The Light You Cast - 2. Chapter 2

“What kind of idiot are you, anyway?” I asked. “It’s like you have a death wish.”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks for asking,” Jonathan said through vibrating teeth. He slouched low in the seat with his arms crossed, shaking like a leaf. With a growl, I slowed down just long enough to pull off my coat and throw it at him. It hit him in the chest. Then I shifted back into fourth, and pushed down on the gas.

Snow streaked past my headlights and up the windows until I could barely see. When we hit the main road, I sped up anyway. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly I thought it might break off the dashboard.

The light was too low for me to see him properly. His pale hair stood out well enough. He wore it tucked behind his ears, tips brushing his shoulders. I could make out the basic shapes of his face, which I studied for expression. He seemed exhausted. Well, it was his own fault, I rationalized.

My turn-off came up so fast, I almost missed it. I spun the back wheels out, stomped on the brakes, and Jonathan slammed against the door.

“Who’s an idiot now?” Jonathan shouted, clutching at his seatbelt strap.

But I trusted my truck and didn’t lose control. The back wheels slid around in a semicircle and kicked up mud into the snowbank across the street. We slammed to a halt. The engine sputtered for a second, coughed, then settled into a friendly rumble. I let out a long-held breath. My truck came through for me, like it always did. When I glanced over at Jonathan, he was still clutching his chest.

I drove along a narrow driveway that carved a gap between the trees. At the end stood Mrs. Fidler’s greying brick cottage. The light by the door cast a warm glow, but her windows were dark. I pulled up as close as I could get.

“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll leave the car running.”

Jonathan didn’t reply. He was probably still too cold to get a word out. The truck’s heater blew more lukewarm air than hot, but better than nothing. He’d survive.

On the other hand, I wondered if I would. I’d been wearing four layers under my coat, but the wind still cut into me like a knife when I opened the door. I had half a mind to jump back in the cab and wrestle Jonathan to take my coat back. I shook the idea out of my head and plowed through the wind so I could grab the two largest bundles of firewood from my truck bed.

Outside her door, Mrs. Fidler’s wood pile had dwindled to about ten logs. On the other side of the door a dead christmas tree sagged forlornly, resting against a bulging pile of trash bags that had been crowded into the corner behind it. Normally I’d take it all down to the curb for her, but with the storm brewing, I’d only accomplish spreading her trash all over the road.

I slung the wood bundles down onto the porch and stacked the pieces as fast as I could. While I was here, it would be a good idea to check her kitchen faucet and make sure the pipes hadn’t frozen up again. I didn’t want to wake her up this early, but I knew she kept her door unlocked.

I scraped the snow off my shoes with my glove, opened her door and stepped into her living room. A thick layer of dust lay over all the furniture except a well-worn easy chair.

Shutting the door behind me as quietly as I could, I tiptoed into the kitchen. She’d left the faucet dripping like I told her to. Good. She’d be fine.

“Ethan? Is that you?” Mrs. Fiddler’s withered voice called from down the hall.

“It‘s me, but I’m in a hurry. Go back to sleep, Mrs. Fidler.”

“Did you bring the wood?”

“It’s stacked outside. Just checking on your pipes.”

I could hear her feet padding down the hallway.

“Why are you so early? You scared me half to death.” Mrs. Fidler’s tousled grey bob and soft wrinkled face appeared by the fridge, a battery-powered lantern in her hand. Its bright blue-white light hurt my eyes. “Stay a minute, I’ll make you some tea.”

“Will you call me next time before you get so low?” I asked irritably. “What if I couldn’t make it here through the storm? What would you do then?”

“Well, the lines are down, Ethan.” She filled up her kettle at the sink. “You came just in time. I’ll be alright.”

I sighed and lit up the stove for her. “I can’t stay, Mrs. Fidler.”

“No, no, you wait for this tea,” she insisted. She set the kettle on the flame. “You warm up before you go back out there. I’ll give you my travel cup. You can just bring it with you next time you come.”

“Thank you, but it’s just that-- ”

“It’ll only take a minute. Humor me. I’m a lonely old lady.” She shuffled over to the living room. Then she set a green travel mug with a teabag in it onto the coffee table, sitting down heavily with her own ceramic mug. She patted the couch arm. Reluctantly, I came over and sat.

“Now, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Same as ever.”

“And the Jamesons? How are they?”

“Alright.”

“Oh, you. Come now, tell me something interesting.”

I sighed. “Well, Michael’s cast as Hamlet in the school play. Their last show will be next Friday. You want to come? I could pick you up.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’d love to. Now give me something juicier. Any young ladies in your life?”

“None.”

“I don’t see why not. You’re strong and handsome, and you’ve got a good heart. They ought to be lining up at your door.” She continued speaking in a stream of consciousness, not giving me any time to speak. Not that I wanted to. “Only one reason I can think of. You’re always so subdued, Ethan. Come on, where’s all that energy 20-somethings are supposed to have? My granddaughter ought to come around. She’s a whirlwind but at least she’d pump some life into you, and she’s got good posture,” she winked. “It’s a pity I only see her once in a blue moon, now she’s grown.”

The kettle started whistling and I took the liberty of hopping over there as quickly as I could. I poured our tea. Then I screwed the lid back onto the mug, and gave Mrs. Fidler a sad smile. “Thanks for this, Mrs. Fidler. I really have to go now.”

“Alright, Ethan. I’ll stop yammering. It was good of you to stop by. Be safe out there, there’s a storm brewing.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll see you on Friday. Six o’clock.”

I left quickly, trading the cozy warmth of her house for the icy windswept world outside. The sudden loss of heat made me physically shudder and I immediately began shaking with the cold. I trudged back over to the truck, threw open the door, and sat down in the front seat, feeling stiff already. I yanked on my seatbelt and slammed the door shut again, then raised my hands up to the measly stream of warm air emanating from my heater. It needed a new core, and I didn’t have the money.

“Who was that?” Jonathan asked.

I looked him over before I answered. He still had his arms crossed tightly around my coat. I was freezing and I wanted it back, but I didn’t say anything. Instead, I pushed the travel mug into his hand.

“That was Mrs. Fidler,” I answered finally. “She’s an old woman. Just a friend.”

He put the mug straight to his nose and closed his eyes, smelling the steam. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for being such an idiot.”

“You really should be more careful,” I said. “Maybe you’re not from around here. It can get cold enough to kill you in no time at all.”

I turned the car around and drove back out onto the road, windshield wipers going full-speed.

Silence settled around us for a moment, giving me room to breathe. I watched lightning flicker in the clouds and thought. Jonathan had come all this way to find me, and I didn’t understand why. The question weighed on the back of my tongue, but I didn’t dare ask it out loud. Instead, I reasoned it out in my head. Jonathan must have come here to confirm my identity and location. Later on, when he was out of harm’s way, he’d call the police. Nothing else made sense.

I drove much slower now. The snow was getting thicker and only one car passed by, heading away from town.

“So what do you do for work?” Jonathan asked. “From what I read, most people around here work in oil. That doesn’t seem like your kind of gig.”

I eyed him narrowly. “Does it matter?”

“Just making conversation,” he shrugged. “It’s been ten years. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Frustrated, I forced out a gruff breath. “Stop. If you keep talking about that, I’ll throw you out at the next porchlight.”

“After I saw the accusations against you in the newspaper,” he continued casually, as if I hadn't spoken, “I told the police that I killed him. They believed me.”

A trick. My heart thudded rapidly against my chest and my head began to feel light. A net of lies. It would tighten around me the minute I gave an inch.

I flipped on the radio. A rock station wavered with angry music in between loud bursts of static. The resulting noise was ugly, but I turned the volume up anyway and refused to listen to anything else he tried to say.

I couldn’t be trapped behind bars. I'd be robbed of the thread still keeping me sane. My misery would explode. It would turn me into the raving demon I feared beyond all else. No. I couldn’t let him win.

I let the sound wash over me and tried to breathe. I would not give in. Attempting to sound normal, I controlled my voice. It came out low and dry.

“The train station opens at 8. You have an hour and a half. Where do you want to go? Timmies? Café?”

“I hoped we could go somewhere to talk a little while,” he said in that same quiet voice he’d used before, when he’d apologized. He huddled deeper into my coat. I had a feeling I’d never see it again. It was a good coat, too.

“I’ll drop you off up here, then,” I said. Tim Horton’s red light glowed pink against the snow just ahead. “Train station’s right across the street.”

The snow was building up pretty high in the lot, hiding the top half of the parking spots. I pulled in as close as I could to the front doors of the boxy brick restaurant.

Jonathan sat awkwardly for a while, watching me. I chose to study the backs of my gloves.

“Will you eat with me?” he asked.

I had to force myself to look up at his eyes. They made me swallow thickly; I felt strange again, suspended in something vast.

“I have to go. Work to do.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to pretend you don't know me? Please, Ethan, I--”

“I can’t,” I replied. My mouth felt dry, my heart beat erratically in my chest. The wind whipped his hair against his face as he stood there watching me with eyes I couldn’t stand to look at. A depth of sadness rose inside me that almost made me want to change my mind.

“Just go home, okay Jonathan? Forget about me.”

I reached across the seat and pulled his door shut. Then I drove away.

*****

Snowstorms had an eerie effect on sound. Owls stopped calling, insects stopped humming. All the signs of life outside became muted. Meanwhile, sounds inside the house traveled farther than usual.

That’s how I could hear Michael crying. His quiet sobs echoed down my flue. I pulled a pillow over my ears, but it did little to muffle the sound. The boy was only sixteen, coltish but creative and endearing, with a mop of dark brown hair. His energy constantly bubbled over and he seemed to spend more time with his friends than at home, part of a never-ending battle between him and his father. Tonight hadn’t been so bad - I only heard a few shouts and cuffs. Still, it made me feel sick.

I’d gotten myself through a long day of work on the Jamesons’ new cabinets, but when I laid down in bed, all I could do was stare at the space on the rug Jonathan had occupied last night.

Mr. Jameson was a sturdy man with ruddy skin and hair fading into a pale reddish brown. I chose to come live here for several reasons, but mainly because of him.

Two years ago in summer I saw his ad offering a room, so I called him up from a payphone. Nothing seemed certain until he told me about the land.

“We live out where you can hear the forest,” he’d said. “I never could find peace without the sounds of trees and all God’s creatures around me. I’m sure you know what I mean. We moved up here from Calgary, a fine city in its own right. But I missed living out among the trees.”

His speech was steady and calm. It ignited a longing in my bones. I wanted peace. Above all, I wanted peace.

A few months after I moved in, the snow began to stick. That’s when Mr. Jameson first brought home a bottle of scotch. “It keeps me warm,” he told me. “Don’t tell my wife.” He and I had sat together by the fire that night and sipped at it slowly. He told me stories about his childhood. Not all of them were happy. I just stayed quiet and listened, feeling the fire’s heat against my face and wondering if I’d fallen into another trap, another broken home.

In winter, I soon found that I would not escape brokenness this time. Mr. Jameson’s demons showed themselves. When the drinking started, he said ugly things about himself and everyone around him. Michael got the worst of it.

I watched the shadows my flickering oil lamp made against the walls, wishing I couldn’t hear him cry. On the bright side, at least it made me think about someone other than Jonathan.

I had a little tin flask I kept filled for nights like this. I pulled it out from under my bed, unscrewed the top and took a long sip. The smoky whiskey burned down my throat and coated my stomach. Its sting made my eyes water. How Mr. Jameson could go on drinking stuff like this all night, I didn’t know. It took a special resilience, I guessed. For me, a few sips was all it took to start feeling loose and easy. I turned over on my bed to scan the books I had lined up against the wall.

I wrote poetry in a thick leather bound journal that stayed with me wherever I went. I often added to it but I hadn’t read through any of it in years. Tonight, instead of writing something new, I brought it up to the flickering lantern light and flipped through to a page in the middle, dated five years ago. A sketch of a tall skinny tree decorated the side of the page.

I had written five years ago in October, when I’d been living in the mountains. That day came back to me slowly, as if remembering a dream. Something had happened to unsettle me, though I don’t remember what it was. I’d gone deep into the woods to sort myself out and sat for a long time among some of the most beautiful trees I’d ever seen.

I ran my fingers over the words and the picture before I read.

This aspen will outlive me,
and on the day I die,
I’ll dig a hole beneath its shoots,
then twist a cradle from its roots,
where I can safely lie.

This aspen won’t protect me
from the ruin of my life,
But when I gaze up, my heart will sing:
a canopy of golden wings,
lit downward from the sky.

I read these lines again and closed my eyes for a long time. My heart felt swollen and painful.

When I opened them again, something caught my eye. A bright white corner peeked out from under the pillow next to me. I tugged it out and looked at the face of a sleek white business card.

Rayna’s Attic Costume Shop
Jonathan Elwood, Assistant Manager
290 Ellis St. West
Toronto, ON
(416) 514-7799

I flipped it over.

You saved my life. I’m not out to get you. Call me. Please. -Jon

I lifted up the pillow and searched, but there was nothing else.

My heartbeat reverberated through my whole body, drowning out all the other sounds in the room. I read and re-read the note. His handwriting was barely legible - he’d probably scrawled it out quickly before he came to chase me down.

I let out a small laugh. A costume shop in the city. What a life that would be. Slowly I slid it into my journal, set the book aside, and burrowed into my covers.

Something inside me was stirring. I stared at the empty space on the rug for a long time before I fell asleep.

*****

My spare coat was well-worn, its navy blue hem flecked with mud. Cleaning it was a waste of time. It would look just as dirty fresh out of the wash.

Three days had passed since Jonathan's strange visit. I was in the middle of the garage sanding down an old cabinet when the light began to grow brighter and brighter through the window, until I finally squinted up to see bright blue. My heart leapt in my chest and it took all my strength not to abandon my project and simply run outside. I put everything away, swept up, then went for my snowshoes. The storm was finally over!

The light against the snow made my eyes shrink in their sockets. I had to keep wiping them with the back of my glove. I couldn’t see well, but the sounds and smells filled me with joy. Bird calls were back, full force. The air was crisp and pungent with the smell of pine.

My logs would be covered in snow, of that I was certain. But I wanted to find the bush where Jonathan had been laying. Maybe I could find his coat. I made my way through the trees, heading toward the lake.

I would have never noticed it if I hadn’t been looking. There, Jonathan had hung his coat on a cedar branch right by the path.

It must have stayed in place during the storm, a miracle in its own right. When I slapped the little tufts of snow away, I found the coat was frozen solid. I shook it out roughly, flapping it in the air until the flexibility came back. It revealed itself to be brown suede with a wool collar and lining. The cut was trim and long, too close-fitting to provide much insulation.

I glanced around, took off my glove and ran my fingers over the silk tag sewn inside the back. Some Italian name I didn’t recognize was printed on it in a delicate script. The longer I looked at it, the finer it seemed. None of the second-hand salvation army coats I’d owned could hold up to something like this. But it was perfectly matched to his slim frame. I could picture his sleeves peeking out from the jacket’s arms, the zipper closed snugly over his chest. My mouth felt dry, my head light. Then I brought it to my nose, closed my eyes. It smelled like cedar needles and wet leather.

There was a zippered pouch in the lining with something hard tucked inside. I felt it rather than saw it at first. With frozen fingers I pulled out a folded group of news clippings, sealed in a plastic bag.

My own face showed through the plastic, ten years younger. At sixteen, my brown hair had been a bit longer, and I’d worn it drawn back into a ponytail at the base of my neck. I kept my hair much shorter these days. In the photo I was piling decking lumber onto a cart. I didn’t remember anyone taking it. I’d done my best to avoid photos altogether, but clearly my best hadn’t been good enough.

Above it, a piece of the headline displayed, “SLAVE LAKE LABORER SUSPECTED --”

I shoved the packet back in his pocket and closed the zipper.

Sitting down in the snow, I looked up at the sky. A zigzag of dark branches formed a stained glass window, all the panes a clear and steady blue. A chickadee hopped by, tilting its little soft round head, chirping.

Why couldn’t I live simply like this tiny bird? I had a million fears, a hundred thousand doubts, and I couldn’t take one simple step to work things out. No matter which way I turned, my life circled back into the arms of violent men who woke up the monster inside me. I would never escape.

I felt sick, dizzy. I had to close my eyes.

I ran my fingers over Jonathan’s coat and tried my best not to think at all. Thinking led to dark places, dark conclusions. There was nothing to piece together, nothing to understand. There was only this moment, this sky, these trees and birds. At this moment I could expand, close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the forest.

I took a long breath and began to picture my frozen lake. I stepped into its familiar dark waters. Ice collected higher on my ankles with each step. I layed back in the water, let it envelop me in its ice.

That’s when I realized that the sky was changing. I watched in fascination as the veil of blackness above me faded into a dim golden twilight. I shuddered, and sensation swept over me as the water turned pleasantly warm.

With a gasp, I snapped out of the meditation and wondered what the hell that was all about.

It only took about three heartbeats to work it out.

Jonathan. Desire to see him kindled beneath my lungs. It made my breath hot, my vision blurry. I tried to swallow it down, but it hurt too much. It felt like he was burning me with those sad eyes, abandoned after coming all that way to find me. I needed to find him. I needed to know him. I needed --

I realized I had tears on my face. Disturbed, I wiped my eyes on the back of my glove, stood up, and started to run.