I was on my way out, moving through the aisles, when I heard the front door bang open.
I ducked low. I held the gun in one hand and the axe in the other. I crept down the aisle, keeping an eye out for feet, and listened for movement. Nothing. I made my way to the end of the aisle.
“Anyone alive out there?” I called.
There was no answer. The door squeaked on its hinges as it wagged back and forth in the bitter cold wind.
I stepped out into the main aisle. There was a figure at the end of the row. Startled, I shot. A moment later I realized I was standing across from a cardboard cut-out of Orville Redenbacher. I’d shot the popcorn aficionado between the eyes. Not a bad shot.
The wind blew hard outside. I walked over to the door. The only tracks leading in were mine. Blaming the wind and jumpy nerves, I pulled the door firmly shut and used the axe to secure the handle.
I then headed across the street to the only boutique in town. The front door was still locked so I headed around the back. The heavy metal back door pulled open with a heave.
“Customer at the back. I need a fitting,” I called.
Nothing.
Pulling the door firmly shut behind me, I went inside. The atmosphere of the store was a bittersweet contrast to our new world. It was like someone had hit the pause button on modern life. Kiki’s mother Lil had opened the small boutique a few years back. She’d decorated the place in faux Italian style with antiqued wall paint, gold filigree chairs, and images of the Italian countryside on the walls. Inside I found a mix of clothes; house gowns for the seniors, home-coming gowns for the teens, and practical attire for men and women. I looked around the store and considered my options. At last, I selected heavy wool sweaters for Frenchie and Ian. I also spotted a number of prom tiaras in a glass case. I grabbed two of them for the little princesses. I stuffed all the items into my backpack. As I was exiting, I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror. It made me stop.
“Christ, I look like Mad Max,” I muttered. Well, a cross between Mad Max and an Eskimo. This would never do.
I set the bag down and went to the clothing racks. There I found a black cashmere sweater. I pulled it off the cloth hanger. Across the room Lil had undergarments. I pulled my coat off. Underneath I was wearing a stained and ripped old gray sweatshirt with a white t-shirt and sports bra underneath. I tossed them in the garbage. I stood shivering. I took a black satin camisole from the rack and slid it on. Over that I slipped on the soft sweater. At the counter Lil had perfume and make-up. I picked up a brush and smoothed my hair back, pulling it into a tight—not even a snowmobile can undo this--braid. Spraying myself with a little perfume and putting on some lip-stick, I decided I looked much more feminine. I pulled my heavy winter jacked back on and headed out.
I then made my final stop, picking up the last item I wanted from Fisherman’s Wharf, a small restaurant that sat lakeside. After, I drove across town to Jamie’s house. It was late afternoon. The sun was just beginning to dip toward the horizon. Jamie’s small stone cabin was nestled into a deep lot surrounded by white-barked Birch trees. Dim light showed through the slats in the front window. The chimney puffed a small trail of smoke. When he didn’t open the door when I drove up, I was not sure what to think. Maybe Jamie was not home. Or maybe I was not welcome.
I pulled the snowmobile up to the front porch steps. Trudging through feet of snow, I went to the front door. Jamie did not answer when I knocked. I peeked through the window. He had a gas lamp burning inside. There was a book and a plate of food sitting beside the recliner. I felt worried. I knocked again.
“Jamie?” I called.
There was no answer, but I thought I heard movement inside. Hedging my bets, I tried the door. It was unlocked. Now I was really worried. I pushed the door open and entered.
“Jamie?” I called again.
After a moment, Jamie called a weak “here,” from the back of the house. I pulled my boots and coat off and followed the hallway to the back. It was cold inside. I found Jamie in the bathroom leaning over the tub. He was vomiting into a bucket.
Every muscle on my body seized tight.
“It’s just the flu. I promise,” he said.
I grabbed a towel off the shelf and headed back to the kitchen where I had spotted some bottled water. I went back to the bathroom, wetted the towel, and wiped Jamie’s face. I handed him the water. “Drink a little,” I encouraged.
He turned, his back against the tub, knees propped, and drank.
“How long have you been sick?” I asked, mopping his face.
“A few days,” he replied. “Should be out of the woods by tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’ll text you next time,” he said. I could tell by his tone he was exhausted.