A personal messenger hand delivered the envelope to Mars. He could feel the two keys even before breaking the seal. The keys looked identical, but one was marked Lodge, and the other was marked Beck Cottage.
Karen’s note was detailed: directions to the lodge (estimated driving time, five to six hours, depending on road conditions), recommendations as to the best places to stop on the route, a name and phone number for the caretaker who maintained the property year-round, a drawing of the compound with the lodge and Beck cottage marked, and a list of equipment available should they need it. Karen had ended the note by wishing them a good trip, then added in a hastily written postscript, “I’m sure there’s no problem your going into the Becks’ cottage as we do own it. Out of consideration, though, I know I can count on you not to disturb things.”
It was the opportunity to get close to a private side of the Beck family that Mars had found irresistible in Karen’s offer of the use of the Pogue’s lodge on Lake Guelph. As it happened, the timing was good. Chris would be off school for Christmas vacation in less than two weeks, then would leave with Denise to go to her parents’ farm for Christmas. So it would be good to have some time together to compensate for the time Chris would be away.
Their plans changed when Chris asked to bring his best
friend, James Ziemer. Mars felt immediate disappointment that he wouldn’t have the time alone with Chris. From the first, the time they spent together in the car had been an ideal venue for talks about everything going on in their lives. They’d begin in silence, with no pressure to talk, and let their thoughts lead them wherever. It was time that was particularly important to Mars as Chris’s schedule grew increasingly crowded with preteen activities, and Chris’s social life drew him away from the intense intimacy of his relationship with Mars. Intellectually, Mars understood the need for this shift. Emotionally, he missed the time when he had been the center of Chris’s universe.
But the trip up North would be a good chance to include a friend in Chris and Mars’s plans which, given Mars’s living arrangements in a small studio apartment in one of Minneapolis’s least desirable neighborhoods, didn’t often present itself. So he agreed, and Mars found himself looking forward to the trip. There was a sense of freedom that came with a road trip that he didn’t get much in daily routine. And not only would he have an opportunity for a close look at the Beck cottage, but he’d be occupied while Nettie pinned down information he needed to go forward with the Beck investigation.
Top of his list was finding a cryptographer to take a look at the number on Beck’s arm. Second, he’d asked Nettie to start tracking down sources for the noose Beck had used to hang himself. And he’d given Nettie a list of people to contact regarding times they’d be available to talk to Mars about Frank Beck. Finally, with a little luck, they might have a response to their request regarding deaths in the five-state region where the Beck number was found on the deceased’s body. Mars still couldn’t say he had a basis for suspecting there might be deaths with related circumstances. But numbers that had no discernible connection to the victim and no meaning to the victim’s survivors had to mean something to somebody. Why else would the perp take the trouble to leave the numbers on the body?
He went down to the Homicide Division first thing on Friday morning to get some work done before leaving to pick up Chris and James. Around nine, looking at his watch, he decided to make two phone calls he’d been putting off.
The first was to Joey Beck. In one sense Mars was pleased to be able to tell Joey that his father’s death would be investigated. But there was a fine balance that needed to be maintained in communicating this information. Odds were still on Frank Beck’s death being a suicide. The last thing Mars wanted was to raise Joey’s hopes only to expose him to more disappointment. Mars decided the best approach was to be specific: to say that he would be looking into three or four questions that were unanswered and to avoid the general statement that a homicide investigation was being opened.
The second call would be difficult for opposite reasons. Mona Beck, from all reports, wanted her husband’s death behind her. She would not, Mars guessed, be pleased to hear there would be more questions. But she needed to be told and telling her would also give Mars the opportunity to let her know he’d be going into the cottage the Becks had owned on Lake Guelph. Doing that would leave Mars with a clear conscience—and, if done properly, a clear legal path for anything he might find in the cottage.
As it happened, Joey Beck wasn’t in. Mars left a crisp message which defied optimism on the part of the recipient. As an afterthought, he reminded Joey Beck that any suggestions on people who might have a motive to murder his father were welcome. Then he dialed Mona Beck.
“Yes?”
Not Hello but Yes? Sharp. Unwelcoming.
“Mrs. Beck, I’m Special Detective Marshall Bahr of the Minneapolis Police Department.”
“Yes?” Still sharp, but now wary as well.
“Mrs. Beck, I wanted you to be aware that one or two questions
have been raised regarding your husband’s death last—”
“Oh, please. Can’t we just leave this alone? What possible questions can there be about a death in these circumstances? We need to get past this. And agonizing endlessly over what happened isn’t going to help anyone.”
“I understand your concern, Mrs. Beck. My feeling is that if we can answer a few outstanding questions it will help everybody concerned get past the death. And we wouldn’t be proceeding unless we felt there was a basis for raising additional questions. I’ll do everything I can to make your involvement as painless as possible. For now, I just felt you needed to know we were proceeding …”
“Whatever. Just keep me out of it. And don’t get my son Joey’s hopes up. This is the last thing he needs.”
“I’ll do everything I can to keep Joey’s expectations balanced. But I will need to talk to you at some point in the future, Mrs. Beck. My partner will be calling you to set something up.”
“I’m not going to be available for the rest of this week.”
The perfect segue. “I’ll be out of town myself. As a matter of fact, I’m going to be up at Lake Guelph using a friend’s lodge for the weekend.” He hesitated. The silence on her end of the line got heavier, but she wasn’t going to bite. “I understand you used to own a cottage in the same compound …”
“The cottage was sold to Ted and Karen Pogue a few weeks ago.”
“That was my understanding. Mrs. Beck, would you object to my just taking a walk through the cottage? It would be helpful for me to be familiar with places your husband—”
“I told you. The cottage no longer belongs to us … to me. You’d have to ask Ted and Karen about going in.”
“It’s my understanding some of your personal belongings are still in the cottage, so I just wanted to be sure you wouldn’t have any objection to my just taking a look around.”
She sighed. “I’ll say it once more. It’s not up to me to give permission for something that isn’t mine.”
It was nearly 11:00 A.M. before the three of them turned north on Interstate 35. A trip up North in December was a dice roll, but after getting more than a foot of snow the previous week, the five-day forecast for northeastern Minnesota was for clear, cold weather.
Peering at the map, James said, “We going into the Boundary Waters?”
“Near the Boundary Waters,” Mars said. “The lodge is just off the Echo Trail that runs north of Ely. The trail is more or less between the east and west sections of the Boundary Waters.” He smiled to himself. He’d asked the same question of Karen. She’d snorted in response. “Ted own property on federal land, where he’s not in control? Fat chance.”
“So if it’s not in the Boundary Waters, we could ride snowmobiles?” James stared up at Mars with passionate hope, his wild red hair looking electrified with expectation.
“Karen’s note didn’t say anything about snowmobiles—so even if there are snowmobiles there, we don’t have permission to use them.” Mars glanced down at James. “Even with permission, James, you on a snowmobile is more than I’m willing to take on.”
James smiled, pleased at this tribute to his essential wickedness.
They were headed toward Two Harbors when James said, “I need to pee really bad.”
“You’re going to have to hold it,” Mars said. “Next pee stop is Two Harbors.”
“If I wait till then it’ll be Three Harbors,” James said, which caused both boys to erupt in laughter. James clutched his crotch with both hands, gasping for breath. He crossed his legs and groaned. “How much longer?”
“Maybe half an hour. There’s a grocery store just the other side of town where we can pick up what we need, and
a gas station just across the street from the grocery.” Mars said. “You guys start thinking about what you want from the grocery store so we can get in and out fast.”
Chris took the lead at the grocery store. Being his mother’s son, he was passionate about getting good deals. And he cared more about food and cooking than anyone Mars knew. Where that came from was one of the mysteries of genetics. Denise cooked out of cans and boxes. Mars was a twenty-four-pack-of-Coca-Cola-covers-it kind of guy. But since learning cooking basics in Cub Scouts, Chris had progressed to being the kind of grocery shopper who knew what season of the year was best for buying avocados and when you should use plum tomatoes instead of regular tomatoes. He had strong feelings about the difference between Alaskan salmon and salmon from Norway. And he could get really upset that the blueberry season was so short.
It was dark by the time they reached Highway 2 and headed northeast toward Ely. Behind them, Two Harbors’s lights glittered along the lake, but in the moonless night, the lake was an invisible black void.
The road to Ely was narrow and tree lined. For the most part, the road was clear, but there was the occasional patch of ice, particularly at sharp curves in the road where blowing wind accumulated packed snow. And more than once a deer leaped from the dark to run across the road in front of the car. Mars relaxed a little when they reached the east end of Ely. Rather than turning left to go into town, they turned right, following Route 21 for a short distance, then turning left again to the Echo Trail.
After a slow drive on the Echo Trail, which was plowed but icy, they approached the intersection that was the checkpoint for the last three-quarters of a mile to the lodge gate. Harold Ivings, the property caretaker, had said he’d be in his pickup outside the gate waiting for them at 6:30 P.M. Mars saw the taillights before he could see the outline of the truck.
He flashed his headlights, and then saw a plume of exhaust shoot out of the truck as Ivings signaled a left turn into a driveway across the road.
There was a tall black-iron fence all along the property line. The double gate swung open as Ivings approached, which told Mars it operated on a remote control. Ivings idled beyond the gate until Mars drove through, after which the gate swung shut behind them.
“Cool!” James said, on his knees in the front seat, looking backward. Chris was sitting far forward, his chin on the back of Mars’s seat. Ahead of them, small lights set along the roadside at ground level illuminated their route. They drove for minutes along the narrow road, trees right up to the road and arching bare branches above. Then the road opened into a clearing with good-sized log structures balanced along each side of the clearing. At the far end of the clearing and near a broad, white expanse that must have been Lake Guelph sat a massive log building. There were lights on inside the structure. Smoke was coming from the chimney. The lodge, Mars thought.
Ivings led them directly to the front of the lodge. He jumped out of his truck and walked stiff legged back to their car. Mars was a little stiff himself as he got out of the car and offered his hand to Ivings.
“Marshall Bahr. My son, Chris,” Mars pointed at the backseat, “and his friend James Ziemer. Appreciate your coming out to let us in.”
“Part of the deal,” Ivings said. “You go on in, and I’ll bring your things. Then I’ll take you around, show you what’s what.”
Stepping into the front hall, it was obvious that considerable trouble had been taken to make them welcome. A fire burned in the massive stone fireplace that covered one wall in a great room. Lights were on throughout the downstairs and the floors and furniture shone with fresh polish.
The lodge itself was classic log architecture. The ceiling in the great room must have been twenty feet high, with a railed walkway running around the upper nine feet or so of the room. A massive wood staircase led from the entry hall
to the upstairs. There was heavy, hand-built log furniture throughout the downstairs, all upholstered with large, comfortable cushions. The furniture looked like it had been specially designed for the house.
Chris and James stood motionless in the entry hall, jaws slack. After a moment, Chris said, “Oh, man.”
Ivings looked pleased at their response. “A fine old house, this one. Not many like it around anymore. Bigger than it needs to be, of course. But a real work of art in its own way. You fellas come on out to the kitchen. My wife was up here to clean and put the linens out, and she made cocoa and left cookies for you. Thought you might be peckish after your drive.”
They all sat around a broad pine table in the center of the kitchen. The kitchen was probably twice the square footage of Mars’s studio apartment. Ivings still had on his parka and a lined cap with ear flaps tied on top. Mars suggested he take his coat off, but Ivings shook his head. “Get you settled and I’ve gotta be getting back.” But he continued to sit, seeming to enjoy their company.
James said, “These are the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever eaten. You know what I hate? Oatmeal cookies. You know what else I hate? People who give you fruit for dessert. My gramma will do that. Like an apple is as good as a hot fudge sundae.” James chewed ferociously, a cookie in each hand, alternating bites.
Mars looked at Ivings. “Anything else I need to know?”
Reluctantly, Ivings stood. “Couple things I should show you, if you’ve got the time now.”
As they left the table, Chris stood up and held out his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Ivings. Tell your wife we really like the cookies.”
Harold Ivings looked closely at Chris, then took Chris’s hand in both of his, shaking it gently. “My pleasure. And I can’t tell you how happy it will make my wife to hear you liked the cookies.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot,” James said, spitting cookie crumbs. “We may need more before we go.”
“Ignore him,” Mars said.
Ivings walked Mars through the lodge’s mechanical systems in the basement, all of which had been updated to state-of-the-art equipment. Mars hadn’t the heart to tell Ivings that he didn’t understand a word Ivings had said. More than that, Mars didn’t want to understand anything Ivings said. If Mars had one burning personal ambition it was to live his life without ever repairing anything. With Ivings, it was clear that the possibility of fixing a complicated piece of equipment was what made getting up in the morning worth doing.
“That red-haired kid. He’s gonna make a few waves before he’s through.” Ivings spoke as they walked from the basement of the lodge out a door that led away from the house toward the lake. His voice was amplified in the silent, dark night by the heavy cushion of snow all around them.
“My thoughts exactly,” Mars said. “There are some real likable qualities about James, once you get to know him. But I’d have to say the older he gets the more he worries me.”
“Well, there are those that just have to push all the limits before they’re done. I daresay that red-haired kid will do more than his share of pushing. Your boy, now. Nice manners, real thoughtful boy.”
Mars felt a rush of gratitude and pleasure that always came when others saw Chris the same way he did. Those emotions were quickly replaced by a false modesty that Mars put on partly out of natural temperament and partly as a talisman against bad luck.
“Well, I suppose spending time with James makes me appreciate Chris more. Not to say Chris doesn’t have his moments, especially as he’s getting older. He’s pretty stubborn.”
Ivings stopped, taking hold of Mars’s arm. “Watch yourself here. There’s a pretty steep slope just ahead.”
They half walked, half slid down the path that led to the skating cove on the lake. The snow had been cleared from the ice, clearly delineating the perfect oval surrounded by snow-covered trees.
“You’ve taken too much trouble,” Mars said, looking at the smooth shine of the ice.
“Doesn’t take a minute to clear the snow. Ice always freezes perfect here. Sheltered the way it is. And there’s a level granite bottom in the cove which makes a difference. That, and it’s not more than six, seven feet deep. And it got real cold, real fast. Ideal for a smooth surface. Cold as it’s been, it’s darn near frozen solid to the rock.”
Ivings turned and walked Mars over to the far end of the cove. “We’ve got a little warming hut here, and there’s a stone hearth for a fire right over there. We’ve stocked wood on the other side of the hut, and at the back of the hut we’ve got the snowshoes and toboggans. I haven’t had a chance to get a toboggan run built. Didn’t know till day before yesterday anyone was coming up. When the folks used to come up here with little kids, I’d build a run from up there”—he pointed up toward the crest of the slope they’d just walked down—“directly down to the ice.” His other arm reached out, pointing down to the pond. “Then we’d build a bunker the other end of the ice to stop the sled. Soon as the sled hits the ice, it spins like crazy. More fun than anything your boys have done before, I can assure you.”
“This is all just wonderful,” Mars said. “And building the toboggan slide is just the kind of thing Chris likes. We’ll get at it first thing in the morning.”
“Best way to do it, to my mind—especially when you’ve got this much fresh snow—is shovel down to maybe six, eight inches of snow. Then spray that down with a bit of hot water. Up at the lodge, in the utility room, my wife’s got some big spray bottles she uses for ironing. Doesn’t take much, couple bottlefuls in this weather will do fine. Just make sure the water’s real hot when you fill the bottles.”
Ivings left after they walked back to the lodge. They shook hands as Ivings climbed into his truck.
“Don’t hesitate to call if you have any problems.” He gave a wave as he headed back out toward the main road.
By the time Mars got back into the lodge, it was after eight o’clock. He could hear the boys upstairs. In a moment, Chris appeared at the head of the staircase.
“Dad! Bunk beds!”
James slid in his stocking feet to Chris’s side. “I get the top.”
It occurred to Mars that one of the things that clearly separated children from adults was a passion for bunk beds in general and the top bunk bed in particular. He looked at his watch. “Guys, it’s getting late. I’m thinking that cooking out tonight isn’t a great idea. Especially given all the cookies and cocoa you’ve had. I’m thinking maybe roast hot dogs in the fireplace downstairs, and call it a day.”
“I got bratwurst,” Chris said. “Hot dogs are gross.”
They made an early night of it after dinner. In his upstairs room, Mars took out the small, hand-drawn map of the compound that Karen had given him. He went to the window and compared the map to his view. In a moment he’d pinpointed the Beck cottage. It was nearest the lake, set back a bit in the woods. It was frustrating to be this close without yet having gone into the cottage, but Mars was tired. And he was reluctant to leave the boys alone in the lodge for what might be a long time. Going through the Beck’s cottage would have to wait until tomorrow, probably after the toboggan run got built.
Chris was up before six. Mars heard him come out of his room, then head down the stairs. By the time Mars had showered and gone downstairs, Chris had squeezed orange juice and was making omelettes. He’d placed a glass full of ice and a can of Coca-Cola at Mars’s place on the table. Kind of pathetic when your kid knows that much about your personal vices.
“James still asleep?”
Chris made a face. “He didn’t go to sleep until really late.
He probably won’t get up for another couple hours.” Chris turned toward Mars. “We don’t have to wait for him to start the toboggan run, do we?”
Mars shook his head. “Will he have enough sense to eat something when he gets up?”
“He’ll eat Fruit Loops,” Chris said. “That’s all he ever eats for breakfast.”
It was a brilliant morning, with a cold sun and deep blue sky. As they stepped out of the lodge, onto the porch, the full beauty of the site—obscured by night on their arrival—took their breath away. “Wow,” Chris said. “How much do you think a place like this costs, Dad?”
“Not more than, maybe, four-five times what I’ll earn in a lifetime. Not counting what it costs to maintain the place and pay taxes.”
“So more than we could afford, huh.” Chris’s voice was wistful.
“A bunch more than we can afford. But we’re smart. We have friends who can afford it and who are generous enough to let us use it. Best of all possible worlds.”
According to the outdoor thermometer, it was eleven degrees below zero. The absence of wind and the brilliant sun disguised that fact at first. But Mars had no doubt after being out for a few minutes, and especially before they started working on the run, that they’d feel the cold.
If there was anything that gave Mars more satisfaction than watching Chris when Chris was fully engaged in a project, Mars didn’t know what it was. To begin, Chris never started a project without thinking it through. Mars described what Ivings had recommended while Chris listened, nodding slowly. Then Chris walked to the top of the hill, scoping out the best path for the run. He spent several minutes in the hut, considering what shovels would work best. And when they started shoveling, Chris shoveled more than his share, paying careful attention to keeping the snow level. When they’d cleared the run from the crest of the hill to the cove, Chris turned, looking back up the hill.
“You know what might be really good?” His face was
pink from exertion. They were both long past the cold that had penetrated their parkas before shoveling had begun. Chris unzipped the top of his parka and pushed his hood back. His dark hair was matted with perspiration against his forehead. “Maybe we should build, like, a little bump at the middle, so when the toboggan comes down, it’ll hit the bump and fly up some.”
They had just finished spraying down the run—which immediately froze into a glistening surface—when James came out of the lodge. James’s jacket was open, he had no hat on his head, no mittens on his hands.
“Can we slide yet?”
“You don’t slide anytime until you get properly dressed,” Mars said. Grimacing, James slogged back to the lodge. Chris and Mars took the toboggan to the top of the run for its maiden voyage. Even allowing for the fact that the first slide wouldn’t be the best—that each successive slide would make the run smoother and faster—Ivings had got it just right. It was more fun than anything either of them had ever done before.
They lay on the ice laughing with exhilaration after the sled had come to a final stop, having spun maybe a dozen times on the slick ice before butting softly against the snow bunker.
From the hill they heard James yelling, “Hey, I wanted to go down first.”
Chris looked up, and saw James about to come down the run. At full throttle he shouted, “Stay off the goddamn fucking run, you idiot! It’s not solid yet!” Then, sheepishly, he turned to Mars.
Mars grinned. A couple years earlier Chris’s use of profanity had prompted the two of them to work out a set of rules for when it was wrong to swear. Rule number one had been that it was wrong to use any word—swear word or not—without thinking carefully about what you wanted to say. Rule number two was that using a swear word to get attention was bad. And rule number three was that using any word too much was not acceptable. When either of them broke one of the three rules, the other would just say, “Number one,” or “Number two,” or
“Number three.” If the number wasn’t called, the other judged the use of the swear word to be okay.
Without speaking, Mars got up from the ice and started to brush himself off. At which point his feet promptly went out from under him on the glare ice, and he fell with a thud. “Jesus Fucking Christ!” he said, lying on his back. Then they both laughed too hard to say anything for minutes.
James came barreling down the hill toward them. “C’ mon, you guys. I wanna slide, get up! Get the toboggan back up the hill.” As he hit the ice, he fell hard. “Fuck!”
Finally gaining enough composure and traction to get the toboggan off the ice, they started back up the hill. James ran ahead of them. “Whoever slides has to take the sled back up,” he said.
The second slide, with James’s extra weight, and the run getting set, was awesome. They all lay on the ice for maybe five minutes after the slide to catch their breath. And to figure out how to get up without falling down.
“You shoulda put more bumps on the run,” James said. “They’re the best.”
Chris and Mars turned their heads on the ice to look at one another, each rolling their eyes. “I’m thinking,” Mars said, “we’re going to pour water on the run, lay you on it till you freeze, then run the toboggan over your body a couple times.”
“Very funny,” James said.
After a couple more slides, Mars left the boys on their own. He went back to the lodge to get the key to the Beck cottage, then walked across the clearing and back into the woods to the cottage. He was feeling chilled, having gotten warm and sweaty while they’d tobogganed. The heat of exercise didn’t last long in the deep cold.
His fingers numb, he fumbled with the key. He couldn’t get the lock to open. He unzipped his parka and crisscrossed his arms across his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits. He waited, stomping his feet on the porch to stay warm. The cottage was more shaded than the other cottages and the
cold was biting. After a couple of minutes, he tried again. The key went in, but it didn’t turn the lock.
Damn. He looked at the key to make sure it was the Beck cottage key. Which it was. He walked across the porch, trying windows. All were locked—as one would expect in a property maintained by Harold Ivings. He walked off the porch and around to the back. Maybe there was a back door lock the key would fit. There was a back door, but once again the key failed to turn the lock.
At this point Mars was seriously cold. He jumped his way through snow back to the lodge to consider his next move in front of a warm fire. Ivings had said to call if there were any problems, but Mars hated to bother him. It would also be awkward to explain why he should be allowed to go into the Beck cottage. On the other hand, the idea of going back without having gotten into the cottage was totally unacceptable.
Reluctantly, he dialed Ivings’s number on his cell phone. Mrs. Ivings answered and explained Harold would be out until that evening. Was there anything she could do? Mars declined, although it was possible she’d have a key to the Beck cottage. He didn’t want to attempt an explanation of why he needed to get into the Beck cottage more than once. He said he’d call again in the morning and hung up.
All of this was making the Beck cottage seem more important to the investigation than it had any real possibility of being. Knowing that did nothing to ease Mars’s sense of frustration.
After a lunch of canned soup and peanut butter sandwiches—acceptable to Chris only because exercise and cold had made him too hungry to complain—the boys sat with Mars in front of the fire.
“Can we skate this afternoon?” Chris said.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Mars said.
“We should build a fire in the pit, first,” James said, “so we don’t freeze to death.”
Give the kid credit for a good idea. “A better plan,” Mars said.
“Dad? Can we stay up late tonight to watch the Geminid meteor showers? Our teacher said we should look to the northwest after midnight.”
Mars winced. The only idea that held much appeal for him at the moment was a nap in front of the fire. The idea of being awake, in the dead of night, out in the cold, wasn’t very appealing.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not.”
“There’s a big pile of sleeping bags in the closet in our room,” Chris said. “And there’re some of those lounge chairs in the hut down by the pond. You know, the kind made out of metal tubes and plastic strips?”
“I know the kind of lounge chairs made out of metal tubes and plastic strips. What I’m having some difficulty with is figuring out how watching the Geminids, sleeping bags, and lounge chairs made out of metal tubes and plastic strips are related.”
“What we could do is dig, like, nests, in the snow. Set the chairs up in the nests, put our sleeping bags on the chairs, then get into the sleeping bags. It’d be a perfect position for watching the sky, and it’d be warm, too.”
“That,” Mars said, “is a real plan.”
Before the boys went out to skate, Chris went into the kitchen to start a beef stew in a slow cooker for dinner. Mars and James fell asleep in front of the fire, waking up when Chris stood before them in his parka, holding his and James’s skates by their laces. His face was furrowed in displeasure.
“James, you should have gone down and started the fire. I called you from the kitchen fifteen minutes ago.”
James sat up, yawning. He rubbed the top of his head. “Didn’t hear you.” He reached out for his skates. “I’ m gonna put my skates on in here.”
“You’re going to put your skates on out on the porch,” Mars said. “You’re not going to trek across the wood floors in here on your skate blades.”
It had been years since Mars had gone ice skating, and he couldn’t remember ever liking it much. But he bundled up again, volunteering to be fire builder and sideline sitter.
This turned out to be good duty. There was something profoundly comforting about sitting in front of a blazing fire in the midst of a deep freeze. Even his frustration over the key-that-didn’t-work melted away. And both the boys were good skaters, fun to watch. James was probably better than Chris. His impetuousness and loopy grace served him well on the ice. They skated until sundown, then made the trek back up the hill to the lodge. On opening the front door, they were engulfed by the joint pleasures of warmth and the aroma of beef stew.
After eating, Chris said, “For dessert we’re gonna make s’mores while we’re watching the Geminids.”
The three of them tried to nap again before going out at midnight, but the afternoon’s nap had taken the edge off their sleepiness. Around ten-thirty they started gathering sleeping bags, getting bundled up, and putting marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars into paper bags.
Within forty-five minutes they were set up down by the lake, inside their sleeping bags, eating s’mores on the reclining lounge chairs. The soft warmth of the sleeping bags in combination with the late hour made them all a little dopey, and their conversation was lackadaisical and disjointed. All three of them had fixed their eyes on the skies, almost forgetting to blink.
Suddenly, James shouted, “Moneymoneymoneymoney!”
“Where?” Chris said, sitting up.
“Over there,” James said, still encased in his sleeping bag, tipping his whole body to the left to point.
“Saying your wish out loud means you won’t get what you wished for,” Chris said.
“Nah,” James said. “That’s blowing out birthday candles. You can say shooting-star wishes out loud.”
“I’m not going to say my wish out loud,” Chris said.
“That way I can be sure.” He dug around in his sleeping bag and pulled out a notebook and pencil. Holding the pencil clumsily in his thick glove, he spoke as he printed. “First sighting at …” He shoved the sleeve of his parka up and pushed the dial to illuminate his wrist watch. “Eleven oh three. In the …” He looked up at the sky, toward where James had pointed. As he looked up, a double shooting star flashed from the west to the eastern horizon.
“Dogdogdogdog!” Chris shouted.
“You said it out loud!” James crowed in triumph.
“You want a dog?” Mars asked.
Chris continued to stare up at the sky. “Mom says no way. Too dirty.”
There was nothing Mars could say in response, but he felt bile rising in his throat. A clean kitchen floor should not be more important than rewarding a kid who deserved to be rewarded.
“If your mom won’t let you get a dog, you shoulda wished ‘Diediediedie.’” James said.
“That’s not funny,” Chris said.
Eventually even the sleeping bags didn’t protect them against the intense cold and none of them had the will to get out of his sleeping bag, trek over to the hut for more wood and rebuild the fire. Instead, they packed up their gear and went back to the lodge. It was after one o’clock, but they weren’t quite ripe for bed. Chris sat down at the dining room table and reviewed his notebook record of meteor sightings. James asked to build a fire in the fireplace, and Mars went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate.
When he came out of the kitchen with the mugs, both boys were sound asleep in their sleeping bags in front of the fireplace.