It was well past midnight and still raining hard when Avery finished writing her methods and analysis section. She stood up from her small desk, laced her fingers, stretched them above her head and swiveled her neck back and forth, up and down. She felt stiff and needed to rest. As she meandered into her bedroom and took off her clothes she couldn’t help but notice how empty the bed was without Jake in it.
It was dark. She had forgotten how lonely it was here. Jake had been staying with her since June and she had gotten used to the way his warm body felt next to hers. She glanced over at the chair where his brown flannel shirt lay draped across one of the arms. She walked over to the side of the bed where Jake kept his books on a small table and picked up The Last of the Mohicans.
Avery had never read it. Feeling sorry for herself, she slinked under the cool covers and opened the book. It was written in 1825. She remembered she had read somewhere that William West Durant used characters from this book to name his camps and buildings: Uncas, Sagamore and Chingachook.
She flipped the book open and started to read random passages, hoping to get the gist of the story. The last she read before she dozed off was about the massacre at Fort William.
Pages might yet be written to prove, from this illustrious example, the defects of human excellence; to show how easy it is for generous sentiments, high courtesy, and chivalrous courage to lose their influence beneath the chilling blight of selfishness, and to exhibit to the world a man who was great in all the minor attributes of character, but who was found wanting when it became necessary to prove how much principle is superior to policy. But the task would exceed our prerogatives; and, as history, like love, is so apt to surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness, it is probable that Louis de Saint Veran will be viewed by posterity only as the gallant defender of his country, while his cruel apathy on the shores of the Oswego and of the Horican will be forgotten.
There was a rapping sound like a tree branch hitting the rooftop. Avery bolted upright and glanced at The Last of the Mohicans resting on the bed where she must have left it when she dozed off. Looking around her she tried to discern where the tapping sound was coming from. It was Jake. He was outside in the rain, soaking wet.
“What are you doing out there?” Avery opened the door a crack trying not to let the pelting rain enter the room.
“I just got back from the bar,” Jake mumbled.
“Take your things off outside and come through the front then.”
Jake walked to the front porch and sat on one of the Adirondack chairs. Avery went into the parlor and watched him from the window as he struggled to release one of his boots. He was obviously drunk. The boot gave out a loud clunk as it fell to the floor. He continued to work on the other. Then he slid off his socks, his pants and his shirt. It took twenty minutes.
“Look at you, you’re soaked through to the bone!” Avery scolded and placed a blanket over his shoulders as he walked through the door. “Who were you with tonight?”
“Al. He called Anita, she drove me to Huntington. Tol’ her I was gonna sleep it off in my truck, but decided to walk back here instea’.” He flopped down in one of the chairs in the parlor and grinned.
“How much did you have to drink?”
“I dunno, five maybe six, or nine beers. I los’ track.”
“Good lord, let me get you something warm to drink.” Avery left him dripping in the chair as she went to make coffee.
“Here.” She handed him a mug and sat down beside him.
“Thing is, Avery,” Jake started to say, took a sip of his coffee and stopped. “Vermont sucks.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Vermont, I hate that state. People there wear flannel.”
“Jake, you wear flannel.”
“Yes, but my flannel is not plaid, like they wear in Vermon’. I mean who wears plaid flannel? And they wear those stupid boots.”
“What boots?”
“Ya know, those L.L. Bean boots. They make ‘em there. Like they invented boots or somethin’.”
“I think you mean Maine.”
“I’m talkin’ ‘bout Vermon’.”
“I know, but they invented L.L. Bean boots in Maine.”
Jake shrugged again and waved his hand in the air. “Whatever.”
He took another sip of the coffee. “Thanks for this.” He raised the mug to her, then looked down at it. “The coffee is swirling with the room,” he said. He looked up. “And they have the dumbest ice cream flavors, like Chunky Monkey – who would eat something called Chunky Monkey?”
“Are you talking about Ben and Jerry’s ice cream?”
“Yeah – that.” Jake gesticulated with his mug in the air, slopping coffee onto the floor. “And Burlington sucks.”
“Ok, now you’re really making no sense. You’re being silly and spilling that coffee all over the place. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Avery, you shouldn’t leave. You should stay here with me in the Adirondacks.” Jake looked up at her with intensity.
Avery held her breath.
“Come on, let’s go.” She took the mug out of his hand before he dropped it on the floor, placed it on the side table, took hold of his arms and forced him out of the chair. He started for their bedroom.
“No way buster, not that way. I’m not sleeping with you when you’re this drunk.” She led him to the other bedroom and helped him slide under the covers of the bottom bunk bed.
“Burlington sucks. You should stay here with me. Keep me warm in the winter. It gets really cold here.” Jake rolled over on his side and immediately started to snore.
“It gets cold in Vermont too, Jake,” Avery whispered back.
The next morning Avery woke up early and groggy. Jake’s snoring had rattled the foundations all night long. He had finally quieted down around four am. Figures. She checked to see that he was still breathing and gathered her mist net equipment. “One more time,” she said to herself. “I’m going to catch the little bugger.” And she took off for the White pine where she first found Minnie’s diary.