The Survivors (19 page)

“A few blocks,” Ray says.

“So let's drive,” Sarah says.

“Drive?” Ray asks.

Sarah points to the snowmobile and hands Ray the cracked helmet. “It's the only extra we've got,” she says. Ray puts on the helmet and climbs behind Sarah. His long legs clamp alongside her hips and keep her warm. His arms loop around her waist. Actually, higher—just under her breasts; even with her winter jacket on, she can feel them resting on his arms, and she knows he can feel them, too.

“You told me you were a city girl,” he says in her ear. “Where'd you learn how to drive a snowmobile?”

“I'm a natural,” she says.

“I agree,” he says, and holds her tighter.

Dave's Pizza is warm, cheesy smelling, a bit dim, and totally 1970s with its booths and black-velvet wall art. She follows Ray to a corner booth; they sit across from each other, knees touching.

“Sorry again about Miles,” Ray begins.

Sarah winces. “We told him to be careful. It was his first day with the snowmobile.”

“I've never driven one,” Ray says. “We're kind of a limited-spark-plugs family. My dad says that life is better the fewer the spark plugs you're responsible for. We don't even mow our lawn, which really annoys our neighbors.”

A waitress comes and takes their order. “There's no pepperoni today,” she says before either Ray or Sarah can speak.

“But lots of cheese, right?” Ray asks.

The waitress stares.

Sarah giggles.

“How about sausage?” Ray asks the waitress.

“Yes. But you get it only on small- or medium-sized pies.”

“Okay, we'll have two mediums with extra sausage,” Ray says.

“We don't do extra sausage.”

Sarah holds back another giggle.

“Okay,” Ray says. “Then we'll have three small pizzas.”

“With sausage,” the waitress says; she's totally annoyed with them.

“Yes—if that's okay with you,” he says quickly to Sarah.

“Sure,” Sarah says. “We're all carnivores now.”

The waitress stalks off. And the pizza takes a long time to arrive, which is fine by Sarah. What else does she have to do? They talk about everything. She doesn't know quite when it happened, but they are holding hands across the tabletop. When the pizzas finally come, they're in three boxes—as if the waitress wants them gone.

“Let's eat ours here!” Sarah says, squeezing Ray's hands before she lets go.

“You sure?” Ray says. “You parents might be hungry.”

“Another half hour won't kill them,” she says.

“Well, you're the driver,” Ray answers.

“Yes, I am,” Sarah says, and leans forward to give him a quick kiss.

“Whoa!” Ray says.

It's the best pizza date she has ever had, mainly because it's her first one.

Ray eats quickly, as if he's really hungry—especially for pieces of sausage. “Sorry,” he says, realizing that she's watching. “We don't get much meat, so I kinda pig out when I get a chance.”

“Your parents are vegetarians?” she asks.

“Sort of but not really. They'll eat meat, but they have to know where it comes from. They won't buy any meat that comes from a factory farm—which rules out meat from the supermarkets. We used to have a local farm connection, but that's all screwed up now.”

“Do you eat venison?”

“For sure. A friend of ours was driving, and he saw a car hit and kill this deer. Another car stopped, and the two guys almost had a fight over the dead deer. But my friend got it, threw it in his trunk, took it home, butchered it, and then gave us some. I know roadkill sounds gross, but it was really tasty.”

“If you want more venison, I'll get some for you,” Sarah says. Where that came from she doesn't know; the words just fell from her mouth.

“Do you hunt?” Ray asks with surprise.

“Sure. It's no big deal,” she says with a shrug.

“Sweet,” Ray replies. “You, I mean.”

She blushes, and they hang at Dave's another half hour until Ray says, “We really really should get back to the hospital. My dad will be getting off soon, and your parents will be starving.”

“So you need a ride?” Sarah teases.

“Ah, yes. Please?”

“You have to hold the pizza box.”

“Which means I can't hold on to you?”

“Sorry,” she says.

But Ray figures out how to do both. He wraps his arms around her and holds the pizza on her lap; she wishes his arms were free, like before.

At the emergency room entrance they hurry in with pizza—and her mother jumps up in relief.

“Sorry, it was really busy,” Sarah say.

“Right,” Nat says with a glance at Ray.

“If the pizza is cold, there's a microwave in the little kitchen over there,” Ray says helpfully.

“Any news on Miles?” Sarah asks.

“He does have a concussion, the doctor said.”

Sarah sucks in a breath. “What does that mean?”

“We don't know yet. He can come home, but for sure he's going to have to take it easy—not do anything for a while,” her mother says. Her eyes are serious and slightly scared.

“Don't worry, we can manage,” Sarah says quickly—with a glance toward Ray.

NAPS
.

Lots of naps, between which he reads old Garfield comics. They're the only reading material he brought from home, and they're just right again. Not too many words.

His naps stretch over many days. Naps like bear dens or little caves that he crawls inside. Sometimes he wakes to find Herb O'Keefe, the nurse, talking to him. Examining his ankle.

“How are you doing today, Miles?” O'Keefe asks.

“Great,” Miles answers. Today the annoying Ray O'Keefe is standing behind his father.

“Hey,” Ray says cheerfully.

Miles ignores him. Nat hovers in the background; his father is outside. The main part of the cabin is not big enough for everybody.

“Your dad's out chopping firewood,” Nat says. “Either that or throwing his axe.”

“Cool,” Miles says. He sometimes hears his father's axe:
thoop!
and then
thoop!
again, in a steady rhythm. Once he awoke and mistook the sound for his own heartbeat thudding in the pillow at only a few beats per minute, as if he really was a hibernating bear.

“Miles?” Herb asks.

“Hey,” he says, and refocuses. Best to be as normal and as cheerful as he can around Herb. When he's honest about the headaches and the brain fog, the guy hangs around longer. Asks more questions. Miles is still wearing an ankle cast, though the soft kind with hook-and-pile straps to keep it tight. Using a cane, he has been able to move about the cabin and onto the front porch. He can't ride the snowmobile, chop wood, or hunt—any sudden movements and his headache comes back like a needle poking deep inside his brain. His family has to do all the work now. The guarding, too.

“Christmas was good?” Herb asks, carefully opening the ankle brace.

“I don't remember,” Miles says.

Herb glances sideways to Miles's mother.

“Joke!” Miles says to them.

“Yeah, well …,” his mother says, and trails off. She suddenly looks older—there are gray threads in her hair—and her face is thinner, too.

Herb hasn't laughed either. “So what'd you get?”

“Mean for Christmas?”

Herb nods as he carefully massages Miles's ankle.

“New snowmobile helmet,” he answers. “Sarah's wearing it until I'm back in the saddle.”

“That's the spirit,” Herb says.

Ray clears his throat, then speaks up. “Ah, is Sarah around, by the way?”

“She's outside,” Nat says.

“Fishing. Should be,” Miles says. “Probably in the spear house. Upriver.”

“Don't worry, son, we've got plenty of food,” Nat says.

“I'm here, too, as a backup—I deliver groceries,” Herb says.

“The idea was … we do it ourselves,” Miles says, turning to his mother.

“But you have friends now,” Herb explains. “Our family is happy to help yours.”

“Don't need help!” Miles exclaims, then squints from a sudden arrow of pain inside his head.

“Please—come lie down, Miles,” his mother calls; he lets her help him into the kids' bedroom. There, in the cool semidarkness, he pulls a blanket over himself and concentrates on thinking nothing at all. Beyond the thin, wooden wall his mother and Herb murmur.

“—should see a neuropsychologist,” Herb says. “There's a good one I know who rotates through our hospital.”

His mother says something Miles can't make out.

“Some tests would probably give us a better idea of what he needs,” Herb says.

“—needs more rehab than staying quiet in a dark room,” she says.

“I agree. I'm not a doctor,” Herb says, “but Miles has symptoms in common with people who have migraines. Bright lights, sudden movement, major changes in temperature—all those things can trigger the headache.”

“But what if it's more than just a headache?” His mother's voice falters at the end.

“Well, that's what we need to find out,” Herb says.

There's a long pause. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?” Nat says. “That, at least, I know how to do.”

There's a pause. “Sure,” Herb says. “Ray and Sarah probably won't mind.”

“Yes, those two,” Nat answers in a what-can-I-say voice.

There's silence, during which Miles drifts off. He blinks awake only seconds later—at least he believes it to be seconds.

“—chopping and splitting wood with his axe. He's gotten quite good at it,” Nat says. Her voice has changed; it's like some time has passed. “For Artie, it's something concrete.”

“Caregiving is concrete,” Herb says. “You just can't see the results like you can with a stack of firewood.”

“Could you drive Miles to town?” his mother says. “I mean, when we get an appointment?”

“Sure. I'll check the doctors' schedules tomorrow,” Herb says. The conversation continues about the weather, the climate predictions (more sunshine all the time). Yeah, right! Coffee cups clink, and then there are thumping sounds as his father returns with wood. A blast of cold air from outdoors. Clank of the stove door, squeak of the damper inside the stovepipe. Adult talk continues. There is a fine line between brain damage and boredom, so Miles allows himself another little nap.

BRUSH, WHO'S IN THE LITTLE
spear house with Sarah, lifts his head from the thin floorboards.

“What?” Sarah says.

He growls—a low rumble.

“It's just ice noise,” Sarah says. “Don't worry about it.” They are upriver from the cabin, in a bay where the ice is thicker and safer. The cramped, dark house is situated at the edge of the wild rice bed, where northern pike cruise, looking for baitfish. She works her red-and-white decoy fish in the water below. The glowing hole is like a television in the floor but with a blank screen. A luminous, pale square of light. A spear (Mr. Kurz's) leans against her right shoulder, and its retrieve cord is tied to the wall. The skinny iron rod, about four feet long, ends in a wide hand of five sharp tines. She keeps the spear close by the open hole in the ice, which is a smooth, glowing, blue-white slab about a foot deep. She's ready but has seen no fish.

The only entertainment is the talking ice—intermittent groans, ripping and booming noises that used to scare her, but now she understands them. It's not the ice breaking; it's the ice growing. Thickening. Getting stronger. In the last few days, when the temperature has fallen to twenty below zero, she has had to chip away several inches of new ice in order to keep the spear hole open. Fish are skittish during loud ice days; even minnows flinch and dart away when the ice speaks.

Inside the tiny shack it is dark except for a candle for a bit of warmth; Brush is the spear house heater. She couldn't stand the cold in here if not for his big body. He's gotten mostly used to her—though not to anybody else. He'll never be a house pet, but he makes a good spear house dog.

He's restless, however; he cocks his good ear—and growls again. He sits up, and soon Sarah hears footsteps crunch on snow, growing louder as they approach. Her left hand goes to the shotgun in the corner; her right hand goes to the little sliding peephole board.