Thin Ice (8 page)

There were five of them: Mr. and Mrs. Drummond; Al; Mrs. Rutledge, the school counselor; and John Abrahms, our family lawyer. They’d arrived together, walking across the street from the Drummonds’ as a group. The orphan committee.

They sat and faced me in the living room, sort of the way I’d always imagined a drug intervention would go. There was a girl at school who’d been through that. All these people came and confronted her, forcing her to admit she was chemically dependent and spiraling down the drain. We love you, so we’ll stay and harass you until you admit you’re screwing up your life.

That’s what this was, a life intervention. I let Mrs. Rutledge hug me, and I nodded to John. He was another of Scott’s buddies. He’d helped me with ArdenArt legalities and he took care of the taxes. “Sign here, Arden”—that was our relationship. I folded my hands. I’d sign nothing tonight.

Obviously they’d brought Mrs. Rutledge to be the mouth. I’d known her all my school life. She’d been my first- and third-grade teacher; then she’d gone to the middle school as counselor when I went to sixth grade; then she went to the high school just as I entered ninth grade. “The heart of the town has gone out to you,” she
said as an
opener when we were all seated.

I made a face. The most recent nightmare had focused on that particular organ of my brother’s.

She held her hands up. “You’re right, sentiment isn’t what we’re here for.”

She went on, talking about the people who cared about my future, how my brother had cared, why he’d made arrangements. She gave John his shot. He synopsized the will Scott had written years ago, slowing down to explain the guardianship. Then he talked about money—where it was, how much I had, what would be available, what would be tied up while settling the estate.

“Financially,” he said cheerfully, “you’re just fine.”

With sleep-droopy eyes, I faced him. His smile died as he read my mind; Otherwise, I’m in the dump.

Mrs. Rutledge started another speech, and I halted her with my hand. “What has to happen for me to be alone, legally?”

“An application for emancipation,” said John. “A judge would rule.”

“That’s what I want”

“You can’t be alone—”

“I
am
alone,” I snapped. “My parents died in a jungle and my brother is at the bottom of a river and I am in this house and I am alone.” I turned to the Drummonds. “This isn’t against you, Mr. and Mrs. D.”

Mr. Drummond tapped his fingers on his knee. “Clear enough to me, Arden. You’ve lost your parents, you’ve just lost your brother, and now you want to keep your home.”

“Exactly. Thank you.” John frowned. Mrs. Rutledge folded her hands. “Can’t I even try to make it on my own?”

They all looked at each other, except for Al, who was staring at his feet, the position he’d been in all night. I wasn’t sure why they’d brought him. Maybe to reinforce Scott’s wishes, to be the best friend who knew what the deceased really wanted.

He raised his head and looked straight at me. “Scott was hoping you’d get to art school, see the world,” he said. “He hoped you would do all the things he didn’t do.”

Yes, I’d guessed right.

“So for his sake, if they let you have your way, don’t fuck up.”

Mrs. Drummond inhaled sharply, her husband crossed his legs, John glanced at Mrs. Drummond, embarrassed for her. Mrs. Rutledge, a veteran school counselor used to a wide vocabulary, nodded.

“Any application for emancipation would be subject to evaluation,” she said, “and we’d all have input. You’d have to show you were taking responsibility for yourself.”

“In other words, you’d be watching.”

“For your own good.”

“We may as well give her a chance,” Al said. His sharp tone caught my attention and made me wonder if he too was wrestling with dreams. I thought back to all the summer nights when he and Scott worked on the ’Cuda in the garage, laughing, putting away a few beers. More than once I’d heard Al coaxing Scott to get a snowmobile, making slightly dirty jokes about the thrill of the ride between his legs. Maybe he was blaming himself.

“If she wants to be alone so bad,” Al said, “let her try it. Geez, she’ll be eighteen in a year anyway.”

They all murmured, Good point, yes, yes.

Mrs. Rutledge looked around. “Trial period of a month, shall we say?”

“A
month
?”
I screeched. I wouldn’t have the house cleaned in a month.

“End of the school year,” said Mr. Drummond.

John tidied up the stack of papers, tapping them sharply against the briefcase. “Unless there’s even the slightest indication that we need to step in earlier.” They all turned to me grimly.

“Then,” said Mrs. Drummond, “we tie the purse strings”—John nodded—“and get tough.”

For my own good.

“I need to think,” I said, and stood up. “Why don’t we call it quits for now? Would anyone like something to eat? There’s lots.”

They all rose, John dropping papers off his lap. “Will you come into the office and sign things?” he asked. “We need to get the names straight on the accounts, figure out some sort of an allowance. And would it be okay if I took a look at Scott’s desk and the computer? I need to make sure I have all the financial records.”

I shrugged. “Help yourself.”

“There’s one more thing.”

I massaged my forehead. Stop it, stop it, stop it

“Walt Lorenzo told me to tell you that he’ll need Scott’s truck back.”

I looked at him. They’re hammering at my life and he wants to talk about the truck?

“It was leased on an employee program. Fortunately, the Honda is yours, right?”

I nodded as they all started discussing other things: the will, bank accounts, mutual funds, cars, insurance, our lawn service.

John saw that I wasn’t tracking. “It never fails to make me feel like a goon, but I always have to tell clients that death uncovers a lot of details.”

They all murmured, Yes, yes, so many things.

Details. That moment I felt more alone than ever. I was swimming in a nightmare while everyone else had moved on to details.

* * *

While John searched the study and Scott’s room for financial records, Mrs. Rutledge, Al, and Mrs. D. moved on to the kitchen for tea. Mr. Drummond followed, then paused in the doorway. “She brought you some manicotti,” he said. “She’ll probably start making double batches of everything.”

“I don’t need it.”

“She needs to do it. Arden, it’s not very far to our house,” he said, “but I know it could be the longest walk you ever make.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I think you will be. But if there’s ever a time you don’t feel fine, even if it’s just for one bad night, you come on over. Open door, Arden.”

It was Saturday, and he hadn’t shaved. There was a dark grainy stubble on his chin, probably scratchy and rough to the touch. Had my father ever not shaved on the weekend? Had he ever worn baggy sweaters and paint-stained jeans? Did my mother hum when she worked in the kitchen? Did we ever eat manicotti?

I’d never know, would I? All the answers to all the questions had disappeared through thin ice.

CHAPTER 21

There was enough manicotti for a dozen orphans. I’d never eat it, especially as about all I had eaten since I’d moved home was saltines and peanut butter. Penokee was still in funeral mode and people kept bringing things, so I had plenty of fancy cookies and elaborate hot dishes and bright gelatin salads. Absolutely no one brought me saltines and peanut butter.

I pulled the tray with the pasta tubes off a refrigerator shelf and held it until the cold metal numbed my hand. Then I put it back and reached for the milk. I opened the cardboard spout and a sour smell floated up.

A responsible person, I decided, does not drink sour milk. I’d have to remember this, in case the orphan committee made another visit and checked my refrigerator.

The parking lot of Penokee’s only grocery store was packed. No way was I going to wind my way through the crush of people who were shopping because there was nothing else to do on a Saturday afternoon. I drove on to the nearest c-store.

I was leaning into the cooler, trying to rearrange milk cartons and get one of the freshest ones from the back, when I sensed someone behind me. I clamped down on a quart of skim and backed up.

When I straightened and turned, I was facing a beautiful woman. A sad, beautiful woman. I’d seen her once before, at my party.

“Arden?”

I’d had my head in the cooler and my butt in the air, but my brother’s girlfriend had recognized me. “Claire?”

She nodded, then looked behind her. A small girl peeked out. “This is Hannah.” She leaned over and whispered in her daughter’s ear. The girl and I exchanged stares.

I cradled my milk carton. “I was kind of wondering if I’d ever meet you.”

“I should have come by. I…wasn’t up to it. I sent flowers.”

“They were nice. Azaleas. Thanks.” Suddenly I flashed on another responsibility: thank-you notes, something the orphan committee would certainly be checking. All that food, all those flowers—gawd, I’d be writing notes for weeks.

Claire reached behind her back and patted Hannah. The girl—five, six, how do you tell?—took a giant sideways step and faced me. “That’s bad about Scott,” she said before hiding again behind her mother.

The doorbell jangled, announcing another customer. Glad for the diversion, Claire and I turned and looked as four boys entered the store.

“Two at a time!” the clerk shouted, and pointed to a hand-lettered sign on the front window. Two of the boys turned and waited outside, pressing their faces against the window and smearing it. Their friends pushed past us on the way to the soda cooler. One of them nodded: Taylor Hawkes, a tolerable sophomore.

“Hey, Arden.”

“Taylor.”

He pulled a bottle of Mountain Dew from the cooler and twisted the cap.

“Are you going to pay for that?” asked Hannah.

“Should I?”

She hid again.

Taylor lifted some chips off a rack. “Party at Rachel’s,” he said to me. “Six o’clock, her parents are going to Duluth to a concert” He bent down to face Hannah. “You can come too.”

“I was supposed to have a party,” Hannah said after he left. Claire went limp. “It was my birthday and I was going to have a party. Scott was going to come. But then he got drowned and Mom said I couldn’t have the party.”

Claire opened a cooler and quickly grabbed some milk. Two percent, a whole gallon, staples for two.

I crouched down to Hannah’s size and met her face-to-face. “Do you like manicotti?”

CHAPTER 22

“Why can’t they find his body?” I was feeding the woman; she could give me answers. “If they can recover bodies from an ocean, why not a river?”

With her fork, Claire made tracks in the red sauce on her plate. “This was good.”

“My neighbor was an official Betty Crocker Homemaker of Tomorrow when she was in high school. I’d never heard of such a thing, but her daughters insist it’s for real. She’s also an electrical engineer and teaches at the technical college.”

Claire smiled. “I wonder if all engineers are naturally good cooks.”

“Good at following recipes, I bet. Why can’t they find him, Claire?” Her wide blue eyes bored down. They were milky blue and rimmed in long lashes, probably the very thing that enchanted my brother. She sighed and her chest heaved.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t the eyes.

They sure didn’t charm me. All I could see in them was yet another adult measuring my competence and wondering, What can Arden handle?

She wiped a bit of sauce with her finger, then licked. “They may never find him. If he hasn’t been recovered by the spring melt, the chances are good he won’t be.”

“Why?”

Hannah’s soft voice floated in from the living room; she was singing along with the theme to
Doug.
Good, she’d be hooked for at least thirty minutes.

“The current will get too strong and the water will be too high. Either the body will be carried all the way to Lake Superior or it will be snagged someplace. If it’s snagged in an underwater rock hole or crevice, it could be stuck until it decomposes. Or, if it’s in a surface snag, well, either way it’s vulnerable to scavengers.”

Like fish.

“What exactly do you suppose happened that night, Claire? Have you thought about it?”

This time her eyes didn’t measure; instead, they practically spat out judgment: Dumb question. “Of course I’ve thought about it Thought about how I spent hours that night trying to pretend it was no big deal that this guy I was involved with hadn’t shown up for dinner. I’ve thought about what would have happened if I’d sucked down my pride and called the tavern or called here earlier. I’ve thought about the last time I saw him and how we argued about his stupid new sled. Have I thought about it?
Obsessed
might be a better word.”

“Me too. Mostly I think about the phone machine and how things might be different if he or I had turned it on that day. Usually we do. I know you called. I didn’t answer because I was in the tub.” Soaking safely in hot water while my brother thrashed and died in cold. “And I wonder sometimes how long he held on before slipping in. That’s almost the worst—thinking of him trying to get out, and struggling, then…” We both digested that horror in silence. Claire kept playing with her fork and the smear of marinara sauce on her plate.