The House of Frozen Dreams Read online

  His dad pushed the hair back from his eyes with his gloved hand. “All I’m asking is that you make knowledgeable decisions.”

  “All you’re asking is for me to do everything your way. The Holy Ordained Glenn Winkel Way.”

  The tractor lurched, then jerked toward home, where he helped his father rig up the pulleys and the moose spreader bar, so the 600-pound moose hung upside down by his hind legs along with all the silence hanging between them. They began skinning the legs first, the fur giving way to the white fat below. They hoisted the carcass up higher so they could continue skinning down the flanks. They did this all without speaking. Kache knelt in the pink-stained snow and tried to mimic the movements of his father, concentrating so he didn’t make a mistake that might set him off. When the moose was skinned, Kache closed his eyes while his father cut the head off right at the last joint at the base of the skull. Taking the saw up to just below the V of the animal’s spread legs, his dad worked his way down, sawing the front of it into two perfect halves that parted like doors until he stood inside the animal. From there, he finally spoke, his voice slightly muffled but the words clear.

  “This guy has a big heart. Never been one for religion, but this is the closest thing to stepping inside a confessional. This is where you understand sacrifice. Right here, son, is where I check my own heart for unworthiness. Where I ask for forgiveness, not from God, mind you, but from God’s creature.” When Kache hadn’t answered him, his father had resumed sawing.

  Well, Nadia could trap herself a squirrel or eat rabbit from the freezer if she didn’t like store-bought meat. In the truck he hummed a song he used to sing with Marion and the band—the words weren’t quite coming to him—when halfway out to the homestead he remembered the road, or lack thereof. How had he been so caught up in buying out Safeway that he’d forgotten? He had a truckload of groceries and a two-mile walk ahead of him. Damn. Did the old ATV still run? Worth a try. He turned back around, filled the truck at the gas station, and filled the gas can Snag kept in the truck bed. He needed to hurry before all the ice cream melted.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Nadia dragged the faded orange canoe from the ledge of land above the beach while Leo waited below with the three boxes of provisions and clothing. It occurred to her that the clothes belonged to Kache and taking them could be considered stealing, but she was not about to paddle away with nothing but her old cotton sarafan.

  Leo whined, sitting still in the bow and staring at her as she pushed off. There was the uncertainty of a destination. The wind would likely be picking up as the day went on and the bay would get choppy—lumpy is what Lettie called it. Nadia knew lumpy could quickly change to deathly. She felt superstitious about canoeing on the bay. She had falsely accused the water of killing her and she always wondered if it might act out in revenge. When she lifted the paddle, it left a trail of drops on the gray-green surface that sounded to Nadia like a line of words: Then why not … make it so?

  To go along the shore to the northeast meant going toward her old villages, to go southwest meant to go toward Caboose. Neither was acceptable. She could set out straight across the bay, but that was twenty-four miles and she lacked the nerve. She sat, bobbing with the waves, the paddle resting now on her lap and the edges of the canoe while she stared back at Leo, who was quite familiar with this scenario.

  All morning she’d thought of her father’s words: Nado privyknut. One must get used to it. How many times had she heard that while growing up and how many times had she resisted it? But the truth was that most of her adult life had been about getting used to one thing and one thing only: living without human contact. For the majority of people, each day brought the noise and conversations, the push, pull, spin of others. The coughing, the chewing, the passing of gas. The singing, shouting, laughing, whispering. Every day, their decisions and desires and willfulness—their opinions, sufferings, needs, celebrations, illnesses—all butted up against each other, some wrestling for the win, some finding joy in the yielding, contentment in the taking or the giving. It was the human dance, and Nadia now only knew how to dance alone. To ask of no one, to answer to no one, to touch no one.

  Nado privyknut.

  And she had. She had gotten used to it. She had adapted to her solitary environment but at what cost? Acceptance, she learned, killed the dream of something more. But to not accept? Where does that lead? To leaving.

  Always to leaving?

  She picked up the paddle and turned the canoe toward the shore, guiding it past a mass of tangled bull kelp.

  “I am Nadia. I live here alone ten years.” Leo tilted his head. “Please don’t ask of me so many questions. It is difficult for me to talk of this. Thank you. Good to meet you. I am sorry your mama and papa and brother died. This must make you very sad.”

  She would wait.

  She would wait to see if Kachemak Winkel came back, to see what he had to say, to see if she would be asked to leave, or what she might be asked to accept.

  And then she would decide what she could or could not get used to.

  TWENTY-THREE

  He called out, but neither the woman nor the dog made a sound. Would he have to talk her out from under the bed every time he walked in the door? He put the ice cream and pizza in the freezer, a gallon of milk and other perishables in the fridge, and went out to the storage barn to see if they still had the ATV so he wouldn’t have to walk the other groceries in.

  There she was. Nadia, out in the meadow, with two sandhill cranes. They were long-legged, large prehistoric-looking birds with red facemasks. Kache had always thought of them as mysterious. He stayed perfectly still as he watched, afraid to even breathe too loudly. The birds called out, squawking and squeaking, flapping their wings, twirling, hopping, and Nadia, unbelievably, did the same. She jutted her long neck, twisted, jumped. Even squawked. The birds weren’t just dancing with each other, they were dancing with her.

  Who was this woman? They went on dancing as if to music—that Stravinsky piece his mother used to play on the piano—dipping and flapping and weaving in and around each other. It was far too intimate and strange and beautiful to watch but he could not turn away.

  Lettie thought someone had hurt Nadia. Who had hurt her? Who could? And even though Kache didn’t move, a shift occurred within him. Of course she could stay. And of course he would stay longer than two weeks: as long as it took to help her in whatever way she needed help.

  Eventually the cranes flew off, and Nadia watched them, waving. Kache ducked out of the storage barn and took careful, quiet steps around the bend. He waited another minute, then started whistling loudly, kicking rocks, trying to look like he’d just arrived. But she was no longer in the yard.

  He found the ATV parked where it always had been, parked between the tractor and Denny’s Landcruiser in the new storage barn. The place certainly wasn’t lacking in vehicles.

  Once he filled the small tank with the gas, it started up after several tries. He tied an old canvas bag to the handlebar. As he backed up out of the barn, the dog ran up to him. Nadia walked toward them, carrying a pail. Afraid to cut the motor in case it refused to start again, he yelled over the engine, “Groceries are in the fridge, and I’m going back to the truck to get more. The truck wouldn’t make it up the road. What’s in the pail? Clams?” She shook her head and held out the pail for him to see. “Milk?”

  She nodded, eyes down.

  “You have a cow?”

  “Goats.” She pointed toward the big barn in the distance and when he squinted he saw what looked like a few goats beyond it. He hadn’t seen or heard them the night before. No mystery where they came from—Lettie loved goats.

  “Oh. I bought cow’s milk. But you probably won’t like it.”

  She didn’t say anything. She had looked so perfectly at ease dancing with the birds, but Kache wondered if she knew how to smile at a human. Or make eye contact. He gave a quick nod, revved the ATV once and took off toward the road.

  As qui
et as Nadia was, he still felt excited about showing her the stash of stuff he’d bought. He wondered what might elicit a real smile from her. The ice cream? The chocolate? Or maybe she didn’t want any of it. Maybe she preferred goat’s milk and game and wild berries, like his dad.

  It turned out to be the magazines and the newspaper that she snatched up. She didn’t smile, exactly, but she was clearly enthralled.

  Her earlier reference to Tolstoy and Chekov meant she at least read Russian. He almost asked her if she knew how to read English, but she said, “George Bush was elected to our president again? Bill Clinton beat him, yes? So did he run again?”

  He stared at her. She waited until he finally said, “This is the younger George Bush. His son. Who is now serving his second term. You’ve missed out on a few things. Did Lettie ever bring you a newspaper?”

  That made her finally smile, and even look him in the eyes, her own eyes filled with question. “Lettie is still alive then?”

  He nodded.

  “I have been worried. This frightened me to ask this. In several years she has not been here. And no, she never brought any of this news of outside world. She thought it might make things harder for me, I believe. And I never ask.” She brought her hand to her throat, stood, leaving the paper and magazines on the table.

  “Where did you learn to speak and read English?”

  “In school, they teach us. One of few concessions to outside world.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I have seen never so many types of food in one place. For only two people?”

  “I didn’t know if there were more to feed.” He waited but she didn’t reply. “I don’t know how you got here and where your family is. Lettie said you’ve never left our property? Is that true? In ten years?”

  “It is difficult, this thing, to talk about.”

  “Okay. But I’m not sure what to do. Lettie trusts you and wants you to be here, so that’s a start.” She nodded. “We can figure it out later. Right now I’m starving. I bought a chicken and some steaks. Interested in either of those?”

  “After I put milk away, I make soup. You have some of this, if you like.”

  “Let me make you something. Without you having to wrangle it up from the earth. How about a steak and some salad? Baked potatoes?”

  She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, either. Kache started preparing the meal.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I have never seen men cook meals. In my village, this never happens.”

  Kache liked that Nadia was telling him something about herself and he refrained from pressing her for more. “Well, ‘cook meals’ might be optimistic, but I can get food on the table.”

  “It is too much, what you buy.” He saw the piles of food and supplies through her eyes. He’d felt like a springtime Santa Claus at the store, but now he just felt like a super consumer on steroids.

  “But Lettie brought you supplies.”

  “Not all these many kinds of foods because I have garden and hunt and fish. Does this mean you will go away and not return, like Lettie?”

  He didn’t answer. While he made dinner she tried to make room in the fridge and the pantry.

  “Who will eat all of this?” she asked, as he came in carrying plates of steak from the grill.

  “We will. No problem.”

  She shook her head vigorously, muttering in Russian.

  He set the steaks on the table, along with the potatoes, salad, and bread, then invited her to sit. “Wine?” he asked, and was surprised that she nodded. They stared at the food without looking at each other. “So,” Kache said. “You probably have a prayer or something. I don’t want you to break any of your rules.”

  “I have my gratitude.” She picked up her fork and her knife, began cutting her steak. “I am breaking Old Believer rules every day. I am eating off same dishes as you. This is not allowed. You are not Old Believer. Separate dishes. And no prayer with you. This is not allowed. Wine? We are allowed only to drink braga, wine made at home with berries. Today? Wednesday? Fasting. No dairy or meat allowed. Please, I would like for you to pass me sour cream. And this bacon.” She smiled again. She had nice teeth. How did she have such good teeth without going to the dentist?

  He laughed and passed her the sour cream, the bacon, the chives, the salad. “I get the feeling this is not your first introduction to worldly ways.”

  “When I came here, I made these decisions. I read. Watched the movies on VCR like Lettie showed me. Made my own faith.” She had been holding the piece of steak on her fork as she talked. “Now I eat, yes?” She took the awaiting bite, then ate the meal with gusto, without speaking, taking second helpings and a smidgen of a third. It was good to see her eat with that kind of abandon. Janie had been a picky eater and always left food on her plate.

  Nadia obviously hadn’t been starving to death. She had chickens and goats; she planted a garden in the summer—a big one by the looks of all the preserved food lining the pantry. And judging by the contents of the freezer, she knew her way around a fishing pole and a rifle.

  Still, she seemed to enjoy the rib eye and the salad and she devoured the fully loaded baked potato. He leaned back in his chair and watched her fork moving from plate to mouth to plate to mouth, pleased at this transforming effect the meal seemed to bring to their conversation. At one point she let out a huge belch without even a look of apology and continued right on eating, which Kache found much more refreshing than revolting. When she finished, she sipped the wine and said, “Thank you for this food, it is very good,” which sounded to him like a prayer of sorts, especially because of the way she pronounced good to rhyme with food. She looked directly at him for an instant and smiled. The third smile she’d bestowed upon him.

  He insisted on doing the dishes and she headed down to the beach to dig up razor clams.

  Kache filled the sink and began washing the same white dishes with the blue flowers he had helped his mom wash countless times. Behind the faucet rested the pig-shaped cutting board he’d once made for Mother’s Day. He’d painted it dark green; the pig had an orange snout, a big blue eye with coordinating blue eyelashes, and his third-grade attempt at a black-capped chickadee painted on its back, inspired by the one Kache had observed picking flies off their cow.

  Above the cutting board, on a shelf, sat the mason jar of shells and sea glass his mom had collected, a Japanese fisherman’s blown glass ball, a piece of driftwood in the shape of a W, which Denny had found. Each one of these simple objects—everyday knick-knacks he’d grown up with—seemed now to be made of gold.

  A trilogy of small silver vases held dried wildflowers; forget-me-nots and beach peas, Nadia’s own unassuming relics left from last summer, he guessed. Behind all these mementoes, the clean, clear windowpanes looked out to the porch, and beyond, the yellow and brown clearing they’d called the meadow, occasional patches of dirty snow still hanging on. A pregnant cow moose stood out there, peeling strips of bark off a birch tree. The land tilted down toward the woods, where he watched Nadia head for the trailhead that led to the canyon and then the beach, wearing rubber boots, carrying a pail and a large rifle as comfortably as a woman in the city might carry a purse and umbrella. Leo pranced beside her. Beyond her lay the ever-changing view, now a dark sage bay below the peach mountains, still soaking in the last lengthening hours of violet-washed sky. Kache had wanted to tag along—he hadn’t even been down to the beach yet—but he also wanted to give her space. It must be weird for her to have him around, to have anyone around. Almost as weird as it was for him to be here, in this same kitchen, this same house. Everything the same, except of course nothing was the same.

  But here he was, not alone, exactly. He suspected Nadia knew an aloneness that even he couldn’t begin to fathom. There were things he wanted to ask her, but he was learning to wait. He wouldn’t bombard her. He didn’t want to keep driving her to hide in his room. He rinsed the silverware and came back to her smile.

  His mot
her had been a big smiler; it was part of her bright and undeniable beauty. She smiled easily, always. A flash of her perfect white crescent made it hard not to smile back. Maybe because of that, Kache had always been drawn to women who showed their teeth. First there’d been Denny’s poster he never took down—in fact, it still hung in his room—of Farrah Fawcett in that red bathing suit (admittedly, it was more than her big white teeth that had fueled Kache’s adolescent fantasies). Marion was a smiler, Janie, too, and most of the women in between.

  But there was another type of smile that Kache was learning to appreciate: the shy, rare smile that presented itself as a gift. It wasn’t given freely; it had to be earned. Her face had been fearful, watchful. But now and then her smile came through like determined sunlight working its way down through spruce and aspen branches and he wanted to close his eyes and tilt back, expose his face to the unexpected warmth of it.

  He shook his head, trying to shake loose this stupid fantasy edging on romance. She had lived alone for ten years. Ten years. She was strange … and probably married and who knew what else. Besides, she traipsed around in his and his mother’s old clothes. Talk about Freudian.

  He had just broken up with Janie, hadn’t been laid in an entire month even prior to the breakup, and was letting a slight wisp of a smile stir up some ridiculous flowery observations. Jesus. He really did need to park himself in front of the television to stop all these emerging emotions. It was like he was his teenaged self all over again, feeling every single thing that flickered across his mind.

  He set the last pan in the drainer, considered whether to dry the dishes or let them drip, just as a gunshot cracked the air and rattled the glasses. And then another. Was she hunting? He looked out but the cow moose was gone. No. Nadia wouldn’t kill a pregnant moose. Would she? She wouldn’t kill a person? Or kill herself? Would she?

  Heart going like crazy, he pulled on his boots. He still hadn’t come across a gun, had kept forgetting to even look for one. He ran out to the barn and stood, scanning the walls, seconds ticking by.