The Snow (16 page)

Christina remembered Blake’s earlier words. “
I love you
.”

The heat of his body had been merely warmth when she was cold; the support of his arms had been merely crutches when she was weak.

But now it was love. Christina was dizzy, sick, thrilled with love.

“Don’t faint,” said Blake, alarmed, half teasing. “Come on, girl of island granite. Be strong.”

Dolly did not like tagging after Christina and Blake. She did not like all this attention for Christina when she, Dolly, was there. Dolly held out her arms to Mr. Shevvington. “Carry me!” she demanded in a high, piteous voice, like a kitten. “I’m so trembly after what happened to Chrissie.”

Mr. Shevvington scooped her right up. He was tall, and Dolly was very visible snuggling against his shoulder. “Don’t worry, little darling,” cooed Mr. Shevvington. “You’re safe with me.”

The crowd sighed with pleasure. “Such a pretty picture,” said everybody, tilting their heads like mother birds to watch Dolly being cuddled. Several people took photographs. Blake and Christina went ahead. Slowly the Shevvingtons followed them into the ski lodge.

Inside, a vast fire crackled in the towering two-story stone fireplace. Logs as big as Christina’s room at the Inne smouldered in the stone cavity. “Heat,” whispered Christina. “I could step right inside the flames to get warm, I’m so cold.”

“Ssssssshhhh,” said Blake urgently. “You want the Shevvingtons to quote you on that?”

“No, but I want to get warm.”

“Where’s Anya?” said Blake, getting irritable now. “She’ll take you up to your room. You need to sit in a hot tub and get some warmth into your bones. And if Anya doesn’t help, you’ll have to ask Mrs. Shevvington.”

A staircase, huge and solid, circled layer on layer above the stones. It was nothing like the tippy fragile forest of white banisters at Schooner Inne. It was made of great planks of oak, sturdy as trees.

Down the stairs came Anya.

She had dressed for dinner: a narrow white wool skirt beneath a delicate, lacy top with a row of tiny ribbons around the throat. Her hair was spun black and her lips were soft and pink. She was as beautiful as a princess, as fragile as glass.

Blake’s grip on Christina loosened. His eyes were for Anya and Anya only. Vivid in scarlet pants and jacket, his dark hair windbrushed, his cheeks wind-burned, Blake crossed the wide room to Anya, and she descended the stair to Blake. Complete in themselves, Blake and Anya touched fingers. Reaching over the banister, Blake guided Anya down the last few steps, and when she reached the bottom and there were no railings between them he took her in his arms and kissed her. Then, synchronized as a single person, they moved across the room to Christina.

I never had you, she thought, grieving. You were always Anya’s.

She turned her head away to keep anyone from seeing the pain it caused her. Grow up, she told herself. You wanted Blake to be the rescuer, and he was. You wanted Blake to be a hero, and he is. So stop pretending he can be your boyfriend as well. You’re a little girl. Anya is a beautiful woman.

“Blake!” said the Shevvingtons, shocked, setting Dolly down so fast she nearly hit the floor. “What are you doing here, Blake? Why aren’t you at boarding school? What is going on, young man?” They tried to be the fierce principal and the harsh teacher, but the ski lodge diluted their power with Blake. He bowed to them mockingly. “What a surprise to meet again,” he said. His eyes were exactly the same as theirs: hard, fighting eyes. If they entered a ring — Blake vs. Shevvington — Blake would win.

For Anya he would fight any battle.

Christina ached with cold and exhaustion. But at least the Shevvingtons were beaten. Christina had survived; Anya had Blake.

The rest of the weekend, thought Christina, trying to summon up energy and gladness, we will ski and laugh and party and stay up late. There would be no more accidents — the Shevvingtons can’t risk it.

We’ll have food sent up to the room, she decided, having always wanted to order from room service. Perhaps we’ll order in the middle of the night. If there’s dancing, I’m sure Blake will save one dance for me.

Mrs. Shevvington’s little black-hole eyes landed on Christina. Mrs. Shevvington knew when she was beaten. Christina knew that the Shevvingtons would change plans immediately. She did not have the strength to fight back this time. But Blake is here, she thought. Blake will fight for me. So it’s all right.

Mrs. Shevvington straightened. “Arthur, dear,” she said loudly to her husband, “after this dreadful brush with death, I’m too shaken to stay longer. I simply cannot finish out the ski weekend. My nerves,” said Mrs. Shevvington, who had none, “are frayed. Girls, you must pack immediately. Go to your rooms. As soon as Christina is warm and in dry clothing, we’ll drive straight home. Tonight.”

But now I want the weekend, thought Christina. She did not have enough energy to argue a single syllable. She could hardly stand up without Blake.

Dolly said, “That’s very wise, Mrs. Shevvington. Chrissie can hardly stand up. She can sleep in the car.”

“I’d rather sleep in the room,” Christina mumbled.

Mr. Shevvington picked Christina up this time. Blake was too absorbed by Anya to notice. Dolly frowned with faint jealousy. Christina was too tired to argue.

Anya wilted against Blake. “Home?” she whispered. “Oh, please, no! I just saw him again. Not yet!”

Just as she manages to blossom again, thought Christina, they cut her back.

“Come, Anya,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “Come, Christina. Do not dillydally.”

“Anya is staying for the weekend,” said Blake. “I’ll drive her home.”

“She most certainly is not staying. I do not give permission,” said Mrs. Shevvington.

“Permission,” said Blake, “is not yours to give. I am eighteen. I can vote and die for my country. And therefore, I can decide when to drive Anya back to Schooner Inne.”

A chill that was not from snow or mountains settled all over Christina’s heart. If I go home without Blake or Anya, she thought, if I go back to Schooner Inne and only Dolly is between me and the Shevvingtons … that means there is nothing between me and the Shevvingtons.

Mrs. Shevvington stomped her foot, like Dolly having a pout. “Well, I’m not paying for that room,” she said spitefully. “Just where do you expect Anya to sleep?”

“I’ll get her a room,” Blake said.

My folder is not yet closed, thought Christina, whose eyes had closed of their own accord. And I am so close to the truth now that the Shevvingtons cannot wait much longer to be rid of me.

Blake. I need you. You have to come, too. Anya has to come, too.

But she had not spoken aloud. She was thinking it in her sleep. She had fallen asleep right on Mr. Shevvington’s shoulder. She knew it and did not know it, wanted to move but slept on.

So they were back early. She slept through the drive back to Schooner Inne, slept through being put to bed upstairs, slept till way into the next day, when Dolly woke her up. “I’ve had breakfast!” said Dolly impatiently. “Let’s go over to Jonah’s. They’re playing in the ice maze. We have to tell them everything. And I have photographs. One of the people in the ski crowd had a Polaroid, and he gave me photographs. We’ll show them to everybody.”

“Of me falling?” cried Christina, waking up immediately, thinking, Proof, proof! This is it! A photograph of the man in the red suit — proof that I was pushed, that I was not alone in that chair lift! I’m there, I have it, I won after all, I —

“No, no,” said Dolly. “Nobody had a camera out then. Photographs of us rescuing you. See this pretty one of me in Mr. Shevvington’s arms? And here’s a really nice one of me snuggling down next to your cheek to be sure you’re all right.”

Christina stared at the cracked plaster on her ceiling. Do I laugh or sob? she thought.

“What do you want for breakfast, Chrissie?” said Dolly. “I’m willing to fix you something.”

“I think I’ll just chew on my pillow for a while,” said Christina.

Everybody was startled to have Christina and Dolly join them. “But you were going away for a three-day weekend,” protested Jonah.

“Did you wear the yellow suit?” cried Mrs. Bergeron. “Did you have a wonderful time? Are you a natural at skiing? I bet you are.”

Dolly said importantly, “Christina fell off the ski lift.”

“No!” they all screamed. “She didn’t! How terrifying! Are you all right, Chrissie? What happened?”

Dolly gave her version of the fall.

Christina did not offer hers. She could just imagine what people would say.
Pull yourself together, Christina; stop telling stories; behave in a socially acceptable manner; do what the Shevvingtons say.

Jonah said impatiently, “Dolly, shut up. I want to hear what Christina says. You weren’t part of it at all.”

“I was so!” said Dolly, pulling her lips together in anger. “Look at the photographs of me.”

“Nobody cares about photographs of you,” said Jonah irritably, brushing her aside. “Christina,” he said, “that is so scary.” He pulled her away from the rest, so they were standing in a corner of the house that made a sun trap, out of the wind. “Chrissie,” he whispered, “was there something more to this than — well — you know — the Shevvingtons? They wouldn’t really go that far, would they?”

The rest were screaming, yelling, pushing, and sliding in the ice mazes.

I could be skiing now, Christina thought. With Blake. Going fast, skimming over the top of the world with his hand on my waist. Wearing the lemon-yellow suit. The sun could be over Running Deer instead of this boring old backyard.

She wanted to share with Blake, not Jonah! She wanted Blake to care, not Jonah! Jonah was just another seventh-grader. Blake was man, handsome and strong and — and Anya’s.

Christina sighed. She said, “I don’t know. Let’s play.”

When it was time to go home, she could not find Dolly.

She shrugged. Dolly never stayed unless she was the center of attention. Dolly had doubtless gone on home herself.

B
UT DOLLY WAS NOT
at Schooner Inne.

The sun set. The sky went black. The snow began. And Dolly did not come home. There were no little sixth-grade friends to phone to see if she was at their house … Dolly had no friends.

Michael, Benjamin, and Christina put on coats and boots and went to look for Dolly. They searched between Jonah’s house and Schooner Inne. The snow came down thick and heavy. Hedges turned into white snakes, parked cars became white monsters. Michael brushed snow off fire hydrants and garbage cans, as if he thought his little sister had frozen upright at the side of the road.

“When we get home,” said Michael loudly, “we’ll find her with Mrs. Shevvington in the kitchen.”

Or has Dolly already been in the kitchen with Mrs. Shevvington? thought Christina. Is she missing because the Shevvingtons decided she would be?

“Or she was home all along,” said Benjamin. “Hidden in some corner reading a book.”

They liked that idea. The island children ran back to Schooner Inne. They searched Dolly’s and Anya’s room. They went into the closets and up into the cupola. They looked in Christina’s room and under the piles of extra blankets. They went through each guest room, and then the formal rooms downstairs.

Dolly was not in Schooner Inne.

The boys and Christina stood silently in the kitchen, staring at the Shevvingtons.

Even I, thought Christina — and I know how evil they are — even I am waiting for them to be the grown-ups and fix things.

Mrs. Shevvington did not make supper. Mr. Shevvington walked between the back and front doors, opening them, looking around for Dolly. Snow whipped into miniature drifts inside each door.

“Maybe we should call our parents and let them know,” said Benj.

Mr. Shevvington said there was no point worrying them yet.

The snow came down. The temperature dropped. The wind howled.

Christina had thought Dolly was pouting because nobody had cared about her photographs and everybody put Christina first. But Dolly could only pout in front of people: Dolly needed an audience for everything she did. Where could Dolly be — by choice — without a companion or a crowd?

At nine o’clock Michael said, “Maybe we should call the police.”

Mr. Shevvington hesitated. So Michael picked up the phone and called them himself.

They came, asked their questions, and looked through the house themselves, from cupola to cellar. No Dolly. They looked in the Shevvingtons’ cars, in case she had fallen asleep in one of them. Then they said most likely Dolly had finished her hot chocolate at Jonah’s, felt sleepy, and crept into some corner right there and fallen asleep. Off drove the police to search Jonah’s house. It was such a logical, cozy explanation that for a whole half hour Christina felt good: surely Dolly was safe at Jonah’s.

But she was not.

The police came back to Schooner Inne. They wanted a good photograph of Dolly.

Outside the snow fell harder. Is she cold? thought Christina. Is she scared? Is she lonely? Is she hungry?

It’s my fault, thought Christina. I should have let her keep the spotlight. I know she can’t live without it.

Her words rang in her head. Can’t live, can’t live, can’t live.

“Had Dolly been having trouble at school?” asked the police. “Would she have run away?”

But how could Dolly run away? In a village with no bus, train, or taxi? The only place Dolly would go for refuge was Burning Fog Isle, and no boats were on the water in this weather.

“Like many island children,” said Mr. Shevvington sadly, “Dolly had a hard time in school. She was an unhappy little girl.” He managed to imply that it had been immoral of the Jayes to bring up their sons and daughter on Burning Fog Isle. He managed to imply that he and his wife, however, had been doing all they could to cure Dolly of her island upbringing.

“Dolly was not liked,” added Mr. Shevvington. “Her locker was defaced. Her notebooks torn. The sneakers she left in her gym locker were shredded. A child shunned like that, I’m afraid, might reach for a grim and final solution.”

“You’re making that up,” said Christina sharply. “That never happened. If those things had happened, Dolly would have told me.”