WINTER BREAKS WEIRDLY EARLY, at the end of February. The news is all about the clearing skies and return to “travel as normal”; though the restricted-movement law is still in place, no one is enforcing it. Which is good, because they are leaving for Birch Bay.
The first stop is at Ray’s house to borrow the O’Keefes’ van for the trip south.
“Are you sure you can get by without your car for a while?” Nat asks them.
“For sure,” Herb says.
“It’s good practice in being car free,” Mrs. O’Keefe adds. She’s a tall, slightly wild-haired woman who smells of patchouli oil; she has the same dark eyes and liveliness as Ray.
Ray and Sarah are standing glued together like branches from the same tree. She has been all weepy lately, as if it’s finally dawning on her that she won’t be seeing Ray every day of her life.
“But what about Mr. Kurz’s cabin?” Sarah says, as if that would change things.
“It’s not going anywhere,” Miles says.
“I’ll check on it once in a while,” Herb says. “Maybe even try some fishing.”
“And if it doesn’t work out at Birch Bay, we’ll come back,” Nat says.
“It will work out,” Artie says.
They all look at him.
“But how will we get their van back?” Sarah asks; it’s as if she’s grasping at straws, trying to find some way to stay closer to Ray.
“Herb and I have that figured out,” Artie says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What about your snowmobile?” Sarah says to Miles.
“Back to Old But Gold,” Miles says.
There is silence; Sarah has run out of reasons to stay.
“You’ll be careful, right?” Herb says to Artie as they shake hands. “No crazy stuff?”
“No crazy stuff,” Artie says.
Sarah leans her head on Ray’s shoulder. He looks as if he might cry, too.
“That’s enough, you two,” Nat says. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Sarah pooches out her lower lip as if she is nine years old.
“Are you sure Sarah wouldn’t like to stay here?” Mrs. O’Keefe says. “We’d be happy to look after her.”
“I don’t think so,” Nat says immediately, with a glance at Ray. “It’s a family thing,” she adds in a softer tone. “We need to be together.”
And, minutes later, they are rolling out of Bemidji as Sarah sobs in the rear seat.
Miles rolls his eyes. His mother puts a finger to her lips. “Just let her vent,” she whispers.
“Puppy love,” Miles says.
“Shut up, Miles!” Sarah says.
Artie drives. Not fast so as to attract attention, but not slowly either. Miles rides shotgun—literally. The twelve gauge, loaded, rests loosely across his lap, and the traffic is very light and free-flowing. He glances at his father, who sits ramrod straight in the seat, with both hands on the wheel. He keeps his eyeballs moving—checking the mirrors, the sides of the road, behind them—on full alert. Miles allows himself to lean back in the seat and let his own eyelids slip shut. His father is a different guy than the last time they arrived at Birch Bay....
Soon, through the trees, we saw the brown roofline. Then the glint of window glass and the coppery log front of the cabin. But in the yard everything was changed. We drew up to stare.
A car, a late-model sedan, sat parked on the side and covered with ash.
Other stuff that he can’t pull back. But he lets it go, moves on with his dream, fragmented bits of his memory.
Another older car, without wheels, sat halfway into the trees. A large, shiny Harley perched on the porch … wooden steps, which looked chewed and splintered.
… Behind the house came the chak sound of an axe splitting wood. Some kind of animal went “baa!” … Only the lake was the same. Gull Lake sparkled—as always—in the sunlight.
“What the hell is going on here!” my mother yelled. She stalked forward.
“Wait. Nat! Go carefully!” my father said.
But that only made my mother pick up her pace.... After all, it was our cabin.
The house smelled of cooking, garlic.... A couple of small children were playing cars and dolls on the stone floor … normal-looking little kids in summer clothes … rushed away . . calling, “Momma! Daddy!”
… shirtless, pale and out of shape … “What are you doing in our house?” Sarah said.
The man swallowed and looked behind him. A woman holding a baby appeared.... ordinary mother.
“Your house?” the woman said. Something caught in her voice.
“That’s right,” my mother said. “I’m Natalie Newell, this is my family, and you’re in our cabin.”
“Listen,” the man began, stammering slightly. “I’m Rick and this is my wife, Ruth....”
“We could care less who you are,” Sarah said, her voice getting hysterical. “Get out!”
The man’s wife, Ruth, did not smile. “… knew this would happen.”
“We’ve been here for nearly a year,” he said, as if that was supposed to explain everything.
“And now it’s time for you and your family to leave,” my mother said....
“Things are different now....”
“Yes, that’s right, different,” his wife murmured.
“Hey—what the hell’s going on?” a louder voice boomed … large man … wore a black T-shirt that covered his big chest but not his round belly … bandana held back long stringy hair. His full beard was peppered with sawdust, and he held an axe.
Alongside him appeared another woman who was dressed like him—they looked like a biker couple … wood chips on her black, sleeveless T-shirt.
“So the absentee owners finally appear,” the man said with a grin.
… All of us looked at each other; nobody spoke. By now the children, including two more for a total of five, peeked out from behind the adults.
“… get the sheriff,” my mother said. She looked to my father.
The dream comes into sharper focus now. Like a jerky movie playing in his head.
The woman holding the baby spoke up. “The sheriff is my brother....”
My mother stared.
“… said it was all right for us to stay here. We’re from Chicago, and we couldn’t stay there, not in the city, not with the children, so we came here,” she continued in a rush. “You don’t know how bad things were—”
“That’s enough,” her husband said.
“Things is different nowadays,” Danny added. “The rules have changed.”
“And who are you?” my mother asked, turning to the biker.
“Me and Sheila, we’re the real squatters,” big Danny said. He had teeth missing on top. “We were here first, and then Rick and Ruth came along with their three kids and we took them in.”
“You took them in?” my mother said, her voice rising.
“That’s right,” the big man said easily. “A nice big place like this, just sitting empty—hell, there was room for two families.”
My mother narrowed her eyes in her I’m-counting-to-ten mode.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said to the people in our cabin. “I don’t care if the sheriff is your uncle, your brother, or the Pope. I suggest you start packing.”
… “Daddy do we have to leave again?” one of the children whimpered.
“Shhh!” Ruth said.
… “Tell you what,” my father said.... “There’s no rush here—as long as we all understand what needs to be done.”
… We walked down the steps … and back up the driveway. It was like we were zombies. Sarah blurted. “They just can’t take our cabin. People can’t do that!”
… “Let’s give them some time,” my father said.
Miles jerks awake—grabs for his gun.
“All good,” his father says quickly as the van rolls along. He pats Miles on the arm.
They pass the campground where they stayed the night after the squatters drove them off, then in another half hour they arrive in Walker. The Dairy Queen is still closed for the winter. He tracks it with his eyes as they pass.
“Too bad!” Sarah says to Miles. “You were hoping that girl would be working.”
“What girl?” Miles asks.
“The one who flirted with you when we stopped for ice cream,” Sarah says. She’s slumped in her seat but at least is paying attention to where they are.
“Girl?” Miles scratches his head in fake puzzlement. Art and Nat look at him with concern.
“The one with big brown eyes who was, like, way out of your league,” Sarah adds.
“Oh, that one,” Miles says.
Then it’s south through the pine forest and lake country on Highway 371, and after forty minutes Artie signals and turns into a motel parking lot. It’s a local, indie type of motel with a 1950s front and a few older “cabinettes” behind. Each numbered door has a dusty truck or car parked up close; at least half have flat tires, and some have curtains over the windows or newspaper taped to the glass.
“Where are we?” Sarah asks quickly; she has been dozing again.
“The Bradford Inn,” Nat says. “I called ahead just to make sure we have a place to stay tonight. You know, in case …”
“I’ll be right back,” Artie says with a nod to Miles to stay with the van.
As they wait, they look at the shabby motel.
“The Bradford Inn,” Miles says in a fake radio announcer’s voice, “your best choice for a fun-filled family vacation.”
“Right,” Sarah says.
Artie comes out of the office. “We’re set,” he says. “At the Bradford Inn, cash is king.”
“So we have a room reserved?” Sarah asks.
“Actually, a little cabinette,” Artie says, nodding to the rear.
“They look smaller than Mr. Kurz’s place,” Sarah says.
“But they do have running water,” Nat says. “Right?”
Artie nods as he accelerates down the highway. “But don’t get your hopes up for staying at the Bradford. Tonight we’ll be back in our own place.”
Miles shoots a sidelong glance at his mother, who looks scared.
In another twenty minutes they turn off the highway and start to wind along Gull Lake, which is mostly hidden through the trees. Every driveway has a gate or a chain across it, along with at least one NO TRESPASSING! or POSTED—KEEP OUT sign. Miles’s stomach tightens—and so does his grip on the shotgun—as they near the narrow, curving driveway to Birch Bay.
Artie glances in the rearview mirror, then slows to a stop on the road by the old mailbox they know so well.
A chain lies limp across the driveway. In thin snow, a single dark motorcycle track crosses the downed chain.
“Damn,” Artie breathes.
“They’re still here,” Miles says.
Sarah swallows. “Now what?” she asks.
“Let’s just turn around and go,” Nat says.
“But Danny’s not around—at least not at the moment,” Miles says.
“How do you know?” Nat asks.
“The chain is down, and there’s his track,” Miles replies; he glances behind, down the narrow road.
“Which means he’s coming back,” Nat says.
“Exactly,” Art and Miles say at the same time.
“The chain!” Art says to Miles—who throws him a thumbs-up sign.
“I’m there,” Miles says.
It takes them only minutes to get ready, to set their trap. Danny has had the chain strung between two oak trees, one on either side of the road, but two small trees—one pine, one aspen—are perfect: They are small enough to give, to bend, plus they are closer to the driveway entrance. Danny will be slowing but still rolling along nicely. With that the chain will suddenly be pulled tight and motorcycle high.
“I don’t know about this,” Nat says. “You don’t want to kill him.”
“It’s not going to kill him,” Miles says.
“I think it’s brilliant,” Sarah says.
“Guess you’re outvoted,” Miles says to his mother.
“So what do I do?” Nat asks.
“And me?” Sarah adds.
“You two are backups,” Artie says. “If Miles and I screw up and he sees us, your job is to get us out of here.”
“Shoot a couple of rounds in the air, then come driving up fast,” Miles says.
“We can do that,” Sarah says, glancing at her mom.
Nat swallows. “I just don’t want you getting hurt!” she breathes. She’s white-faced.
“Not to worry,” Miles says.
“We’ll have the side door of the van open,” Sarah adds. “In case you have to dive in.”
“Now you’re talking,” Miles says.
“Okay, tell me where to park,” Nat says, sliding behind the wheel.
“Up ahead just around the corner. Be turned around so you’re ready to roll,” Miles says.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be ready,” Sarah says as she lifts her shotgun.
They wait less than an hour for the rumble of a Harley. Artie signals to Miles, who ducks lower behind a tree trunk. He and his father crouch out of sight and have the chain ready to jerk Danny’s bike.
Miles’s heartbeat is thrash-punk fast by the time Danny comes into view on his long-forked bike. He gears down once, then again as he nears the driveway entrance. Swiveling his head, he looks suspiciously at the van parked up the road at the same time as he turns into the driveway.
Artie and Miles yank the chain upward and give each end a quick loop around a small tree. The chain spans the driveway chest high. Danny is looking to the side and never sees the chain, which clangs on his bike handlebars, then catches him in the chest and strips him off the Harley like an invisible hand swatting a fly.
Thoomp! goes Danny on his back onto the frozen ground; his bike rolls on crazily into some brush, where it tips over, roars briefly, then dies.
Miles and Artie hurry forward. Miles holds his shotgun on Danny just in case, but the biker lies on the ground gasping for air.
“Are you alive?” Artie asks as he crouches over him.
Danny makes noises and lifts his arms one at a time to make sure they work. “Not sure.” He groans.
“Too bad,” Artie says.
Danny blinks and blinks as if he can’t place his attackers.
“The Newells?” Art says. “We live here, remember?”
Miles puts the muzzle of his shotgun in Danny’s face; the biker’s eyes go crossed as the steel eye closes in on his forehead.
“Don’t shoot me!” Danny groans. “I’m injured. I think I broke some ribs.”
“It might be better to put you out of your misery,” Artie says. He looks at Miles, who shrugs as if that would be simpler.
“Please,” Danny says. “We’ll pack up! We was thinking about leaving soon anyway.”
At that moment the van with Nat and Sarah comes up fast and skids to a stop.
“The rest of the Newell family,” Art says as Sarah and Nat hurriedly get out.
Sarah stands over Danny. “You remember me, don’t you?” she asks.
He looks at her blankly.
“Well, I remember you!” She kicks his leg.
“Oww!” Danny says.
“Sarah, what’s wrong with you!” Nat calls, and pulls her backward.
“My sister, Sarah,” Miles says to Danny with a shrug. “You don’t mess with her these days.”
“I need to sit up.” Danny groans.
They drag him upright and over to a tree; legs outstretched, he slumps back against the trunk. His narrow, snake-like eyes fall on Miles’s shotgun.
“That ain’t the gun I gave you,” he says.
“I needed something with more stopping power,” Miles says.
Danny’s gaze flickers back and forth between the Newells. “You was just a bunch of city folks the last time I saw you. Now you’re all gunned up. What do you think you’re gonna do, shoot me?” he says to Miles. A hint of scorn creeps back into his voice.
“We don’t necessarily need guns,” Artie says. He produces his shiny trimming axe, turns to face a tree, and throws it end over end. Thunk!—the axehead buries itself in the wood.
Danny’s eyes widen.
“So here’s the deal,” Artie says as he retrieves his axe. “We’re going to go down to the cabin and have a talk. Your job is to tell everyone that you’re all leaving—today.”
“We got nowhere to go!” Danny says. He is not so injured that he doesn’t try for sympathy.
“Yes, you do,” Artie says, stepping forward.
Danny looks suspiciously at him.
“Do you know the Bradford Inn up on Highway 371?”
“Yeah,” Danny says sullenly.
“That’s where you’re going. There’s a cabinette waiting for you,” Artie says. “It’s reserved in our name, but you can have it.”
“I ain’t got money to rent no cabin,” Danny says.
“We’ve already paid for two weeks. That’ll give you time to figure out your next move.”
Danny narrows his eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“Because we’re not you,” Sarah answers.