Thin Ice (2 page)

I took over the basement. I figured it was fair because he got the great bathtub. The biggest room has been pretty much a clubhouse for me and the twins and any current friends. There’s even a black curtain strung across one end, a backdrop for juggling shows.

The back room is mine, all mine. Knock before entering. My workshop.

I make picture frames. This is more than a hobby, it’s art. And it’s business. During the last few years I’d made a nice chunk of change from selling my frames through gift shops in the area. No lie. My stuff is good—northwoods folk art with an edge. And I’d recently branched out, added on mirrors and earring stands. I’m legit: The first summer my stuff was selling in shops, Scott hauled me off to a lawyer and I registered as a bona fide business. ArdenArt.

I made my first frame at camp the summer after fifth grade— cardboard, painted macaroni, a whole bottle of glue. Pretty lame.

But it must have been fun, because when I got home I started gluing painted Popsicle sticks together into rectangles and decorating them. Most of my creations fell apart, but one, decorated with acorns and seed pods, caught the eye of the cabinetmaker who was measuring the living room for bookshelves. He showed me how to use a saw and a miter box, where to glue, when to nail or screw. I took some classes on using power tools, and the rest—glass cutting, matting, staining—I learned from books.

Lately I’d been working with costume jewelry. Last summer I foraged all the garage sales and flea markets and came away with boxes of cheap, flashy baubles to mount on birch and cherry frames. Rhinestones on dark cherry sell the best.

It’s tricky, though. Not just a matter of glue. You have to carefully rout a hole in the molding that approximates the shape of the stone. I don’t just glue the stones onto the surface, I inlay. Careful touch required. My parents were both surgeons. I have their hands.

It’s easy to get lost in work you love. Oblivious. I was setting a bar of fake rubies when a shadow fell over the table. Instead of plucking the stone, the tweezers I was using jabbed into my palm.

Watch your mouth, Arden.

“Did I disturb you?” Jean asked.

I held up my hand to show her the tiny bubble of blood.

“Sorry. Have you had a tetanus shot? Those tweezers look rusty.”

“Lucky for you, yes. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I knocked. You didn’t hear?”

“Obviously not.”

“Want lunch? Kady’s fixing something.”

I looked out the small window. Nothing to see but snow. “I’m hungry, but not enough to put on boots and a coat. I’ll make a sandwich.”

“She’s
here.
We thought there might be leftovers from the party.”

My stomach rumbled. It’s a hard noise to ignore, and I seldom do, which is maybe one reason I’m a size eleven. At least sixty people had been eating nonstop for four hours last night; even so, there were leftovers. Kady had the kitchen table covered with food—salads, cake, bread, cheeses, spreads, and soda. We denied ourselves nothing.

“Great party last night,” said Kady, just before biting into a sandwich. Mayo and mustard oozed out, coating the corner of her mouth.

“The best ever,” said Jean, and she blew across the long neck of a root-beer bottle. “We’ve got four older brothers and not one of them even gives a birthday present, much less a party.”

With my little finger, I scraped and lifted a red rose off the cake. Licked it with my tongue. “If you have to be orphaned and raised by a brother,” I said, “be sure it’s one who can throw a blowout.”

“Where is he?” Jean asked.

“Snowmobiling.” They both made a face, and I laughed. Then they both made another face, and I laughed again. “You should see yourselves,” I said.

Fraternal twins, they didn’t look a bit alike. Some people have even said Jean and I, with our auburn hair and fair skin, look more like sisters. Jean and Kady act like twins, though. Facial expressions, mannerisms, utterances—identical. They move, speak, and breathe just alike. Maybe that’s the result of five years of juggling, of all those hours spent practicing the precise motions needed to toss and catch the pins, dolls, balls, and other odd stuff they use in their act. Or maybe it’s the other way; maybe they’re so good at juggling because they have this innate togetherness. Synchronicity.

I move alone. Artists do, right?

“I’ve only been on a snowmobile once,” Jean said.

Kady shook her head. “Too loud.”

“I think it looks kind of fun,” I said. “All that speed.”

“What would be fun,” said Jean, “is this.” She pulled a folded newspaper page from her hip pocket and laid it on the table within my reach. She and her sister exchanged identical looks—two brows furrowed, two mouths set.

NORTHLAND WINTER FESTIVALS. Penokee’s annual winter carnival was highlighted, with a photo of last year’s award-winning snow sculpture.

I shrugged. “Same old stuff. The usual crowds, ski races, and traffic. What’s fun?”

“It gave us this idea,” said Kady. “We want you in on it.”

“Not that we like you,” Jean added, “but because you have a car.”

I tossed a slimy pasta shell at her. “Go eat at home.”

Kady leaned forward. Her elbow pressed into a half-eaten whole wheat bun. “When summer comes, let’s go on the road. We’ll hit all the festivals and craft fairs. We’ll do our show and you can set up a kiosk with your stuff. Think of the money you can make if you don’t have to give a percentage to store owners.”

I frowned. “I make plenty now. Besides, I bet it takes a vendor’s permit or something.”

“That’s why we start now,” Kady said. “We do it right: We get in touch with the organizers in each town and apply. You send your portfolio and we send our audition tape. Give them references, pay a vendor’s fee, whatever it takes,”

“Traveling from town to town,” Jean said. “We’ll be gypsies.”

I squinted. “You mean geep-seez.”

“Yahs, geep-seez,” she answered.

Kady snorted. “What sort of accent is that supposed to be?”

“Geep-see,” I said.

“Well, cut it out,” she answered. “Aside from being annoying, I suspect it demeans someone.”

I turned and looked at Jean, my eyes wide. “And who says I don’t have a mother?”

She nodded. “Lucky me. I have two.”

“So what do you say?” Kady asked me.

I scooped another rose and sucked it off my finger. “I think—”

“Yahs,” said Jean, “she teenks—”

Kady flicked an olive pit at her twin.

“I think it’s the best idea ever.”

CHAPTER 5

After eating, we talked and outlined details. The economy of this part of Wisconsin depends on tourists, and every little burg fabricates some reason to throw a town party in the summer, sometimes another one in winter. Lumberjack Days, Miner Days, Muskie Mania, Voyageur Fest. My favorite—Blueberry Bonanza, a three-day celebration right here in Penokee in July.

“The only question,” said Kady, “is whether we should try to market the hour-long show or the half-hour.

“Kids can’t sit for long,” Jean argued. “Especially if it’s hot.”

“They’ll sit for us,” said Kady. “We’re good. And the longer the show, the bigger our fee.”

“Who books the acts and pays, do you think?” I asked. “Chamber of Commerce? I bet some of those towns are too small to have one.”

Jean shook her head. “I’m discouraged already. Too many details. We’ll never get it together. Even if
we
do, they’ll never hire kids.”

“You’re always so pessimistic,” Kady said.

“Am not.”

“Isn’t she?” I was asked.

I haven’t stayed friends with the two of them by taking sides. I just smiled.

“Well?” Kady persisted. “Isn’t she?”

The phone rang and it was a welcome sound. “Whatever she is,” I replied, rising, “she’s your twin.”

“Geep-see house,” I hissed into the phone. Jean laughed; Kady rolled her eyes.

A pause on the line, breathing. Then: “Arden?” Male, older, befuddled.

“Sorry. Yes, this is Arden.”

“Al Walker.” Al the Cop. Did he want to kiss me again?

“Arden, are you alone? Do you drive? Never mind, I’ll get you.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“Arden…bad news. Scott…the river…his sled…there’s been an accident.”

CHAPTER 6

Scott wasn’t dead, but it took Al a long time to spit that out. Babbling, sputtering, incoherent, the competent cop was hysterical about his friend’s accident. I hung up and turned to Kady and Jean. “My brother’s been hurt. He’s in the hospital in Ashland. It sounds bad.” I turned this way and that, trying to find keys, hat, boots. I managed to bump into Jean, who had started clearing the table. Carrot sticks torpedoed across the kitchen.

Kady lifted my key chain off its hook by the telephone. “I’ll drive, you worry.”

Scott was in an ER cubicle. I burst through an opening in the starched curtains, expecting bandages, tubes, blood, doctors.

My brother was alone, lying under a pile of blankets. His hands were thrust into the air, holding a worn magazine.
Sports Illustrated
, an old swimsuit issue.

I sat on the bed, bouncing it. He took a last look at the magazine, then let it drop on his stomach. There was a small solitary bandage just above his eyebrow.

“How are you? What happened?”

“Did you bring my clothes?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

A snarly noise climbed out of his throat “Didn’t Al tell you?”

“He could barely get his name out.”

Scott nodded. “I guess he was still scared.”

“He scared me. He was hysterical. Listening to him, I thought you’d bought it.”

“Almost did.”

I picked up the magazine and riffled the pages, animating the models. Not a single size eleven. “Almost dead, but you still have the strength to ogle babes.” I dropped the magazine and it slid off the bed onto the floor. “What happened, Scott?”

A nurse entered the cubicle. I stepped aside as she performed nurse work. “Lookin’ good!” she said finally. “Body temp is up. Other vitals are normal. Another hour or two and I bet we let you out of here.” She turned to me. “Are you the sister?”

The sister. I nodded.

“You have a lucky brother.”

The snarly noise again, then: “She has a stupid brother.”

The nurse patted Scott’s shoulder and left. Neither of us spoke. Voices from the waiting area filtered in.

Scott was twenty-nine and balding. A hand-sized patch of pink scalp had extended his forehead. He’s only a few inches taller than me, with the same tree trunk solidity, and the same incongruously long, sinewy fingers. Perfect for an artist. Perfect for a mechanic. Perfect for a surgeon, which was the goal he had been pursuing when he changed his life to take care of me.

His hand raked the hair surrounding the pink patch, then dropped to the bed. I picked it up and squeezed. “I’ll cook tonight.”

He was skeptical. “Leftovers?”

“Anything. What do you want?”

He nestled down, pulling blankets up to his chin. Ruddy face, tufts of dark hair amid the hospital white. “I want my snowmobile back.”

CHAPTER 7

His sled was at the bottom of the Gogebic River, he said, about five miles north of the dam. The Gogebic’s a deep, fast-moving river that flows through Penokee on its way to Lake Superior, forty miles north.

“I met the guys at Winker’s Tavern. We had a few beers, then decided to head back to town.”

“Were you drunk? You don’t drink.”

“Don’t I?” he snapped.

I stood and crossed my arms. “Then what happened?”

“One of the guys wanted to follow the river back to town. It’s a lot shorter than the forest trail.”

“But not as safe,” I said.

“Obviously not.” He closed his eyes. “We went single file. Al was last, I was right ahead of him. The ice is pretty thick, but the current is strong underneath. I was watching the guys ahead, they were really gunning it. I wanted to, but, geez, I’ve only had the sled two weeks, I wasn’t that sure of what I was doing. And I was feeling the beers, so I thought I’d better take it easy. They were just flying.” He drew up his knees, making a hummock of white flannel. “All of a sudden there was this gap in the ice. Stupid, cautious me—I wasn’t carrying enough speed to get over it. Al passed me then. He just blew over it. I looked at him, looked at the hole, next thing I knew, I was sliding into water.”

I sat and took his hand.

The story continued. He caught the edge of the ice—the collision knocking out his breath but tearing him off the machine, which bobbed for a moment before sliding down through the water. He hung on to the edge of the ice, watching it crack further while he felt his bulky suit bubble up, buoying him. “The ice cracked and loosened every time I moved,” Scott said. “I couldn’t haul myself out.” His hands tightened and curled, eyes squeezed closed as he replayed the struggle. “Al looked back and saw it happen. He circled around, got a rope out of his crash kit and pulled me onto the ice. Then he got me out of the wet suit, threw me on the back of his sled, and hauled me to the highway. Flagged down a car, and here I am.”