I can walk to that village, she told herself. Find the blue house. Ask Rosemary Bear Paw to help me. She might know when the bus goes through Huntsville. Or maybe there’s a closer stop, a depot in some country store along the way. Heather glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly 7 o’clock. It would soon be light.
Between the cottage and the hill there was shelter from the wind. But the moment she turned the corner, the wind slammed into her face. It howled across the lake, lashing her cheeks with icy grains that stung like tiny needles. The osprey nest at the top of the dead pine rocked in the wind.
Heather plodded on, her head bent to the wind. When she got back to Toronto, she’d find a job. Any kind of job. She didn’t need much — a small apartment with a bathroom. Tub and shower. Lots of fluffy, warm towels. She wanted a kitchenette too, with a microwave and cupboards to store the delicious food she would buy. Kraft dinners. Chocolate chip cookies. Tim Hortons coffee. Would she tell the police about the hold-up? Definitely not. She never wanted to see Don again. Not in court. Not in prison. Not anywhere. If love was a sickness, she was cured. How could she ever have cared for such a loser?
Nearing the village, she saw that each snow-topped shanty had a snowmobile parked near its door. Except for one, the houses looked as if no paintbrush had ever touched them. That one house was blue.
Heather stumbled onto the shore and reached into her pocket for a tissue to wipe her dripping nose. She hadn’t a clue what to say to Rosemary Bear Paw, beyond asking for a lift.
There was no sign of life in any of the houses. Outside the blue house, a scruffy brown dog lifted its leg against a yellow and black snowmobile. When the dog finished, it trotted to the house, acknowledging her with a glance over its shoulder. At the door it gave a sharp bark. The door opened just enough to admit the dog, then closed.
At her knock, the door opened again with a blast of warm air that smelled of tobacco and smoked fish. In front of Heather stood an enormous woman wearing a lumberjack shirt. She had a neck like a bull, and her shoulders sloped. Her face was coppery brown with wide cheekbones. Not an ancient face, but a face out of an ancient time. Beady eyes embedded in fat pouches regarded Heather with more suspicion than surprise. At her feet, the dog growled.
“Where’d you come from?” The woman had a tiny Cupid’s bow mouth that scarcely opened when she spoke.
“Across the lake. I... uh... need a ride to the bus.”
The woman eyed Heather from head to foot. She saw it alclass="underline" the bomber jacket, the tight jeans, the rubber boots.
“I’ll take you over for fifty bucks.”
“Fine.”
She opened the door wider. “Come inside before all the warm air gets out.”
Heather stepped into a small room that was almost filled by the woman’s bulk. In one corner stood a cast iron stove. On top of it a copper kettle steamed. A bed covered by a red blanket pressed against one wall. Near the opposite wall stood a wooden table and three chairs that did not match.
“Are you Rosemary Bear Paw?”
“You know my name? You come from Lawfords’ place, I think.” She took a green mug and a bottle of rye whiskey from a shelf, poured a shot, and handed it to Heather. “This will warm you up. You drink, then we go.”
Heather did not want it. She had tried whiskey before — nasty stuff that tasted like nail polish remover. But as the warmth slid down her throat, she changed her mind.
Rosemary Bear Paw’s dark eyes studied Heather’s face. “I knew somebody was staying at the Lawford place. It don’t take much to show me that. I don’t ask questions. Been plenty trouble there already.”
She lowered her bulk onto the bed and pulled on her boots, huffing as she leaned forward to lace them. “That hillside — in the old days, we buried our people there. Sacred land. My father told old man Lawford not to build there, but he don’t listen. There’s a curse on that place.” With a grunt, she stood up and pulled her parka from a hook. “That Lawford boy and his friends used to come up here to get drunk. They said they come to fish, but I don’t see nobody put their line in the water. Then the little kid drowned. That killed the old man.” She wrestled her arms into the parka’s sleeves. “For eight years, I don’t see no family there.” She finished with a pucker of her lips and a popping sound, like a kiss. “Huh! I tell you, the ancestors never leave this land.”
I’m glad I’m leaving, Heather thought. The ancestors can keep it. I never want to see Osprey Lake again.
The woman held out her hand, which was dimpled and remarkably small, considering the size of her body. “Fifty dollars.”
Heather handed over two twenties and a ten. The money went straight into a coffee tin on the table. Rosemary Bear Paw pulled on a pair of leather gauntlets decorated with bright beadwork — red, green, black, and white.
“We go before anybody else wake up.”
Heather looked around but saw no sign of another person in the house.
“I mean neighbors. They’re still sleeping. Nobody needs to know you been here.” The dog followed them to the door. “Not this time,” the woman added. The dog trotted over to the stove, turned around three times, and flopped onto the floor.
The snowmobile looked like a monster insect. No, not exactly an insect. More like that contraption the Space Centre sent up to Mars. It was a new machine, and probably worth more than all the houses of the village put together.
“You like it, eh? Ski-Doo Skandic SUV. Electric starter. Never stalls in the cold.”
“Very nice.”
“Hop on,” the woman grunted. “We don’t have all day.”
For a moment, as she climbed onto the seat, Heather thought of asking if she could first use the bathroom. But the thought of another hole in a board over a stinking pit was too gross.
“Is it far to the bus station?” she asked, conjuring in her mind a modern facility. Shiny ceramic tiles. Flush toilets. Sinks with hot and cold running water.
“Not far.” Rosemary Bear Paw started the engine.
The hills that rose up on either side seemed to channel the Ski-doo from lake to lake. The wind screamed in Heather’s ears. This won’t take long, she thought. But one lake led into another, and then another. No sign of a highway, a road, or a town. Where was this woman taking her? Heather saw nothing but rocks, trees, and the occasional boarded-up summer cottage.
If she had known it would take this long, she definitely would have asked to use the washroom. Her bladder pressed sorely. The vibration of the machine made it worse. She panicked. What if she wet herself? She would rather die than go into a bus depot with pee leaked all over her pants.
By the time she let go of the right-hand grip to thump Rosemary Bear Paw on the back, it was nearly too late.
The snowmobile stopped, its motor still turning over. The woman shouted over her shoulder, “What’s your problem?”
“I need to pee.”
“Help yourself.” Her tiny mouth spat out the words.
Heather dismounted and waded off through the snow. When she was a few yards behind the snowmobile, she unzipped her jeans. Rosemary Bear Paw swiveled on her seat to watch. Did she expect Heather to pee while being stared at? Why was she looking at her like that, taunting with those beady eyes? Heather felt like screaming: Turn your goddamn back! Not until Heather’s panties and jeans were around her ankles did the woman avert her eyes.
Such a relief to release the flow, to feel the pressure ease! Heather relaxed as much as anyone could relax while squatting bare-bottomed in the snow.
The revving of the motor took her by surprise. She was still peeing when the engine roared and the Ski-doo sped away.