the ignition. He went back into the kitchen and wrote a note:

Pete,

My car smells like bile so I’m borrowing yours. Do me a favor and DON’T clean the Lincoln out before you return it to its rightful owner. Leave it parked outside Carswell Refrigerated Storage downtown day after Christmas with the motor running and the heater on full blast.

Charlie

He had to push the front seat of the Mercedes back about a foot before he could sit properly, and the wheel was set too low. That and the lipstick-stained Kleenexes in the ashtray led him to conclude that the car was Betsy’s. It was as comfortable as the Lincoln, more so even, despite being only about two-thirds as long. He gunned the engine. It sounded good. He hit the power on the radio and was amazed at its volume and clarity, even on AM.

“Fuck the Lincoln,” Charlie muttered as the garage door came up and he coasted slowly down the driveway, then felt guilty and unfaithful as soon as he saw it sitting there on the street. He put the Mercedes into park and made his way through the drifts over to the Lincoln. He opened the door and took one last look inside. The only item of even minimal value in sight was the new road atlas, which had ended up in the path of Pete’s vomiting jag. He took the keys out of his coat pocket and stuck them in the ignition, and then he remembered what he was forgetting. He popped the glove compartment open, took out the envelope with the negative, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his overcoat. He felt like weeping as he walked back to the Mercedes. Now it belonged to the ages.