Page 26 of The Last Stars in the Sky
She snuggles back into me, and it makes my heart sing—such an unexpected joy in a time like this, and one I both savor and marvel at. Neither of us speak, but the silence feels comfortable, contented even, if only for a little while. I can live in this moment, or almost, and not think about Daniel. Sam. My brother and sister, mymother. The whole world…
So maybe I can’t live in this moment, after all. My mind is racing again, down blind alleys, coming up against dead ends, making my heart pound and my eyes sting. There are no answers.
Mattie wriggles away from me again. “So, can we go to Corville?” she asks.
“Maybe,” I say, but I’m pretty sure I mean yes, and judging by her small, catlike smile, Mattie knows it, as well.
The next morning, I wake up early, mainly because I’m cold. Without Daniel’s solid warmth in bed next to me, the freezing air penetrates; I had stretched out a leg and encountered an empty expanse of icy sheet that woke me up, even though it was just a little past dawn, feeling lonelier than ever.
Even though it’s barely light out, I can already tell it’s going to be a beautiful day. There is a clarity to the air that promises dazzling sunlight and deep blue skies. Already the lake is glinting like a mirror as the mist clears away; there is a thick dusting of snow on the ground, maybe an inch. Gazing out at all that beauty, I’m reminded of when I first brought Daniel here, back when we were around twenty. We met in college, became friends in our freshman year, then began dating as sophomores. He came that spring break with a few of my other friends, ostensibly to help my parents make maple syrup, but really all we did was sit around and play cards, take a few walks.
The cottage was in prime, wintry beauty, everything softened by snow; it lay heaped on the boughs of evergreens like mounded icing, the lake a stretch of snow-covered smoothness, the sky the same deep, piercing blue it is today. Daniel shook hands with my mother and father and then turned to the picture window, his mouth dropping open, his eyes creasing in delight as he took in the view.
“Isn’t itbeautiful,” he exclaimed, so sincerely that for some reason we all laughed, Daniel last of all, a little abashed.
Twenty-three years later, I can’t believe he’s gone. That I don’t know when I’ll see him again, if ever. That I’m the one who made him go.
I pull on some extra layers and head out to the living room to do the usual morning chores, already becoming normal, routine—build up the fire, start the stove, boil water for coffee. The coffee machine doesn’t work, of course, and so I’ve been making it in a pot on the stove and then pouring it through a fine-mesh sieve. It seems to do the trick. I’m conscious that coffee is a precious commodity; we have the five two-pound bags I bought last week, and an unopened five-pound vat of Folger’s that expired five years ago. After that, no more morning coffee, I guess.
I haven’t really thought about what will happen when the food runs out; I’m still clinging to the hope—the belief—that some kind of normal life will be restored before that occurs, especially now we’ve added Darlene and Kerry’s small stash of food to ours.As long as we’re careful, I think, but I’m not even sure what careful looks like, especially since I have no idea how long we have to be careful for.
“That smells good.”
I turn to see Kerry coming into the kitchen, her hair in a bedhead mess about her face, her arms wrapped around her wiry body. She looks a little more approachable than she did yesterday, and yet I’m still, I realize, a little intimidated by her. There is something tough about her—the pink-tipped hair, the ropey muscles of her arms, a tattoo on one wrist of a bird in flight. The way her expression always settles into something between a challenge and a sneer. Is it a form of self-defense, or is it just the way she is? Will I come to know her well enough to find out?
I deferred to her all yesterday evening, relying on her expertise about everything—at least the expertise I assumed she had. I asked her where the chickens should go, whether, without a chicken coop, they needed to be inside—she looked at me like I was an idiot, and I probably was.
“Just put them somewhere sheltered,” she said, as if it were obvious, but I didn’t know what that actually meant. Inside? Outside? Under trees? I ended up locking them in the pump house; we’ll have to build some kind of coop at some point, I guess.
“Do you want some coffee?” I ask now, and she nods. I fetch two cups. “How’s your mom?”
Kerry shrugs. “She seems okay. She’s sleeping.”
“Do you think she had a heart attack?” I ask. “I mean, actually?”
Another shrug. I hand her a cup of coffee, and she wraps her hands around it. “I don’t know. She had something. Her heart’s been bad for a while.” A pause. “Thank you for the nitroglycerin.”
“Oh. Well.” I’m embarrassed because we both know I was reluctant to give it to her. “We don’t even need it, so…”
“You might one day.”
I try to smile. “I hope not.”
We both subside into silence, sipping our coffee as the sun rises and the first streaks of light filter through the kitchen window. “I recognize,” I say after a moment, awkwardly, “that I’m a real newbie here. I feel like I grew up at the cottage in a lot of ways, but I didn’t, not really.” Kerry looks at me over the rim of her coffee mug, saying nothing. “I could use some advice,” I continue, the words heartfelt yet sounding stilted. “About, you know, surviving. How to, um, live off the land. Hunt. Grow things. And stuff like that.” I sound ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. I basically have no idea what I’m talking about.
“Advice on how to survive?” She sounds amused, and now I feel both embarrassed and a little angry. She’s certainly not making this any easier for me. Surely, she understands what I’m talking about. “Like what, exactly?” she asks.
“I don’t know…” I keep an edge from my voice, but only just. “What do you think we need to do to prepare for winter here?”
This question, at least, is taken seriously. She cocks her head, her gaze sweeping through the room as if assessing its possibilities. “You’ll need more firewood, for a start.” She nods to the porch. “Is that all you have?”
“And what you brought.” She purses her lips, and I know what she’s thinking.So that’s why you asked us to stay.“There’s also some in the basement,” I recall. I haven’t actually been down there to take a look, never mind make an inventory of what else can be found. “But probably not that much.”
“Well, you need more,” Kerry states matter-of-factly, “alotmore, especially if it’s for all your cooking and heating. You should get it in soon because it will need to dry out before it’s used.” She raises her eyebrows. “You know most people have their winter wood in by August, right?”
I recall my parents buying a couple of cords of wood from our neighbors, the Kaminskis who live a few miles away, at the end of every summer. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
Okay, so we need to go out and cut some firewood.I can do that, I think. That is, at least, in the realm of possibility. “What else do we need to do?” I ask.
