A tamarack that rustled in a gusty wind kept slapping the wall of the cabin, directly outside from the corner where Wendy sat near the stove, wrapped in her patchwork quilt. On the other side of the stove, next to the bin of logs, the blond man lay sprawled on a bunk. He was so tall his legs from the knees down hung over the end. Beyond him, out the frosty window, the middle of the lake appeared dark and thick as oil. In the center, like a bull’s-eye rose an island of pale gray boulders. The shoreline all around was fringed in ice.
The man about Tom’s age, with the soft, pretty voice, stood washing a pan. Since they’d arrived, he’d been cleaning things. Mopping the floor and dusting the shelves. Sneezing a lot.
He set down the plate and turned around. Light from the hanging lantern sparkled off his bottle-thick glasses. “Goddam wind,” he said. “Why don’t you get off your can, Tersh, go out and hack down that branch?”
“Shut up. I was just nodding off.”
“Sleep with that noise? Goddam wind, sounds like another lousy storm blowing in. How about this: we get snowed in. Two, three weeks, we’re outta food. What do we do, cook the broad on a spit?”
“Sure,” Tersh muttered. “I get the breast, you take the rump roast.”
“Yeah, and a month goes by without a thaw. Foster’s pal don’t send an expedition to rescue us. With us and the doll starved to death, he saves a bundle. Suppose we already ate her, it’s gotta be you gets cooked up next. You’re twice as meaty as me.”
“Shut up, Bud. What kinda dreams you think I’m gonna have, you talking that way?”
“You? How about the doll?”
Bud turned back to the sinkboard and picked up another dish, while the tall man rolled over, gave Wendy a leer and a wink. “Come on, join me, cutie.” He patted the bunk, beside his hip. “Plenty of room. Hey, Bud, how about she wants some more of that tea, or hotcakes, she’s gotta smooch for it. I mean, she oughta have to pay for her keep. It’s only right.”
“How do you feel about pregnant gals, Tersh?”
“Whatta you mean, how do I feel?”
“I mean do they get you hot, what else? Personally, I think they got a special kinda charm. You ever had one of ’em?”
“Not yet. Maybe soon as I wake up.”
As long as Wendy kept praying, she didn’t get too afraid. Her belly didn’t cramp too hard. The chills didn’t shoot down her arms or legs. Her eyes didn’t blur.
Having already prayed a lot for Tom, baby Clifford, and Claire, she prayed for some people at church, ones she knew were sick or troubled. After those, she prayed for dead people. Her brother, Clifford. Their mama. Their beastly father, who needed forgiveness most of all. For Mr. Poe, whose stories had haunted her since last summer when she chose a book of his from the lending library at Pederson’s store in the village. She often prayed for Mr. Poe, figuring he must’ve dwelt in torment, or else how could he write those things?
She sent off a prayer for the poor lady Tom had gone to rescue. When he learned that his wife and baby were in trouble, Tom might’ve left the poor lady in jail and come speeding to the mountains. Wendy knew Tom was searching, because the third or fourth time she’d asked the men why they’d snatched her, Bud said, “Hey, all I know’s your ol’ man got his nose stuck in somebody’s affairs. And this somebody’s the kind, you tweak his ear, he rips your head off. You wanta win, that’s how you play the game.”
Her mind struck up a hymn. It came loud, as out of a radio.
Far away in the depths of my spirit tonight
rolls a melody sweeter than psalm.
In celestial strains it unceasingly falls
o’er my soul like an infinite calm.
While she listened, she grew deeply sorry because wherever Tom was, he wouldn’t be sleeping very well, because she hadn’t been there to kiss him good night or rub his tight shoulders. He wouldn’t sleep enough, she thought. He’d get too angry. His face would turn red. Blue veins would cross his brow. He might sock the wall—or somebody.
Peace, peace, wonderful peace,
coming down from the father above.
Sweep over my spirit forever I pray,
in fathomless billows of love.
When Tersh began snoring gruffly, Wendy sighed and felt her muscles loosen. He was the one who frightened her, the way he stared icily as if she were a page of numbers he needed to cipher. The way the Nazis used to stare. Ever since she’d gone to Hell, tall blond men most always spooked her.
The tree slapped louder against the wall. She gazed out over the lake to see if the wind had foamed the water, but it still looked flat and oily. Only along the far bank there were spots that gleamed on the ice, as though fishermen had arrived, with lanterns. Except lanterns ought to throw sharper beams. These were soft, as though from a light wrapped in gauze.
She didn’t dare get up to look closer, or else Bud would shout and wake up Tersh, who’d yell and threaten and maybe smack her. Besides, her legs were numb, and one foot was sound asleep. She leaned forward, squinting toward the lights. The center of each beam seemed to hide behind the manzanita that lined the shore, on the bank about five feet up from the waterline.
Her heart thumped so loudly, she wrapped her arms in front of it to muffle the noise. The lights might be campfires, she tried to believe, though they didn’t flicker. It could be Tom out there. Maybe with a gang of Mexicans like the ones that helped him snatch her out of Hell. She counted nine lights along the far shore. They might have the lake surrounded: Tom, and a bunch of Mexicans, and Clifford. Like before.
Her eyes flooded, because Clifford and two of the Mexicans were in heaven. Looking out through her tears, she narrowed her vision to the light straight across the water. It quavered and sent out ripples like the moon did after rain; then it took a shadowy form. First it became a thunderbird—Wendy had seen plenty of those in clouds. Suddenly it changed to an angel, flying sideways, its wings tucked as though for a dive.
Oh, God! Wendy’s heart sang. Maybe Tom had rounded up a gang of angels.