Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (2 page)

“How do you cook?”

“The wood stove has a cook top and a baking box on the side of it.  There is also a coil wrapped around the stove pipe to heat water.  It goes into a copper holding tank on the back side.  That means you get hot showers.  That’s my favorite upgrade so far.”

“Nice!  But seriously, no microwave, no refrigerator, no stove?  How soon can you come back for me?”

“You’re a spoiled kid!  Roughing it a little for a few weeks will be good for you.  The cabin will give you a quiet place where you can think and get some writing done.”

“Yeah, I guess.  Can you cut that to just two weeks?”

“I’ll try.  It will depend on the storm.  If it hammers the coast, my guys will be straight out working on the clean-up.  I promise the max will be three weeks.  I packed in enough supplies for two easy months.  Through the winter, I plan to escape up here as much as I can.”

“Is the weather a problem when you’re getting in and out?”

“A harsh winter could make it a bit harder, but I can grab one of my trucks with a plow blade on the front.  And once I’m up there I have an ATV to run the trails.”

“How do you heat it?”

“It’s a wood stove.  I cheated this week and had the wood delivered.  It’s already split and ready to burn.  Next year I plan to clear out some dead trees on my land up there and use it.  Maybe I’ll even put on a bigger solar panel.”

“Can you get a signal for your cell phone up there?”

“Not at the cabin, but I don’t mind being out of touch for a day or two.  It’s a bonus for you,” he smiled.  “Your agent can’t hound you there.”

“True,” I agreed.  “He won’t know where to find me.”

“You didn’t tell him where you were going?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.  My accountant knows I was thinking about a trip to Maine if I could get a bus or train ticket.  I think its better they don’t know, and I won’t have that added pressure.”

“When was your last vacation away from all of that?”

“I don’t remember.  Maybe the threat of this storm is a blessing in disguise.”

“Maybe,” John agreed.  “My land is posted, no hunting, but it is still deer season.  My hunting rifle is at home; I don’t have time for a hunting trip right now.  In the loft bedroom, you’ll find my shotgun.  It’s a .22 and there is a box of bird shot there.”

“I’d forgotten about the loft,” I murmured.

“It does make a nice bedroom.  I like the idea of looking down on the floor at the front of the cabin.  You can see the front door and window from up there.  It’s a great tactical advantage to be up there in the shadows with my weapon.”

“Are unwanted night-time visitors a big problem there?” I asked apprehensively.

“No, but it’s good to be prepared.”

“Did you replace those awful stairs?”

“Not yet.  It’s on my list of stuff to get to soon.”

“Whoever made those stairs must have been drunk when he measured the steps.  They are far too narrow.  Every step is spaced differently and there is no railing along the open side of it.”

“Okay, so there is no railing, but the other side is against the wall.”

“Yeah and you need to lean toward the wall coming down again.”

“It’s not that bad,” he disputed.

“Then my memory has failed me because I remember them being risky.”

“Your memory has failed.  You retain too much of the negatives and forget the good stuff.”

“I’m just a realist.”

“Yeah, okay!” he laughed and fumbled with the radio buttons.

*

We stopped at a diner in Skowhegan for supper around 6:00 PM.  After a hearty, home-style meal, we continued north.  More than five hours later, John woke me from my dreamless sleep.  I remembered being awake when we passed through the Millinocket area, but had drifted off after the lights of the town were gone. 

John shut off the truck and stepped out into the chilly night air.  I was surprised by the cold.  Digging through my bags, I pulled out my jacket.  John didn’t seem to notice as he hefted several boxes.  With a large duffle bag strapped to his back, he walked away from the truck.

“How far are we from the cabin?” I shouted after him.

“This way!” he called back, moving quickly on long legs.

Hurriedly, I grabbed my gear and followed as he climbed around the end of a massive tree that had fallen across the end of the road.  The wide path quickly narrowed and was soon nothing more than a walking trail.  In places the trees above blotted out the moon and stars, and the light they provided.  I slowed to keep from tripping over tree roots and debris on the forest floor, and then hurried to catch up to John again.

“Do you have a flashlight?” I shouted.  Something small scurried through a pile of dry leaves, and my heart beat a bit faster.

“I don’t need one,” John replied.

“I do!”

“Your eyes will adjust.  Stay behind me and keep up.”

“It’s dark out here,” I objected.  “Do you think its cold enough to snow tonight?”

“Yes, but there is no snow in the forecast.”

“Is it too late to change my mind about all of this?”

“Yes!” he roared.

Approximately six inches shorter than my older brother, who topped off at 6’4”, I had to double step to stay with him.  He stepped over a large rock on the path, and I tripped on it.  Off balance with the bags hanging from my shoulders, I banged into a tree and nearly fell face first on the ground.  I stumbled to stand again before John noticed.

“Let’s go!” he barked and moved through a dark stand of pine trees.  I followed him into the gloomy space.  The feeling of apprehension was growing.  I felt as if we were being watched.  I wanted nothing more than to run back to John’s truck and head south again.  Even going north would have been fine, anywhere away from the cabin.  It was ridiculous, but I suddenly felt afraid of the old place.

When we emerged from the murky copse of old pine trees, I saw the cabin illuminated by the moon.  The sense of foreboding left my stomach churning.  I remembered feeling the same sensation twenty years earlier when John and I stayed there for the summer with Jimmy and his uncle.  The feeling of trepidation increased with each step.  Like the eight year-old boy I had been, I desperately wanted to confide in John and convince him to take me home again.  My fear of disappointing John kept me silent. 

“You still back there?” he asked.  I could hear the strength and confidence in his voice.  I envied him that.  In the woods, facing a moose or bear his conviction never wavered.  He sailed on his boat with great swells rocking it perilously on stormy waters.  I was certain that John had never truly been afraid of anything.  I was grateful that he would be staying through the night.

“I’m here,” I responded, hustling to catch up again and wishing I had been blessed with John’s long legs. 

John stepped up onto the weathered porch and opened the door.  The wood planks groaned as he stepped over the threshold.  He flipped the light switch, and I smiled involuntarily.  Light was equated with safety and warmth.  It chased away the shadows and provided comfort.  Ahh, let there be light.

“The solar panel was a good idea,” I announced, excitedly.

“Remember, there is only enough for the lights and the pump for the well,” he reminded me.  “If we have a sunny spell you might get enough to charge your laptop too.  I know you use it to write.”

I nodded, smiling appreciatively.  Pen and paper slowed down the process for me.  My laptop was in my bag, and it was good to know I would be able to use it during my stay.

“Ahh the wood stove,” I observed, sniffing the scent of charred wood in the air.

“You’ll learn to love it when the place is toasty,” he replied and lowered the boxes onto the dinner table to the right.  He moved to the stove and began building a fire.

Hesitantly, I closed the door.  With my back to the wall, I let my bags slipped down to rest in a pile.  My eyes wandered to the left where a sitting area had been created from an odd mix of old furniture.  I exhaled a white plume and tilted my head back.  I studied the loft area above, fearful that I would see movement among the shadows.

“What the hell, Erik!” John shouted.  “Are you just going to stand there?  I’d like to sleep tonight too.”

“Sorry!  What do you need me to do?” I asked, startled from my thoughts.

“Bring in a load of firewood.  One of us has to make another trip back to the truck too.”

“Okay, I’ll get the wood,” I offered and rushed outside.  The idea of another walk along the path between the pine trees made me cringe. 

The carefully stacked woodpile stood close to an old shed, back away from the cabin.  I grabbed an armful and strode back inside.  Alone in the old place, I stacked the logs neatly near the stove.  As the room warmed slowly, the eerie feeling began to fade.  Clearly, my imagination had been working overtime.

John returned with another load of boxes and bags.  In an hour, things were in order, and we climbed the steep, uneven stairs to the loft.  John had removed the old twin beds that had been there and the mice that had called them home.  He put in a single queen size bed.  There was little space left around the big bed, but it made it a cozy space.  With my hands on the railing, I looked down on the floor below.

“I just saw something move down there,” I told him.

“No, you didn’t,” he disagreed.  “I got rid of the mice and treated the wood with peppermint oil.  You won’t find any more nasty little critters in here.”

“Why peppermint oil?”

“They don’t like it,” he answered, distracted by his shotgun as he inspected it.

“Well, I did see something.”

“You’re tired, Erik.  When you’re tired, your imagination works overtime.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Okay, then go down and find out what is moving and tell it to stop,” he told me, with little interest.  He snapped a shell into his shot gun and placed it back into the tight space behind the small, square table.

“Grab that corner,” John instructed as we made up the bed with fresh sheets.  I hadn’t shared the same bed with my brother in twenty years.  Although there were a few ladies who occasionally shared my bed in the city, few remained through the night.  Restless sleepers make bad sleeping companions.  I warned John about it, and he advised me to keep it in check or move downstairs to the old couch.  I hoped my body would comply.

*

I opened my eyes to blinding sunlight.  The window in the loft faced east, and it flooded with light at dawn.  Squinting against the glare, I rolled over and pulled the blanket up over my face.  Slowly, I realized that the bed was empty.  I flipped the quilt back, shielding my eyes.  The loft was warm, and I smelled bacon, coffee, and cinnamon in the air. 

John had been up for some time.  He had already filled the wood box near the stove, killed something in the woods, and prepared a big breakfast for us.  As I descended the stairs, he stood at the kitchen sink, gutting a woodland creature.  I grimaced at the bloody, brown fur and offal on the large cutting board.

“Do I have to boil water and fill and old wash tub to get a bath?” I asked.

“No,” he chuckled.  “I told you there is a coil that winds around the stove pipe.  It heats the water and stores it in the copper tank behind it.  You can take a hot shower, but if you take too long you’ll be down to just the cold water.”     

We ate breakfast together at the small dining table in front of the window.  The sky had dulled from the cold blue to a faded gray as the sun disappeared.  More clouds moved in, and a light rain started to fall.  John turned on the weather radio, and we listened to the droning voice from NOAA as new warnings were issued.  Hurricane Rosemary was continuing up the Atlantic coast, and she had Maine in her sights.

John stayed through the morning and roasted the rabbit in a Dutch oven on top of the wood stove.  I’d forgotten what a good cook he was.  I had idolized my big brother for as long as I could remember.  In all the years I’d known him, he had never disappointed me.

He was eager to leave and get back to Scarborough.  He needed to make sure his guys were on top of things as the storm approached.  With his sense of responsibility, he wouldn’t be satisfied with managing matters by second hand.  He needed to be there.  Whatever the hurricane would throw at him, he would handle it and come out on top.

“I’ll be back in three weeks!” John declared as he slung his bag over his right shoulder.

“Two weeks,” I disputed.

“Three,” he turned the door knob.  “If this storm is a direct hit on the coast I will be too busy to get away in the next week or two.  Besides, you need time to get your head right, Erik.  I know you have another great book in there,” he announced and rapped his knuckles against my forehead.

“I don’t think I have enough supplies for three weeks.”

“You do, trust me.  I bought enough to last and there is stuff already down in the root cellar.  You’ll be fine.  If you decide you want something fresh, the shotgun is upstairs.  Just be careful, you don’t have a hunting license.”