The Survivors (25 page)

“Gee, thanks, bro,” she says.

But Miles doesn't reply. He keeps staring at his face in the mirror.

The next week goes fast and slow. It takes two days of washing the walls with vinegar and water to get rid of the cigarette smell. Another full day on the window glass and log furniture; some of the cushions have so many cigarette burns and wine stains that they have to be thrown away.

Artie does the bathroom, Nat the kitchen.

“Pigs,” Nat says, her voice muffled by a bandana over her mouth; she is on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor; the soapy water in the pail is dark brown.

“We're getting there,” Sarah calls. For the first time in her life she doesn't mind cleaning; her towel squeaks across the clean window glass. Beyond are leafless trees and the dull gray ice of Gull Lake—but dead-looking ice is a good thing: Spring is coming.

By Wednesday (it feels strange to look at a calendar again) the lake ice honeycombs and starts to melt; by Friday big sheets of it break apart and grind against one another from a warm southern breeze. It's her favorite sound, one she remembers as a kid—that tinkling, crushing, grinding sound when the ice begins to move.

On Saturday Sarah waits anxiously for Ray and his dad to come and retrieve their van. Artie and Nat have bought a used vehicle in Brainerd, a generic minivan not unlike the O'Keefes'—the kind she would not have been caught dead in back in the suburbs—so now they at least have wheels. They offered to drive the O'Keefes' van back north, but Ray saw a Craigslist ride to Brainerd.

   And anyway, I want to see Birch Bay,
he texted.

Sarah and her father drive to Brainerd and wait at a gas station, where they are planning to meet Ray and his dad.

   Ten more miles!!!!
Ray texts. Sarah's stomach does its own little ice-out dance, but she tries to stay cool.

Artie glances up at the gas station signs. “Ten bucks a gallon. I hope it stays that way,” he remarks.

“Why?” Sarah asks. She squints down the highway. There are only a few cars, and soon one of them has to be Ray's.

“People will drive less, and our country can stop getting into wars over oil.”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah says distractedly.

   N I have a present for U2,
Ray texts.

“Maybe the volcanoes will finally make us go green,” her father says, but she hardly hears him because an older car pulls in, with Ray's smiling face in the side window.

“That's them,” Artie says.

“Where?” Sarah says as if she hasn't noticed.

Herb and Artie shake hands. Sarah and Ray give each other a brief, totally casual hug, then stand around looking at their fathers. Ray is holding his ever-present sketch pad.

“Thanks again for coming down,” Artie says. “Let's head over to Birch Bay and get you your van back!”

“We got along just fine without it,” Herb says.

In the rear seat, Sarah and Ray hold hands. “Drawing stuff on the way down?” Sarah giggles.

“Nope. But I've been drawing a lot lately. My best stuff,” he says; his eyes shine.

“Show me,” Sarah says.

“Not here,” Ray mouths.

They make small talk on the ten-minute ride, and soon the cabin is in sight.

Ray looks out the window. “Just like I imagined it,” he said. “Kind of old-school.”

“Belonged to my father,” Artie says.

Inside the cabin, a birch log fire crackles, and there's the smell of fresh cookies.

“Miles! How are you doing?” Herb asks immediately, and comes over to shake his hand.

“I'm sorry—do I know you?”

Herb pauses, then laughs.

Miles doesn't. Sarah glances at him. Sometimes it's hard to tell when Miles is joking, which is the worrisome part.

“My neuro-shrink says I'm ninety percent there,” Miles says. He shrugs as if he doesn't quite agree.

“With you, ninety percent is plenty,” Nat says.

“I'd say so, too,” Artie says.

As the adults talk, Sarah nods her head to Ray, and they slide away down the hall, toward the kids' bedrooms.

“So let's see,” she says, her gaze on his sketch pad.

He swallows as if he's suddenly shy. “I hope you'll be all right with this,” he says, and opens the wide pages.

She sucks in her breath. “It's me. In the sauna!”

Ray is silent. She turns to him; his face is both excited and apprehensive—as if she might be angry with him.

Her eyes go back to the page. “It's really good,” she says. “But was my back that sweaty?”

He laughs. “Yes, for sure.” He puts his arm around her as they look at the drawing.

It's only black-and-gray pencil lines on heavy white paper, with some shadow areas rubbed in, but it's totally real. And totally sexy.

“Did I really look that good?” she asks with a quick glance over her shoulder toward the doorway.

“Better,” Ray says.

They have time for one kiss before the adult voices in the living room change in tone, as if people might be getting up and moving around.

“Anyway, the drawing is for you,” Ray says.

She pauses. Looks at it again. “Um, my mom and dad might freak if they saw it.”

“It's not like you're naked,” Ray says, “though I could erase a couple of lines and you would be.”

“You better not!” Sarah says with a giggle. She glances again over her shoulder. “I have a better idea! You should use it as part of your art school application.”

“And anyway, we have two spare bedrooms—,” Nat says overly loudly as the adults come down the hall. She's showing Herb around.

Sarah claps shut the sketch pad, and she and Ray manage to be standing by the window, with Sarah pretending to point at something of interest across the lake.

“Nice,” Herb says, and they move on.

“Don't be antisocial, kids,” Nat says over her shoulder to Sarah.

Back in the living room they all have coffee and cookies.

“So, what's next for you all?” Herb asks.

“This will work for the time being,” Artie says, glancing around at the cabin.

“No major moves until Miles is ready,” Nat says more firmly.

Miles rolls his eyes with annoyance.

“But what about your other house in Wayzata?” Ray asks.

Silence falls across the living room.

“Another cookie?” Nat asks, and hands Ray the plate.

At the end of May, when Miles is at his appointment at the hospital in Minneapolis with Nat, Sarah and Artie slip away and drive west across the city.

“You didn't have to come,” Artie says as he drives.

Sarah swallows. “I wanted to.”

Neither of them says much after that.

Entering the suburbs, they pass streets where every third house has plywood over its windows and doors. The houses that remain occupied have metal grates over the windows; they are made to look decorative, but they are still bars—the kind that used to be found only in the toughest neighborhoods of Minneapolis. Lawn signs announce home security systems. One McMansion with a long driveway has a sign reading
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
hung on a crudely installed gate.

“Not good,” Artie murmurs as they turn into the last street before their cul-de-sac.

“Hey, there's Dr. Carapezzi,” Sarah says.

Artie slows.

Dr. Carapezzi, a retired dentist who never minded Sarah and Miles biking endlessly up and down the street and goofing around the cul-de-sac, has come outside to check his mailbox. Wearing a long, heavy bathrobe, he has his hand on the mailbox door just as Artie slows the van.

Sarah powers down her window and leans out. “Hello!”

Dr. Carapezzi whirls and steps back. One hand goes into his robe pocket, which hangs heavy.

“Dr. Carapezzi. It's me. Sarah Newell? From up the cul-de-sac?”

The man squints for long moments.

“My brother and I used to ride our bikes all the time around here.”

He blinks, then walks quickly away, making sure to look over his shoulder a couple of times—and always keeping his hand in his pocket—before he disappears into his house.

Artie shrugs, then drives on. She holds her breath as their big house comes into view.

“Well, it's still here!” Artie says.

“No Harleys out front,” Sarah adds.

As Artie pulls up the driveway, Sarah's eyes go to the broken windows. The front door that hangs askew.

“Not good,” Artie mutters, and lets out a long breath.

They get out. There is silence all around.

They listen again, then slowly approach the house. With his foot, Artie pushes open the door. It squeaks, then clangs.

The smell hits her—a horrible stench worse than any outhouse or dead animal.

“My God!” Artie says, and squints from the smell.

They step forward into the foyer, which is far enough to see the damage. The furniture is smashed or cut. White stuffing boils out of the leather couches and armchairs. Someone has had a fire in the fireplace. Charred pieces of chair frames—arms and legs—lie cold and half burned.

“I never liked those dining-room chairs,” Artie says.

But Sarah can't speak, because she can barely catch her breath. The kitchen is gutted: Sheetrock caved in and copper pipes stripped. All the copper kettles—the designer set—are missing. The refrigerator is tipped over, and black mold beards the open door.

And the stink worsens—makes her eyes water—and she covers her nose with her forearm as they move down the hallway.

“Wait here,” Artie says to her—and she's happy to obey.

Soon she hears her father gag; then he comes quickly back and waves her toward the front door.

“What?” Sarah asks.

“The bathrooms,” Artie says. He gags once more but keeps it together without puking. “The pipes must have frozen and the toilets were turned off—but whoever was here just kept using them.”

Near the van he slugs down a half bottle of water as Sarah stares at their house. Their wrecked house.

“So what do we do now?” she whispers.

After a pause her father says, “I don't think anyone can live in it again. Once the city inspectors get to this neighborhood, our house will probably be condemned.”

“Meaning?” Though really, she knows.

“Meaning it's a public health hazard. It will be torn down,” her father says. Weirdly, there is little emotion in his voice.

“Mom,” Sarah begins, then chokes up. “What about Mom?”

Artie puts an arm around Sarah. “She loved this place. It was her dream house.”

Sarah nods.

“But you know what?” her father says. “I never did. It always felt … empty to me. No matter how much stuff we put in it.”

They are silent again. Artie turns to the garage, and Sarah follows. The door is smashed in. Miles's tools are scattered around as if the vandals were looking for something more valuable. As if his wrenches and sockets and clamps and pliers were useless.

Back outside they take one last look at the house.

“Do we just … leave it here?” Sarah asks. “Walk away?”

“There should be some insurance money,” Art says. “Unless the insurance company tries to screw us with some ‘act of God' thing. About the volcanoes, I mean.”

“And what if they do?” Sarah asks. “Will we be all right?”

“Are we all right now?” he says.

She pauses, then nods.

“Okay then,” he says with a little smile, and gives her a quick hug. He checks his watch. “We'd better get back to the hospital.”

On the way, her father detours through south Minneapolis. The neighborhood where they lived before they moved to the suburbs. People are out on streets, and watchful, but none seem to be packing. He slows past the Newell family's first house, a narrow two-story that needs painting. It has window grates, but a family is sitting on the front porch. A couple of young mini-gangstas hang out at the corner.

“Mom always worried about this neighborhood,” Sarah says, “but I never did.”

“Me neither,” her father says.

They arrive back at the hospital just in time: Miles and Nat are coming down the stairs. Nat is smiling.

“The doc says I may yet have a career playing high-stakes poker,” Miles calls to them.

“Great!” Sarah says with major sarcasm.

“What have you two been up to?” Nat says. She lifts one dark eyebrow; she has great radar.

Sarah glances at her father, who is silent.