Thin Ice (3 page)

Scott opened his eyes and smiled. “Al was manic—jumping up and down on the highway, screaming, flashing his badge to stop the car…”

“So you weren’t hurt? Hypothermia, is that why you’re here?”

“I’m okay. Brush with death, but nothing a few heated blankets didn’t fix.”

He was the one who nearly froze, but
I
was numb. Winter water kills. If he’d hit his head or not jumped in time or had been dragged under by the sled or if Al hadn’t thought to look…

The
what ifs?
were a terror.

“Like you said, I nearly bought it.” My brother shook his head, disgusted. “Next time out,” he said, “I pump some speed.”

Next time?”

CHAPTER 8

“No calls. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

Made sense to me. Come that close to dying, a person probably wanted a little time to let his thoughts gel.

The phone had been ringing off the hook since we got home from the hospital and I was tired of answering and explaining, so I taped a new message:

Thanks for calling, Scott is fine. Leave a message, and we’ll get back to you when we have thawed.

“Or do you think I should I have said
defrosted
?”

Scott didn’t find that funny. Just looked at me and made a face. Just lifted his hand in a little blow-off wave.
Shut up
,
Arden.

All evening we screened the messages. His friends called with advice about getting the sled towed out, my friends called with pleas to know more, Scott’s boss called and told him to take a few days off. The twins’ mom, Mrs. Drummond, called with an offer of food. “I made too much lasagna. I don’t want to bother you, so Jean will just run across and leave it in the breezeway.”

By ten the messages had dwindled. I was in the kitchen cleaning up when I heard my brother talking on the phone. I automatically tuned out. Over the years we’ve learned to give each other space. In some ways, two people living together have a lot less privacy than a large family like the Drummonds, where so much is going on that a lot goes unnoticed.

I was feeding potato salad to the disposal when Scott appeared. “I’m going out,” he said.

“This late?”

“Yeah, this late.”

“Where?”

He made another face, gave another little dismissal with his hand. “Just for an hour. Go to bed, okay? Or study. Don’t you always have a bio test on Mondays?” This was true, and how like him to remember. Only hours after nearly dying in icy water, my brother was checking on my schoolwork.

“I’m in good shape. Protein synthesis. Easy. Where are you going?” He looked at me hard. We rarely asked that of each other. Usually the information was offered, but seldom requested. I rephrased the question. “Why are you going out, Scott? You should go to bed. Stay inside and stay warm, that’s what the nurse said.”

His face softened and relaxed. He chewed on his lip. I could see some sort of struggle going on. “I’m going to see my girlfriend.”

A girlfriend? Well, blow me over. “Huh? Since when?”

He grinned, pleased with himself, enjoying my surprise. “She was at the party, Arden. I introduced you.”

Eyes closed, I scanned the party picture. Then I knew. “The tall blonde in the navy sweater. Has to be her because she laughed at your mechanic jokes.”

He nodded.

“Name?”

“Claire Poole.”

“How old is she? What does she do?”

“You should have paid attention when you had the chance. I’ll be home by midnight.”

He slipped into a jacket and left it unzipped. No gloves, no hat. “Won’t you get cold?” I asked.

He twirled his key ring on his finger and opened the door. “Midnight,” he repeated. Before the door had even closed, I heard him swear, heard something hit the door, heard metal and body crash on the concrete steps. I got there just as he was lifting a covered cake pan out of the snow by the stoop. Lasagna.

CHAPTER 9

I don’t know if Scott got home by midnight, but he was there when I left for school the next day. He hadn’t changed, and if I hadn’t seen him go out I would have thought he had never budged from the chair in the living room. Brooding look, tousled hair, rumpled clothing. Must be love.

“Nice date with the girlfriend?” I asked.

“Fine,” he whispered.

“Going to work?”

He shook his head.

“Need a blanket? Should I turn up the heat?”

Shook his head again.

“I’ll be home right away today,”

He managed a smile. “Whatever. See you at supper.”

At school, I expected to be swamped by everyone’s curiosity about my brother’s accident. After all, it was just the sort of news people in this town love: a near death experience involving a snowmobile.

Old news already, I guess. During the short walk across the parking lot and through the halls to my locker, all I got was:

“Arden, did you study for bio?”

“See my new shoes?”

“Gawd, I slept late. Talk later.”

“Give this note to Ryan, okay?”

“Is that a new shirt?”

No, it wasn’t a new shirt. Bought it old, in fact. Three-fifty at Ragstock over in Duluth. Pearl snaps and black piping to contrast with the red gingham. And of course, the five-inch “Morrie” embroidered in cursive above the breast pocket

The bio test, fourth hour, was a breeze, but I could tell others were sweating. I finished early and used the extra time to sketch frame designs. My notebooks are filled with them. Some of my best frames have been inspired by the dullness of school. Just before lunch, Mrs. Richter handed out last week’s test. Bio was my best class, and I wasn’t too worried. There it was—big blue A.

“Nice work, Arden,” she said.

“Yes,” I answered. “My parents will be so pleased.”

The teacher paused, then shrugged, letting it pass.

No big blue A the rest of the day, anywhere. Just an overload of mind-numbing information. The real crippler came at the end of the day during world history when Ms. Penny returned a test D plus. I moaned, and the teacher paused in her determined stroll down the aisle where she was dusting us with test papers.

“Yes, Arden?”

“D plus,” I said. “My parents will kill me.”

She stared evenly. “Old joke, Arden. But you’re right, they would,
if
they were alive.”

Ow, she’s a tough one, that Ms. Penny. The instant the bell rang, I was gone, D plus stuffed into my book bag.

Scott seldom hassled me about grades. He praised the good ones, shrugged over the bad ones. “She knows what’s going on,” he once said to a teacher at conference. “She’ll straighten up when she’s ready.”

Ready or not, that history grade was lower than I wanted. I didn’t intend to go to the nearby community college. I was meant for the art school down in Minneapolis, or one out East. The old GPA was important. My ticket out of town.

“Extra credit, Arden,” I ordered myself. “And no workshop tonight until you study.”

CHAPTER 10

Scott was still in the chair. Darkness comes early in winter, and I didn’t see him until I switched on the light.

“Whoa-hello!” I said.

Dead or alive? His eyes were closed. For a moment I was heated with thoughts about delayed shock, maybe cardiac arrest.

His eyes rolled open, which was almost as startling as finding his still body in the dark.

“You scared me!”

“By sitting here?”

“Yes, by sitting there. Haven’t you moved all day?”

“To the bathroom. Kitchen. I had a sandwich.” His eyes closed. “Arden,” he whispered, “if I had died, you’d be okay, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d be…it would be awful, Scott. What a crazy thing to say.”

His thumbs tapped on the chair arm and he looked around. “What I mean is, you don’t really need me. Things are in order. They have been for years. Christ, I was probably the only twenty-year-old in the history of the world who made out a will. Mom and Dad left plenty of money, the Drummonds are there for you, you’re almost done with school.”

“Don’t even talk about it, Scott.”

“If Al hadn’t pulled me out—”

“He did pull you out. You’re okay, Scott. It was a close one, but nothing really happened. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.”

He massaged his forehead. His lips moved.

“What?” I asked.

He waved me away. I went to the kitchen to fix a snack. Later, when I thought about it all, I realized he
had
spoken.

Barely a whisper, but he’d said, “Everything’s changed.”

CHAPTER 11

When it’s only two people living together, things can get pretty intense, so you figure out how to keep some distance. Closing the bedroom door works. I closed mine and attacked my homework. When the powerful growls of my stomach drove me out of the room an hour later, the first thing I saw was Scott, still slumped in his chair and brooding in the dark room. He barely lifted his hand in greeting when I walked in.

Cheer up already, I thought. I said, “Should we order pizza?”

He did that little hand flip again, and I must have leaked a snort or a tsk or something because he looked up at me and said, “Back off.” Breathing room. After devouring more of the party leftovers, I went down to the basement. A gift shop in Duluth wanted a batch of mirrors and earring stands and I was behind on the order. I cut molding and glued wood until the dust and fumes threatened to make me loopy. At ten-thirty, when I finally started cleaning up, I heard banging and thumping and voices from the garage. I hoped it wasn’t the girlfriend he was entertaining up there. We both had better manners than that.

Scott and one of his work buddies were in the garage. Reuben greeted me. “Hey, Arden, you’re an artist, right? Doesn’t this look like a fancy modern art sculpture?”

A battered pile of metal and plastic was heaped on the ground where it had slid off the tilted bed of a tow truck. My brother’s snowmobile, salvaged from the river.

“Sure does, Reuben. You could probably get a few thousand for it down in Minneapolis, especially with the right title.” We joked around with titles for a bit while Scott poked and pulled at the machine. Then he gave it a final kick and swore. “Come in for cocoa?” I asked Reuben. Someone had to be pleasant.

“Nope. It’s late. Time to head home.” He pulled gloves out of a jacket pocket and whacked them on Scott’s shoulder. “Must make you feel lucky to look at that heap, Scotty. After a day of rocking around in the river, think how banged up you’d’ve been.”

Scott smiled. “It’s crossed my mind.” He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a wallet, slid some bills out. “They can’t possibly pay you enough for the after-hours work, Reuben. Here’s something you don’t need to tell the taxman about.”

“Wait till you see your copy of the insurance claim. The diver’s bill alone goes over a thousand.”

Scott nodded, but my jaw dropped. “What?” I asked.

Reuben smiled at my surprise. “Gosh, yeah. The recovery part of the claim will be over fifteen hundred, easy.” He pushed the bills back at Scott. “I’ll get my share, Scotty. No tip necessary. But you can do one thing for me—I’d love to take a look at the ’Cuda. Didn’t you put in new front seats last fall?”

Scott grinned, bad mood immediately erased, and he nodded and led Reuben to the back of the garage, to a sky-blue mound. Scott grabbed hold of the blue cotton and whipped it off in a single, masterful sweep, revealing his pride and joy, his treasure, his mistress, and the reason this two-person household has a four-car garage: a carefully restored 1970 Plymouth Barracuda.

My brother’s passion was not mine. He saw automotive perfection. I saw a squat old green car. He started his spiel: 383 Magnum…pistol grip…Weldwheels…

I’d heard it before and my feet were cold. Time to take sanctuary in the kitchen.

“Does insurance really cover your accident?” I asked him later, when Reuben had gone and we were both in the kitchen warming up with cocoa. Immediately I wished I hadn’t asked. The good mood he’d developed from showing off the car vanished as he thought about the snowmobile.

“Yes, really. The policy has coverage for stupidity.”

This self-flagellation was tiresome, and I must have made a noise. He looked at me sharply. “I’m not proud of what I did, Arden. It was an expensive, stupid, scary mistake.” He dropped within himself again, his favorite place lately. “A big fat mistake,” he whispered. “Allow me to be mad at myself.”

I had nothing to say, he didn’t want to talk to me, but neither of us wanted to back off first, so thank gawd for the phone. It rang, I answered, she said hello. I debated taking advantage of his torpor and talking to her myself. I was dying to ask a few questions—age, occupation, intentions—but, bright girl that I am, I figured doing that would only steam him further.

“Of course it’s not too late,” I said sweetly. “One moment, please.”