Winter at the White Oaks Lodge (14 page)

As we neared the ice houses, the activity grew boisterous. It was like the downtown of any actual community, men standing around the open doors of their ice shacks, chatting and drinking coffee from large stainless-steel mugs and gas station-issued plastic sippy cups, the kind you could refill for a quarter. Little boys were playing a racing game on the ice about twenty yards away, running to see who could slide the farthest on their snowsuit-clad bottoms. The ice houses were as unique as their owners, emblazoned with wooden signs and propane-powered lights, Christmas decorations and neon-colored lures and wind chimes fashioned from empty beer cans strung on fishing line.

Everyone called out to greet us as we came close and in the bustle I let go of Mathias. Dodge was there too, bundled into his plaid overcoat. He came to hug me, roaring, “Camille! Fancy seeing you here!”

“Mathias is going to show me how to ice fish,” I explained.

“Hey there, kiddo,” said Uncle Justin, joining us with a tackle box in his gloved hand. “Rae is excited to see Millie today. And hey, Jilly would be proud to see you out here. Usually she's the only woman in these parts.”

“Everyone knows you two damn kids only come out here to make out in your ice house,” Dodge teased his son, and Justin punched his dad's shoulder.

“Dammit, Pa, that's not polite.”

“When have I ever been polite?” Dodge asked, a fair question, but he winked at me and grinned.

“So where's yours?” I asked Mathias, who had disentangled himself from a good-natured headlock. It seemed that everyone was glad to see him back in the Landon area. I recognized Skid Erickson, whose family were regulars at Shore Leave in the summer. Skid had probably graduated with Mathias.

“This way,” he said, taking my elbow this time, carefully, as though I might bolt.

“See you later,” I told Dodge and Uncle Justin.

The Carters' shack was two rows over, no bigger than the fish-cleaning shed at Shore Leave, painted barn-red with an unpainted tin door. He said, “This is it!” with the air of someone presenting a palace, and opened the door, allowing me to enter first. He cautioned, “Don't step in the hole!”

Inside it was dim with only one small window. There were low-slung camp chairs arranged around the thick-sided hole drilled into the ice, a huge, overturned wooden barrel that served as a counter, a gigantic tackle box and a green propane lantern, which Mathias fired up right away. He left the outer door propped open only about a foot or so, giving us a little privacy.

“Here, have a seat while I get the lines set up,” he said, and we were practically on top of each other in the tiny space. Not that I was complaining. Shamelessly, I put my hand on his ribs as I ducked around him to claim a chair, while he stashed the bags and began rummaging.

“Where's that coffee?” I asked, as he clicked on the radio, keeping the volume low. It was the same station we always played in the bar, when the jukebox wasn't running, tuned to the country station out of Bemidji.

“Here,” he said, handing me the thermos. “Cups are right beneath the other chair.”

I retrieved the small and squatty plastic mugs emblazoned with the words
Love to Fish
. I poured us each a cup and then stashed the thermos under my chair, which only cleared the ice by about six inches. Mathias proceeded to bait two lines and then attach them to the reel set-up, arranged so that we wouldn't have to continuously hold the poles. Finished with these tasks, he seated himself opposite me and said, “Thanks,” as I passed him the coffee.

“You're welcome,” I told him. I wanted to go and sit on his lap. I let myself very clearly imagine that and he must have seen something in my eyes, as his own (he'd removed his sunglasses in here, sticking them on the top of his head) flashed a beat of pure and unmistakable heat into mine. I felt hotter than the coffee in my hand, letting this beautiful feeling bloom all along my center, radiate outward from there and infuse my limbs, my face and my lips.

Oh God, Mathias…

He blinked then and cleared his throat a little before saying, “So now we hurry up and wait.”

I gathered myself together and sipped my coffee, burning my tongue. I said, “I always wondered what it looked like in one of these things. It's really kind of cozy. Homey, I mean. You even have curtains on the window.” Now I was the one babbling.

“Ma made those,” he said, glancing over at the checkered and ruffled material gracing the window. The song on the radio had switched to a country version of ‘White Christmas,' complete with lots of steel guitar, and Mathias began belting out the chorus, making me laugh. He was clearly being silly, but his voice was pretty good.

“Not bad,” I applauded when he finished, and he shook his head.

“Sorry, I get swept away,” he justified. “I was very much tortured as a boy. Tina was especially evil. She liked to dress me up as a back-up singer for her imaginary band.”

I giggled more, telling him, “Tish and Ruthie and I used to do that too. Have pretend bands, I mean. We weren't very good. But you were on pitch pretty well there.”

“I'm no Andrea Bocelli, but I can hold my own in a karaoke competition,” he said. “My song…you want to know what my song is?”

“As in, the song you sing for karaoke?”

“Yep. It's ‘The Gambler' by Kenny Rogers. It's the one—”

“I know it,” I interrupted. “It's a great song. Grandma has that record, actually.”

“That one is my personal best,” he said. “In college I won fifty bucks one time at a competition.”

With a slight air of wistfulness, that I didn't exactly intend, I observed, “I bet you had so much fun in college.”

He heard the note of it in my voice and studied me silently for a moment before answering, “I did. I thought for a while that I could live permanently in the Cities. I had a good job. But I missed home. I missed being around guys who could actually bait a hook. I mean, I know that's probably ridiculous, and I know it's important to be educated and understand the basics of balancing a checkbook and all that. But I wasn't interested in learning about wines and brand names and all that stupid shit. I know it's judgmental of me, but—”

“No, I get it. I understand completely,” I said, and I really did. “I realized after living here that those were the kinds of things that my old friends in Chicago care about. And money. Even my own dad cares more about money than just about anything else. Mom said he always wanted to be rich. Now he is, but he doesn't have her anymore. That's a pretty shitty trade-off, if you ask me.”

“I'll say,” Mathias agreed softly. “Does your dad see Millie very often? And by the way, she looks just exactly like you. Same wild hair and—”

“
Heeey
now!” I cut him off, unable to let that comment slide. I reached my free hand up to grasp a strand of my hair as though in defense. I was wearing a lavender wool hat, patterned with gray snowflakes, that matched my mittens, but most of my hair was visible and free-flowing from beneath.

Mathias said fast, “No, wait, that came out all wrong. I like that your hair is wild. I mean, it's really beautiful…”

I glared at him even though a smile was nudging my lips. I allowed, “Nice save.”

“I mean it!” he insisted. It was warm in here, and I pulled off my mittens and set them on my lap. He concluded, “I'll just shut up now.”

“Sing more,” I ordered, hearing ‘The Little Drummer Boy' playing on the radio now. I told him, “This one is my favorite.”

He drew a breath, closed his eyes, and sang along gamely. I giggled and joined in, softly, on the
pah-rum-pa-pum-pum
part.

“Jesus Christ, do you take requests or what?” asked a voice from outside, and Tina's husband Sam poked his head in the door. He was wearing a fur hat with earflaps and smiled at us, then looked at Mathias and said, “Hey, bud, come out here and help me quick.”

“Sure thing,” Mathias said, rising. He asked me, “Will you hold this for a sec?”

I took his coffee mug and the moment he was outside, turned it so that I could sip directly from where his lips had touched the rim. Childish, stupid, senseless, I knew. But then I sipped again, from the same spot. At that moment I heard Mathias roar and then begin laughing hard. He yelled, “Bastard!” and I jumped up to see what was going on, first setting the coffee mugs on the barrel; I squinted a little in the brilliant light after the dimness of the shack, but clearly saw Sam stuffing snow down Mathias's collar, holding him around the torso with one arm. They struggled and were attracting attention. Skid Erickson came running and launched himself at them, almost taking everyone down.

Men.
I would never understand this basic urge to beat the shit out of each other.

Mathias was laughing hoarsely, and then he bellowed, “Surrender! Dammit, the snow is burning my ass!”

I couldn't help laughing then, as Sam grunted, “Serves you right!” and then twisted out of Skid's grip and ducked to scoop another handful of snow, which went directly down the back of Skid's shirt. Skid yelped and began floundering to dislodge it, subsequently freeing Mathias, who bent forward, his hat falling off, and groaned.

“Are you okay?” I called.

He straightened and grinned over at me, his own hair wild as hell, ordering with mock urgency, “Camille! Don't move. It's dangerous out here.”

Skid managed to get most of the snow from his shirt and then rounded on Sam, saying, “You better run, if you know what's good for you!”

Sam held up his mittened hands and wiggled them in pretend fright, and Skid bent over laughing. Mathias crept behind Sam and caught him around the neck, yelling to Skid, “Now's your chance!” and Skid plowed into the two of them.

“Boys! Jesus Christ,” Bull said then, trudging up carrying two twelve packs of Leinie's cans. He was wearing a red stocking cap and resembled a stout garden gnome. Bull indicated me with one of the packs of beer and bellowed, “You're scaring the lady!”

“Shit, let me free,” Mathias gasped out. He looked over to me and cried, hamming it up, “I'm sorry! Don't be scared, Camille!”

I rolled my eyes, even though I was grinning big enough that probably all of my teeth were showing. I told him, “I'm not scared. And you probably deserve snow down your shirt anyway!”

Mathias thrashed free of both Skid and his brother-in-law. He bent with deliberate slowness and scooped a large handful of snow from where it lay like glittery candy dust on the solid ice. He began packing it between his gloves, all the while keeping his eyes trained on me.

“Oh don't you dare,” I ordered, catching his intent.

“Deserve to be ambushed, do I?” he asked, coming closer, and my heart fired hard, then harder. I squeaked in alarm, darting to the side as he lunged for me.

“Boy!” roared his dad. “You act like a gentleman!”

I laughed and slid across the ice, Mathias right behind me. He caught me around the waist and my entire body absolutely delighted to feel him so solid against me, such a welcome excuse to touch him. I shrieked and thrashed, inadvertently tripping us, but Mathias took us sideways instead of falling on top of me; we landed on the ice, his arms locked around me, my spine aligned with his front, my puffy coat hampering my feeble, half-hearted attempts to escape him. My hat too had fallen off and I spit out a long strand of hair, laughing too hard to even breathe.

Mathias was positioned so that his arm was cushioning me from the ice, and he asked near my ear, “Do you surrender?”

“Never!” I gasped out, feeling his breath on my cheek. Just the scent of him sent pulses of longing through me, made my nerves jolt with awareness.

“Never is a long time…” he cautioned, teasing me.

“Camille?” I heard then, through everything else, Bull's yelling and Skid and Sam's raucous laughter, and it was Jake's voice, sounding near. I looked over to see his booted feet no more than a dozen steps away, coming closer.

Mathias relented and I felt the weight of disappointment as he released me, moving quickly to his feet to help me to mine. He dusted snow from my coat and retrieved my hat, while Jake studied me with an expression I had never seen on his face, one of complete stun.

“Hey there, McCall,” Mathias said cheerfully, not perceiving anything out of the ordinary, but then his eyes were on me, not Jake.

Jake blinked and then asked, “Are you okay?”

“Just fine,” I told him, feeling the familiar burden of guilt.
Don't be like this, Jake, please. Please don't
.

Jake was with a couple of his friends, who were just cranking open the door to a shack the next row over. He sent me such a pointed look of hurt that it was like a dart. I refused to flinch. Bull came stomping over and broke the tension unknowingly, to my relief, grasping his son by the scruff, reaching up to do so, as Mathias was taller than him. Jake turned wordlessly and walked away.

Bull blustered, “I oughta take a strap to you, boy.”

“Aw, Dad, it's all in fun,” Mathias said.

Bull clapped his son's back and then offered me his arm, saying, “Hon, it's great to see you out here.”

I took his elbow and allowed him to lead me back to the shack, turning over my far shoulder to stick out my tongue at Mathias, who grinned and shook his head slowly, pulling on his hat. Behind us, he warned Sam, “You best be on guard, buddy. You won't know when it's coming, but it's coming.”

Sam laughed and laughed and the next thing they were wrestling again.

We spent the morning crowded around the
fishing hole, Bull taking the chair at a right angle to mine. I didn't mind Bull's company one bit, even though his presence kept Mathias and me from being alone together. But Bull was entertaining, and told me straight away about his cousin out in Montana, who had a lead on the whole Malcolm Carter mystery.

“Harry Carter's wife, out near Bozeman, found a few letters five years back or so. She'd be happy to mail them to me, she said.”

“From Malcolm?” I asked eagerly.

Bull nodded, cracking a can. He offered one to Mathias, who shook his head, silently holding up his coffee. Bull went on, answering my question, “Yes ma'am.”

“Sounds like a road trip,” Mathias said then. “Next summer maybe?”

I wasn't sure if he was asking me to join him or just mentioning this in the abstract, but I heard myself say, “For sure.”

It was nearing late afternoon when I told Mathias that I should probably head home; I was utterly reluctant to go, as I didn't know when I might see him again before next weekend. I didn't work until Friday, and there was no logical excuse to hang out before then.
Was there?
Today was special; surely we couldn't recreate it every day this week. I felt all sickly and senselessly deprived at the thought of almost five whole days before we would see each other again. Walking back across the ice in the dimming, silvering day, I held his elbow, and tried to keep our pace slow to prolong this excuse to touch him.

He said as we walked, “I can't believe we've only known each other for three days. I know it's crazy, but I feel like I've known you for a long time. People think I'm crazy anyway, so I guess it makes sense in that regard.”

My heart swelled and glowed at these words. I said, “It's not crazy. I feel the same way.”

“You do?” he asked.

“I do,” I told him, and then he tightened his elbow around my hand, as though giving me a little hug. I observed, “We didn't catch any fish today.”

And when he grinned down at me, I felt it to the deepest part of me. He said, “Who cares?”

***

Tish called
that night to tell me that Jake had come over to their house to talk to her; as they were next-door neighbors, this happened relatively frequently.

“He said that you and Mathias Carter were pretty much making out on the ice this morning!” my little sister exclaimed.

I sat up straight in bed. I cried, “He said that?” and then throttled my voice down a notch, my eyes darting to Millie, who thankfully continued sleeping.

“Hey, don't freak out on
me!
So, were you?”

“We weren't,” I told my sister, calming a little. I didn't bother mentioning that I would have been more than happy to have done such a thing. I said, “We were wrestling a little, maybe…”

“You were?” Tish sounded like she was smiling.

I smiled too. “We went ice fishing today. Mathias stopped out this morning to see if I wanted to join him.”

When he'd dropped me off at the door, snow was still falling and we'd looked for a long moment at one another in the cab of the truck.

Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
I'd begged wordlessly. I had never felt like this, as though desire was a tangible thing in the air between us, pulsing and throbbing along with my heart. Then I scolded myself severely, remembering what had happened the last time I had let emotions take control of me.

But this is different. Mathias is not Noah.

“So I start my plow route for the county tomorrow,” he said, staring into my eyes. Even in the gathering darkness I could see the blue of his eyes. He said softly, “And then I'll be moving in with Skid in the middle of the week.”

I nodded, my mittens stacked on top of one another on my lap; I felt hot and shivery all at the same time. The diesel engine was growling softly, the radio turned low. The last thing on earth I wanted to do at that moment was get out of his truck and go into the house alone.

“Do you—” he began.

At the exact same moment I asked in a rush,“Would you want to come watch a movie tomorrow night? After work, I mean?”

His answering grin made my entire body feel weightless, anchored to the seat only by a thin thread. He said, “I would love to. I was just going to ask if I could see you again. Friday is way too far away otherwise. Here, call my phone so I have your number too.”

And so I had.

Sitting here in my bed two hours later, I told my little sister, “We have a…sort of anyway…a date tomorrow night. To watch a movie.”

“Where, at Grandma's?” Tish asked.

“Where else?”

“Well, have fun,” Tish said. “Mathias seems nice. And he's super cute.”

“Yes, he is,” I marveled. After I hung up, I lay flat on my back and stared up at the dark ceiling. Though I was elated at the thought of tomorrow night, my niggling, insidious doubts came crawling, now that it was night and I was relatively alone.

What if he's playing you?

He's not!

But how do you
know?
This is all so fast.

But I feel like I've known him a long time. Maybe in a past life…

But you don't believe in that sort of thing.

Why else would I know that I've kissed him before?

How do you know you can trust him? Take it slow.

Take it slow, Camille.

***

The next
evening I fluttered all over the house, until Grandma said, “Child, sit down for heaven's sake. You said he won't be here until after six.”

“That's what he thought,” I said. “But this is the first time that he's done this plow route so he wasn't exactly sure.”

He had called me around noon, and electric jolts went all through me at the sight of his name on my phone screen.
Mathias
. It was such a beautiful, solid name, old-fashioned sounding, and it suited him.

“Hey,” he'd said when I answered, and his voice was all warm and smiley-sounding, just the way I was feeling. “We still on for tonight?”

“We are,” I said, hoping he wouldn't mind if we watched a movie with Millie in the middle of us on the couch. Or more likely crawling all over me, as she was known to do when I paid the least bit of attention to anyone other than her; besides, I reflected, if he did mind such a thing, then seriously dating him was out of the question. But I didn't get the sense that he would.

“Will you guys have eaten by then? Should I bring something?” he asked.

“Actually, Aunt Ellen is making seafood chowder and cheddar biscuits,” I told him. “So come hungry.”

“Oh my God that sounds good,” he said. “That's one perk of living at home, isn't it? Great meals all the time.”

“In exchange for total lack of privacy,” I said in return. “But yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I'll see you around 6:00,” he said.

“I can't wait,” I dared to say, and sensed his grin even over the phone.

“Me either,” he said.

Grandma said, bringing me out of my daydream, “So, you like him then?”

“You sound worried,” I observed, taking her advice and sitting at the table. In the living room Millie Jo was watching
Sesame Street
and giggling, munching a bowl of
Kix
without milk.

Grandma sat opposite me and said honestly, “Your eyes are shining like stars, sweetie. It's not that I'm not glad, but I just worry. This is the first time you've looked like this in years, if ever. I hate to say that.”

I reined in my enthusiasm and said carefully, “I won't rush into anything, Grandma. You know what I mean, right?”

“I'm not talking about sex, exactly,” Grandma said. “I'm more worried about your heart getting all twisted up in this. Aw, Camille, it's not easy to watch from the outside and not offer advice. Remember how I warned you about Noah?”

My heart froze and I asked faintly, “Are you warning me about Mathias?”

“He's not the same man as Noah, that's obvious. But he's even more dangerous and by that I mean that you're falling hard for him, I can see that plain as daybreak.”

I said, “I can't explain it, Gram, I saw him and I felt like I'd known him for a long time.”

“Sometimes that's the way of it,” she said, and covered my hand with her own. She said softly, “I just love you so much. Take it slow with him at least, promise?”

And I nodded.

The big plow pickup came rumbling up through the darkness of a winter evening, at about ten to six. I raced to the door and then opened it calmly, Millie peering around my knees. Mathias bounded out and waved to us, then reached back inside for something, which he carried towards the house.

“Hi, you two,” he said, grinning as he approached. He had come straight from plowing, still in his outer gear, gray hat in place. At this sight of his flushed cheeks and stubbled jaws, his beautiful lips and true-blue eyes, I felt aglow with…something very good.

“Hi,” I said, stepping aside and holding open the door.

“Wow, it smells good in here,” he added, his eyes all over me, just as mine were upon him. I wanted to hug him, recalling very clearly the way he'd felt behind me yesterday, squirreling around on the ice. Instead I reached for the paper bag he was carrying. He explained, “Smoked salmon, from Dad, and fudge, from Ma. I grabbed it on my lunch break. They say to tell you guys hi.”

“Fudge!” Millie piped up.

“Here, you want to take it to the kitchen?” I asked my daughter, who nodded vigorously. I pulled out an orange Tupperware and passed it to her hands as Mathias got out of his coat and then his boots and snow bibs, shivering a little in the process.

“Dang, it's cold out there,” he said, free from his gear. His hair was flattened from his cap, his clothes all static-clingy; I had never had to restrain the urge to touch someone so fiercely in my life. At the last second I couldn't help it, and I was just close enough to brush hair from his forehead with my free hand. I didn't even question this action, it seemed so natural. He studied my eyes as I stroked his hair. He shivered again, this time not from the cold, and caught my left elbow lightly in his right hand when I intended to withdraw my fingers, embarrassed to be so bold. I mean, he wasn't my boyfriend…

He's not. He
's so much more than that. I don't know how I know this to be true, but I do.

“I can't tell if your eyes are more green or more golden,” he said softly, his fingers gentle on my elbow, moving slowly, stroking me right back. I felt this touch all along my arm, straight as an arrow to my heart.

“Hi, Matty!” Grandma called, and Mathias squeezed my arm softly and then let his hand drop back to his side.

“Hi, Joan!” he said, and then told me, “I can take that,” nodding at the paper bag still containing the salmon. I passed it to him and led the way to the kitchen, my elbow still tingling.

Millie was putting forks on the table, which was set with Grandma's Christmas dishes, an old white Corelle set edged in holly berries. The kitchen was cozy and warm, so very familiar to me. Sometimes I could barely picture the spacious modern kitchen in our townhouse back in Chicago, where Dad still lived. This place seemed more like home than the townhouse ever could have. The wood stove in the corner burned cheerily, the orange flames flickering through the holes punched into its old cast iron belly. The table was covered in its holiday cloth, a forest-green one shot through with gold thread. Aunt Ellen was at the stove stirring the chowder and the biscuits were on the counter in the biscuit tin, just about as golden and perfect as could be; I smiled at the scene before my eyes, feeling immeasurably fortunate, and said, “Bull sent some smoked salmon.”

“Oh it smells good in here,” Mathias said. “My belly thinks my mouth's been sewn shut.”

I had a strange moment of déjà vu at his words and blinked; Mathias sent a grin my way and then moved at once to help Millie at the table. He teased her, “You didn't put a fork by my plate.”

“Did too!” she said right back. My sassy girl.

“Hon, put the hotpad on the table, will you?” Aunt Ellen asked me, and I did. She set the kettle on it, Grandma brought over the biscuits and the butter dish and I poured milk.

“You can sit there, next to Camille,” Grandma said to Mathias, indicating the chair she meant.

We ate; it was a bizarre kind of first date, if that's what this was; it depended on whether I considered yesterday a date, out on the ice. Rather than being alone and facing one another, Mathias was on my left at a table crowded with my family, his elbow occasionally bumping mine as we ate bowls of Aunt Ellen's delectable chowder, dipping buttery biscuits and making a drippy mess. Millie was just across from me, her eyes bright with excitement as she ate, telling us all about how she and Rae played in a blanket fort that Grandma had built for them yesterday. Then Mathias told us about his route and using a truck called a ‘ditch witch' to clear out the ditches.

“We get right out on County 71 in the mornings, and that will be our main route for now,” he explained, wiping his lips with a napkin. “And then through town. I told Skid we can't neglect those side roads.”

“You're careful, aren't you?” I asked him, then clarified, “Of yourself, I mean.”

Mathias looked over at me with his dimple showing. He reassured me, “We take it easy on those bad roads. No donuts in the plow truck. But in my own, we can do a few out on the ice.”

“Donuts!” Millie sang excitedly.

“You kids want dessert now or later?” Aunt Ellen asked, after we'd eaten our fill.

“Later, for sure, I'm stuffed,” I told her, moving to help her clear the table.