Equinox—purchased outright, still less than 7,000 miles on the clock—standing at the single rusting pump. “The Suburban was never really the same after my last trip up here,” he said. Actually, neither was I.
“Gonna be up there long?”
“No, not this time. I was sorry to hear about Roy.”
“Should have gone to the doctor. Let it be a lesson to you. Need anything else?”
Drew bought some bread, some lunchmeat, and a sixpack.
38
All the blowdown had been trucked away from the dooryard, and the equipment shed was gone as if it had never been. Young Jackie had sodded the ground and fresh grass was growing there. Also some cheery flowers. The warped porch steps had been repaired and there were a couple of new chairs, just cheap stuff from the Presque Isle Walmart, probably, but not bad looking.
Inside, the cabin was neat and freshened up. The woodstove’s isinglass window had been cleaned of soot and the stove itself gleamed. So did the windows, the dining table, and the pine-plank floor, which looked as if it had been oiled as well as washed. The refrigerator was once more unplugged and standing open, once more empty except for a box of Arm & Hammer. Probably a fresh one. It was clear that Old Bill’s widow had done a bang-up job.
Only on the counter by the sink were there signs of his occupancy the previous October: the Coleman lantern, the tin of lantern fuel, a bag of Halls cough drops, several packets of Goody’s Headache Powder, half a bottle of Dr. King’s Cough & Cold Remedy, and his wristwatch.
The fireplace was scrubbed clean of ash. It had been loaded with fresh chunks of oak, so Drew supposed Young Jackie had either had the chimney swept or done it himself. Very efficient, but there would be no need of a fire in this August heat. He went to the fireplace, knelt, and twisted his head to stare up into the black throat of the chimney.
“Are you up there?” he called… and with no self-consciousness at all. “If you’re up there, come down. I want to talk to you.”
Nothing, of course. He told himself again there was no rat, had never been a rat, except there was. The splinter wasn’t coming out. The rat was in his head. Only that wasn’t completely true, either. Was it?
There were still two crates flanking the spandy-clean fireplace, fresh kindling in one, toys in the other—the ones left here by his kids and those left by the children of whomever Lucy had let the cabin to in the few years they’d rented it. He grabbed the crate and dumped it. At first he didn’t think the stuffed rat was there, and he felt a stab of panic, irrational, but real. Then he saw it had tumbled under the hearth, nothing sticking out but its cloth-covered rump and stringy tail. What an ugly toy it was!
“Thought you’d hide, did you?” he asked it. “No good, Mister.”
He took it over to the sink and dropped it in. “Got anything to say? Any explanations? Maybe an apology? No? What about any last words? You were chatty enough before.”
The stuffed rat had nothing to say, so Drew doused it with lantern fluid and set it on fire. When there was nothing left but smoking, foul-smelling slag, he turned on the water and doused the remains. There were a few paper bags under the sink. Drew used a spatula to scrape what was left into one of these. He took the bag down to Godfrey Brook, tossed it in, and watched it float away. Then he sat down on the bank and looked at the day, which was windless and hot and gorgeous.
When the sun began to sink, he went inside and made a couple of bologna sandwiches. They were sort of dry—he should have remembered to get mustard or mayo—but he had the beer to wash them down. He drank three cans, sitting in one of the old armchairs and reading an Ed McBain paperback about the 87th Precinct.
Drew considered a fourth beer and decided against it. He had an idea that was the one with the hangover in it, and he wanted to get an early start in the morning. He was done with this place. As he was with writing novels. There was just the one, his only child waiting for him to finish with it. The one that had cost his friend and his friend’s wife their lives.