I woke up early. I dragged that fishing pole outside, out to the lake with a tackle box I picked up at the store. I spent a small fortune on fishing supplies—an auger and skimmer, too, for when the lake freezes over. Not that I plan to be here that long.
She pulls a sweatshirt over her head. She hikes out to the lake. Her hair is still wet from a bath and the ends become crisp in the cold air. Until she arrives, it’s quiet outside. The sun is just beginning to rise. I’m lost in thought, trying hard to convince myself that everything back home is okay. Trying to satisfy the guilt by brainwashing myself into believing that there’s plenty of food in the fridge, that she hasn’t fallen down and broken a hip. And just as I start to believe it, some new fear comes to mind: that I forgot to set the heat and she’ll freeze to death, that she leaves the front door open and some critter lets itself in. And then the rationalization sets in, the excuses: I did set the heat. Of course I did. I spend ten minutes picturing myself setting the damn heat at sixty-eight degrees.
At least by now the cash should’ve arrived, enough money to get her through. For a while.
I brought a lawn chair down from the cabin and sit with a mug of coffee by my feet. I stare at what the girl’s wearing as she approaches the lake. Her pants do nothing to block the wind. There are no leaves left in the trees to slow it down. It drives her frozen hair around her face. It slips up the leg of her khakis and down the neck of her shirt. She’s already shaking.
I did set the heat. Of course I did. Sixty-eight degrees.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask. “You’re going to freeze your ass off.”
And yet, she sits down, uninvited, on the banks of the lake. I could tell her to go back inside, but I don’t.
The ground is damp. She pulls her legs into her and wraps her arms around them to keep warm.
We don’t talk. We don’t need to. She’s just thankful to be outside.
The cabin smells awful, like mold or mildew. It pierces the nose even after all these days when you think we’d be used to it. It’s as cold inside as out. We have to conserve as much wood as we can until winter. Until then, we only light the stove at night. During the day the temperature in the cabin must plummet to the fifties. I know she’s never warm, though she bundles layer over layer. The winter this far north is harsh and unforgiving, cold like we’ve never known before. In days it will be November, the final calm before the storm.
A small group of Common loons soars above the lake heading south. The last few that remain this far north. It’s the chicks who leave now, those who were born this spring and are only now gaining enough strength for the long journey. The others are gone.
I’m guessing she’s never fished before, but I have. I’ve been fishing since I was a kid. I hold the rod, my body still. I watch the bobber on the surface of the water. She knows enough to keep her mouth shut. She knows the sound of her voice will scare the fish away.
“Here,” I say, balancing the rod between my knees. I take off my coat, a big insulated rain jacket with a hood. I hand it to her. “Put it on before you freeze to death.”
She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t even say thanks. This isn’t something we do. She slips her arms into crevices that are two times too big for her and after a minute, she stops shaking. She drapes the hood over her head and takes refuge for winter. I’m not cold. If I was, I wouldn’t admit it.
A fish bites. I stand to my feet and jerk the fishing line to set the hook. I begin reeling, pulling on the line to keep it tight. She turns her back when a fish comes flying out of the water, its fin kicking for dear life. I drop it to the ground and watch its body thrash about until it’s dead.
“You can look now,” I say. “It’s dead.”
But she can’t. She doesn’t look. Not until my body blocks the view. I hover over the fish, and I slide the hook out of its mouth. Then I slip a worm onto the end of the hook and hold the rod out for the girl.
“No, thanks,” she says.
“You ever fish before?”
“No.”
“Not the kind of thing they teach you where you come from?”
She knows what I think of her. Spoiled little rich girl. She has yet to prove otherwise.
She snatches the rod from my hands. She isn’t used to people telling her what to do. “You know what you’re doing?” I ask.
“I can figure it out,” she snaps. But she doesn’t so much as have a clue so I’m forced to help her cast the line. She drops down onto the shoreline and she waits. She wills the fish away. I sit down on my chair and sip from the mug of coffee, cold by now.
The time passes. I don’t know how much time. I go inside for more coffee and to take a piss. When I come back, she tells me she’s surprised I didn’t tie her to a tree. The sun is up, trying hard to warm the day. It’s not working.
“Consider yourself lucky.”
In time I ask about her father.
At first she’s quiet, staring at the water, deathly still. She takes in the trees’ long shadows on the lake, the twitter of birds. “What about him?” she asks.