The Winter People

 

After finishing his chores in the barn, Martin spent the morning hunting in the woods, following the large tracks that seemed to go in circles, taunting him. The hoofprints were a good four inches long—it was a big animal. He never caught sight of the buck. He could almost smell him, though—a deep musky scent carried in the wind. Still, the buck remained out of reach. The whole time he was in the woods, he worried over Sara, and her new belief that Gertie was hiding in the closet. Midday, he went back to the barn to saddle the horse. He glanced at the house, his eyes settling on their bedroom window. He considered checking on Sara, but no, surely she was sleeping. He mustn’t disturb her. He mounted the horse and rode into town to see Lucius.

 

It was nearly three miles to town, but the day was pleasant, and the snow on the roads had been rolled and packed down, making it easy going for the horse. The road was narrow, with woods on either side, chickadees and squirrels calling out from within the branches. A carriage passed, the driver waving. Martin waved back, unsure who the man was—he was wrapped up in a hat and scarf, and Martin didn’t recognize him. He passed the Turners’ place, the Flints’, Lester Jewett’s blacksmith shop. He came to the town green, where the gazebo was piled high with snow. He stayed to the left, continuing down Main Street. On the left, across from the green, was the West Hall Inn, run by Carl Gonyea and his wife, Sally. There was a bar downstairs that some of the men in town frequented nightly. It had been a long time since Martin had had the money for that.

 

Past the inn was Jameson’s Tack and Feed. Beside it, Cora Jameson’s seamstress shop with an old dress dummy in the window, stabbed full of pins. ALTERATIONS, said the sign. CUSTOM TAILORING. There was a velvet dress with lace trim and tiny mother-of-pearl buttons hanging, the armless sleeves seeming to reach for something just out of grasp. Cora’s shop was seldom open, as the poor woman suffered from “ailments.” Everyone knew that her only ailment was her taste for whiskey.

 

Across from the tack-and-feed shop was the general store. William Fleury came out, with his son Jack behind him. Both men had their arms full: rolls of tarpaper, boxes of nails.

 

“Afternoon, Martin,” William called. Martin got off the horse.

 

“Hello, William, Jack. Looks like you’ve got a building project.”

 

William nodded. “Wind took one of those old oaks down last night, crushed the corner of the barn.”

 

“Too bad,” Martin said. “I’ll come by later, see if I can lend a hand.”

 

William shook his head. “No need. The Bemis boys have offered. We’ll have it fixed up in no time. How’s Sara?” William’s eyes were full of concern.

 

What were people in town saying? Martin could imagine the chain of events: Reverend Ayers telling his wife, Mary, about Sara spitting in his face, Mary telling the ladies in her sewing circle; after that, word would spread like the chatter of grackles.

 

“She’s well, thank you,” Martin said. “Quite well.” He pictured her last night, on the floor in front of the closet.

 

It’s our Gertie. She’s come back to us.

 

He bit the inside of his cheek, pushed the image away.

 

William nodded. “Good to see you, Martin,” he said. “You take care, now.” William and Jack loaded up their wagon, and Martin walked down the street, leading the horse.

 

“Martin!” a woman’s voice called. He turned to see Amelia just coming out of the inn. She was wrapped in a fur coat, her cheeks pink and bright, her eyes sparkling.

 

“Uncle Martin,” she said, kissing his cheek lightly. “I was having lunch with some ladies at the inn and saw you ride by. How is Aunt Sara?”

 

“Better,” he said. “She offered to make me breakfast this morning.”

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Amelia said. “I shall pay her a visit soon. Today or tomorrow. Maybe I’ll take her out for a bit. Bring her to my house for tea. What do you think?”

 

Martin nodded. “I think she’d like that very much. It would do her good to get out of the house. I’ll tell her you’ll come by.”

 

“Yes! Let’s make it tomorrow. Tell her I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll bring her to my house for a luncheon.”

 

Martin nodded, cringing a little. Luncheon was something the wealthy ladies in town did. Ladies with fancy hats and lace handkerchiefs who didn’t have cows to milk, bread to bake.

 

“We’ll expect you tomorrow, then,” he said, giving her a little bow. She turned and went back down to the inn to rejoin her friends.