Where’s Gertie?” Sara was running toward the barn as Martin came out. He’d skinned the fox and nailed the pelt up to dry against the north wall of the barn. He’d done a messy job, nothing like what Sara would do, but, still, it was done. He’d succeeded.
Martin blinked at her, the bright snow overwhelming after the darkness of the barn. “Not here,” he said. He was tired. Cold. Impatient. Killing the fox should have left him feeling satisfied, but instead it had unsettled him, perhaps because at the end it hadn’t been a fair fight, the animal cornered and frightened.
Sara’s eyes were wild, frantic. She hadn’t put on a coat, and stood shivering in her sweater and housedress. Snow sat in great clumps in her hair and on her shoulders.
“Where have you been?” she asked, her eyes moving over Martin’s soaked, muddy pants, his coat stained with fresh blood.
“The fox came back. Killed three hens. I tracked it down and shot it.” He raised his head high as he said this. See what I can do? I can protect what is ours. I have the heart of a hero.
“I skinned the fox,” he said. “I thought you might make Gertie a hat.”
Sara reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his coat, fingers working their way into the damp wool. “Gertie wasn’t with you?”
“Of course not. She was still in bed when I left.”
All Martin wanted was to go inside and change into dry clothes, have some breakfast and a hot cup of coffee. He had little patience for Sara’s need to have Gertie by her side at every second, for her near panic whenever the girl was out of sight for more than five minutes.
“She ran after you, Martin! She saw you out in the field and put on her coat to go meet you. She wanted to help you gather eggs.”
He shook his head. “I never saw her.”
“That was hours ago.” Sara’s gold-flecked eyes scanned the empty field. The snow had been falling steadily all day, the wind sending it drifting. All the tracks from the morning were covered over. Martin gazed across the yard helplessly, panic now rising.
There was no telling which way the girl had gone.
Martin
January 12, 1908
He searched the fields and woods for hours. The snow was letting up, but the air was bitterly cold, and the wind was blowing hard, creating great drifts and giving the yard and fields the appearance of a white sea with powdery waves.
How long could a child survive in weather like this? He tried not to let himself think about it, just trudged on, calling Gertie’s name. He hadn’t eaten all day or had so much as a drink of water. Desperation gnawed at his belly. His head ached, and it was becoming a struggle to think clearly through the rising panic. Most important, he knew, he had to remain calm for Sara, to convince her everything was going to be all right.
Sara stayed close by the house, in case Gertie returned. Martin could hear her, though. Even way up past the ridge, he could hear her desperate voice calling out, “Gertie, Gertie, Gertie …,” a strange chant behind the howling wind. His ears played tricks on him. He heard “Dirty, dirty, dirty,” then “Birdy, birdy, birdy.”
Martin’s head pounded. His bad foot throbbed from all the miles he’d gone, trudging along in his duck-foot snowshoes—lift, slide, lift, slide. No sign of the girl.
He stumbled, pulled himself up again.
Birdy. Birdy.
Dirty birdy.
He thought of the fox with the chicken in its mouth.
Dead birdy.
He thought of his little girl, following his footsteps up into the woods.
Dead Gertie.
He covered his ears with his mittened hands and collapsed into the snow. He was supposed to be able to keep his family safe, to fix things when they went wrong. And here he was, soaking wet, half frozen, a man who appeared to be in need of rescue himself.
“Gertie!” he screamed.
Only the wind answered.
At last, exhausted and barely able to put any weight on his ruined left foot, he headed back down the hill, toward the house, as the sun sank low.
As he shuffled across the field in his snowshoes, he spotted Sara coming out of the barn. Wrapped in a light shawl, shivering with cold, she walked in frantic circles around the yard, her voice diminished to a hoarse croak: “Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” She had no gloves on, and her hands were blue, her fingertips bloody and raw—she picked at her skin when she was nervous.
He recalled those same hands clinging so desperately to Baby Charles, whose body was cold, his lips blue.
I can feel his little heart beating.
If they lost Gertie, Martin knew it would ruin his wife.
She saw him and ran over, eyes enormous, hopeful. “Any sign?”
He shook his head. She stared at him a minute in disbelief.