The crown of the hood was lined with fur and it made a nice edge and kept Jenna tight to my midsection. Her legs were dangling out a bit, but Portis fed them into a wool sock and said I could shield her inside the sweatshirt too.
Jenna gurgled.
“She should be warmer in this,” he said. “Easier to carry.”
“Portis,” I said. “Please tell me where we’re going.”
“To my truck,” he said. “And then to the hospital to get this baby some help.”
“Why are we packing all this shit?”
“Because we’ve got to take the long way.”
“Why do we have to do that?”
“I’ll explain it while we walk,” he said. “Being as it’s the long way, we’ll have plenty of time.”
He handed me a flashlight and tucked some extra batteries into the pack.
“The storm’s hit a lull,” he said. “We can make decent time if we leave now.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “For dragging you into this.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You ain’t dragging nothing. You done right when you took that baby, and you done right when you came to me. Generally, you always have done right. Whatever wrong you done been long canceled out.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
“I do,” he said. “Sure as anything. And either way it don’t matter, it’s my job to help you.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Why’s that?”
“Because,” he said. “We were almost family once.”
We walked into the dark and the night. I was none too happy to be back in the cold, but at least Portis was right about the storm. The snow had stopped and the wind was quiet along the river.
Portis had put the snowmobile suit back on and wore a knit hat where the hood had been. There was a trowel clipped to his waistband and a knife sheathed beside it. He carried a flashlight in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. His rifle was strapped to the ruck with rope.
I had Jenna in the papoose and her backpack was slung over my shoulders. Portis led and I followed the trail his snowshoes carved along the bank. I kept my own flashlight pointed straight ahead and walked.
The long way to the truck meant we had to walk south to the footbridge and cross the river to get into the eastern half of the hills. Portis said you couldn’t get back into that brush on anything but foot and that it was too dangerous to stay where we were, west of the river, or to try and get out on the main road. Portis suspected Shelton and his boys would be all over the trails shortly, assuming somebody cared enough to realize Jenna was gone.
Once we crossed the bridge we would hike northeast up the hill toward Trout Pond. Portis kept his fishing shanty there in the winter and said we would need some rest and warmth before we made the final push. His truck was parked at Scutter’s Point, a clearing where the east and west sides came briefly together above the river. I’d been right about Portis being up there to check some traps, though he never admitted to the drunkenness I was sure had separated him from his old Ford Ranger to begin with.
Portis figured it was after two in the morning and that we’d be lucky to get the baby to the hospital by breakfast.
“It is my fervent hope that we will have this situation sorted before the lunch crowd arrives at the Elias Brothers,” he said. “If I am in one of those luxurious vinyl booths and eating a farmer’s omelette by ten A.M. then I will consider this little escapade of ours a success.”
In the rush I’d forgotten to ask Portis for some wool socks. I knew one of us should probably go back for a pair, but I felt like an idiot for forgetting them and didn’t want to slow us down.
There was no telling what Shelton might do if he caught up. People said he could be sweet, almost docile, but then his temper would flare and shit would get serious.
He’d done his year for nearly killing John Jameson at the Paradise Junction. They were drinking at the bar when Jameson said something to set Shelton off. Nobody knew what Jameson said, but twenty minutes later he was on a stretcher and Shelton was in the back of a squad car, cuffed.
Jameson spent two days in critical condition and in the deep quiet of my heart I had hoped for him to die. In fact, I’d never hoped for a thing so hard in my life. I was ashamed of myself but I couldn’t help it. That hope was so deep and true that I couldn’t beat it back—not even with my horror for having birthed it.
If Jameson died, and he was no model citizen himself, then Shelton went away, and maybe for life. They’d stop pumping so much crank out of the north hills and Carletta would have a fighting chance. There’d always be dope around, but I did not believe it was any coincidence that Mama’s worst episodes always included Shelton somehow.