The wind had died down a bit. It wasn’t snowing as hard. I had that much going for me. I made my way down the driveway-hell, if I got lucky, I might even see somebody driving a snowplow on the road.
When I got down to the road, I looked in both directions. It was a lonely road to begin with. Now it was like some ancient site where a road once ran, a thousand years ago. I put my head down and kept walking, thankful for the level ground at least, and for the fact that the wind was at my back. I could hear its low moaning along with my own breathing, and nothing else. My feet started to feel cold.
Mrs. DeMarco’s house was a half mile down the road, or so I thought. It seemed a lot longer than that as I worked my way through the snow. I was starting to feel like I had made a terrible mistake. But at last I saw a break in the tree line and I knew her driveway was just up ahead.
I trudged on and finally saw her house. The snow seemed to cling to every inch of it. There were no footprints, no signs of shoveling or any human activity. Worst of all, there was no smoke coming out of the chimney.
You’re a total idiot, I told myself. She’s not here. They came and took her away.
I went up the driveway, just to confirm my fears. I went to the front door and knocked, then without waiting I tried turning the knob. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stuck my head in.
“Hello?”
Silence.
I stepped inside. At least I’d get out of the cold for a few minutes before heading back. I’d make apologies later, if it ever came to that.
But damn, it was almost as cold inside as it was out. The heat had obviously been off for hours. I’ll make a fire, I thought. Get that stove going, warm myself up.
I went into the kitchen and opened up the stove. I found a pile of old newspapers and started to crumple them up. I looked around for some wood.
Then I heard the creaking. It was coming from somewhere above me. I stopped and listened.
Nothing.
I opened the pantry door, looking for the wood. Then I heard the creaking again.
It’s just the wind, I thought. The house is shifting in the wind.
But then I heard it again. There was someone upstairs.
“I hope that’s you, Mrs. DeMarco.”
I headed for the stairs and went up slowly, step by step. I made a few stupid jokes to myself about whistling in the dark. After what I had seen in the barn, I’d be whistling for a long time.
When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw four different doors. It was darker here, away from the windows. As my eyes adjusted, I saw an old kerosene lantern on a small table-either an antique for decoration or something the old woman had actually used long ago. There was no time to try to light it now.
I moved slowly to the first door and peeked around the frame. It was a sewing room, with a big black Singer machine, the kind with the treadle underneath. I heard a sound and spun around, ready to hit somebody. But the hallway was empty. I went to the next door and looked inside.
I saw Mrs. DeMarco, standing in her bedroom between a wooden armoire and her big four-poster bed. She was dressed in white undergarments from head to toe. On the bed she had half a dozen outfits laid out, all black.
She turned to look at me. If she was remotely surprised to see me standing in her doorway, she didn’t show it.
“I can’t decide what to wear,” she said.
“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said. “Are you all right?”
“I shouldn’t have to think about this,” she said, staring at the clothes on her bed. “Not today. Someone should just tell me what to wear.”
“Mrs. DeMarco, it’s so cold in here. Why don’t you have a fire going?”
As I moved closer to her, I could see that her skin was blue.
“Should I wear this one?” she said, picking up one of the dresses. It was all black lace, and looked like it should be hanging in a museum.
“You need to get warmed up,” I said. As I got even closer, I saw that she was shivering. Her medical alert tag hung from her neck.
“Funerals should be on cold days, don’t you think? Somehow it seems fitting.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Do you think we could maybe press the button on your tag? For both of us?”
She looked down at it, like she had no idea what it was. “This won’t do,” she said. She took it off, struggling with it as it got caught in her hair. “I think I need the pearls. What do you think?”
“I agree.” I took the tag from her and pressed the red button. I wasn’t sure where the signal would go-if there was a station here in Blind River or if they’d have to come from Sault Ste. Marie.
“I’ve always hated funerals,” she said. “Not that anyone likes them, I suppose.”
“Come on, we need to get you downstairs. I’ll make a fire and get you some hot tea or something.”
I was going to pull the blanket off the bed, but then I would have had to move all of the dresses. That probably wouldn’t have made her very happy. I saw an old handmade quilt folded up on top of the armoire, so I took that down and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“I don’t have time for tea,” she said. “The funeral is in one hour.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t let you miss it. Let’s go downstairs.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I led her out of the room and down the stairs, staying in front in case I had to catch her. She took each step with care until we were at the bottom. When I had her sitting at the table, I wrapped the quilt tight around her and started looking for the wood.
“I suppose you’re wondering how I’m holding up so well,” she said.
“Is there some more firewood around here, ma’am?” The wood holder next to the stove was empty.
“I think I’m probably a little numb,” she said. “It’s always a shock, no matter how many times you lose someone.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m just looking for the firewood here.”
“It’s out back,” she said. “There’s a whole pile out there.”
I looked out the back window. If there was a pile of firewood out there, it was covered by an even bigger pile of snow.
“Do you have any dry wood, ma’am? Something that might be stored here in the house?”
“I’m wondering if perhaps I’m not entirely surprised,” she said. “That is to say, perhaps this is something that was bound to happen, sooner or later.”
I tried to open the back door. The snow had drifted all the way up to the window. Turning, I saw yet another door on the far side of the kitchen. When I opened that, I saw steps leading down into the darkness. This time, someone had the sense to hang a flashlight from a nail in the wall.
“It’s such a terrible business,” she said. “I think I’ve always known it would come to a bad end.”
I stopped and looked at her for a moment, thinking about what she was saying. I couldn’t imagine which funeral she was getting dressed for. Maybe her own son’s death had somehow forced its way into her consciousness. She closed her eyes and started to rock back and forth in her chair.
“Okay, I need to get this fire going right now,” I said. I grabbed the flashlight and turned it on, saw the firewood stacked neatly, right at the bottom of the stairs. Beyond that was the dead oil burner. I went down to get as much as I could carry, getting another blast of that same old basement smell. When I had a few small logs on top of the paper, I took the book of matches that was sitting on top of the stove and got the fire going. Then I filled the teapot with water and put it on the stove.
“This will take a little while,” I said. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were still closed. I pulled a chair close to her and sat down.
“Mrs. DeMarco, can you hear me?”
She kept rocking back and forth. “What a time,” she finally said. “What a time.”
“What time are you talking about?”
“What a way to celebrate New Year’s.”
“The man next door,” I said. “Jean Reynaud. Is that who you’re talking about?”
She opened her eyes.