In the Bleak Midwinter

Six or seven pink memo slips poked out of her mail cubbie on the wall. She squinted against the growing dimness in the hall, reading them on the way back to her room. Inquiry about a christening. Possible new members. Sterling Sumner wants another meeting about the boiler. Chief Van Alstyne called, no message.

Kristen McWhorter called, left no return number. Most urgent, underscored by Lois’s confident pen. Has info re: who killed her father. She and mother are hiding out—here Lois had made a big, black question mark and exclamation—at cousin’s hunting cabin. Please come at once. Mother does not trust police. The detailed directions to the cabin covered the rest of the pink slip and continued onto another.

“Lois!” Clare said to her fireplace. “Couldn’t you put the ‘most urgent’ one on top? Holy cow.” Too many years as a church secretary undoubtedly gave a person a jaundiced view of others’ emergencies. She took a quick gulp of coffee and donned the police parka. She really did need to get her own someday soon. She stuffed the directions into her pocket and pulled on her gloves. Kristen’s call had come in just at noon, three and a half hours ago. She must be frantic by now.

Outside, snow was showering down in tiny, dry flakes, freckling her cheeks and nose as she brushed off her windshield. There wasn’t that much accumulation yet. If it took her less than an hour to reach the cabin, she shouldn’t have too much difficulty with the roads. The MG’s engine roared to life reassuringly. Of course, she might not be able to get back out until the storm finished up. She used the last napkin to wipe the melted snow off her face. When she had been young and romantic, she had fantasized about being snowbound in a rustic cabin. But she had for sure never pictured Brenda McWhorter in there with her.

Route 9 North was well-trafficked and easy to drive, even though the plows hadn’t been out yet. She exited near Lake Lucerne and took River Road south. To her left, the Hudson River ran high and fast, carrying away clots of snow and ice in its gray waters. Far fewer cars kept her company here. Snakes of snow slithered across the road, obscuring the macadam. She glanced at her directions. The right onto Tenant Mountain Road turned her due west, but there was no sign of impending sunset behind the hills ascending in front of her, only an iron shell of sky and the snow, falling faster and harder against her windshield. Infrequently, she passed houses, their lights glowing through the swirling flakes like figures inside glass snow globes. Beautiful and unreachable. The sense of isolation pricked at her. Skittered. She turned the radio up for its illusion of company.

She spotted Alan’s Gas and Grocery, the landmark mentioned in her directions. From here it was two miles to the road leading directly up into the mountains. It was a small general store with lighted signs blazing cheerfully if commercially through the storm. COCA COLA! BUDWEISER! DIESEL, $1.00! She almost pulled over. It would be dry and safe, there would be a phone, she could admit she was too inexperienced to be driving in this weather and call—who? One of the congregation? A taxi?

She gritted her teeth. Russ was the only person she considered enough of a friend to ask for a favor like that. She drove past the entrance to the grocery’s tiny parking lot. How could she come begging for a ride like a stranded teenager after yesterday? She blew out a gusty breath. Her inexperience at winter driving, and the unfamiliar landscape, were making her jittery. If she calmed down, drove carefully, and didn’t run scared to the nearest big, strong man to save her, she’d be fine. Alan’s Gas and Grocery disappeared from her rearview mirror. Two miles to the turnoff. Six miles to the camp road. Less than a mile to the cabin. Even if she had to drop down from her current speed of thirty miles an hour, it shouldn’t take her more than twenty minutes. Then she would whap Kristen upside the head for not leaving a phone number where she could be reached.

She slowed as she hit the two-mile mark. Her headlights shone blurrily through the gathering dark, their edges softened by the snowfall, their light swallowed up in the storm. Two large stone cairns marked the otherwise signless road. Hidden under white, they looked like lean and misshapen snowmen, and she was suddenly sorry she had thought Mrs. McDonald’s plastic snowmen were tacky. On a night like this, they would be beacons of hospitality, marking the boundary between safety and the storm.