The Big Dark

  “We have Lydia, who saved us and made us a family,” Edgar said. “We have this beautiful kitchen, and enough food and medicine to keep us alive and stable. So we count our blessings.”

  “You and me makes one two three!” Tammy sang, dancing in place and making faces. “Yadda yadda yadda!”

  “And we have Tammy, who sings to say, ‘Hello, I’m still here and I’m still me.’ ”

  “Yadda yadda yadda!”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  I hadn’t been so anxious about what morning would bring since the Christmas before my father passed. Me and Becca waking each other before sunrise and then having to wait—hours and hours, or so it seemed—until my parents got up. That’s what it was like at the refuge (I started thinking of it that way after the card game) where I slept on a cot in the hall, under a pile of quilts and blankets. Thinking about Mom and how great it would be if I came home with the medicine she needed. I’d be such a hero they might even give me a parade, and King Man would lead the parade and lead the Pledge of Allegiance like he always did, and the whole town would cheer me, and even sour Mr. Bragg would be impressed.

  I never did sleep, not really, so I was already awake when Lydia slipped into the hallway, carrying a lantern. It was like watching a star come steadily toward me, glowing warm in the frosty dark.

  She placed the lantern on the floor and sat on the end of the cot. “I suppose you were awake all night, worrying,” she said. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t be helped.”

  Under the covers I clasped my hands together, over my heart. Please, please, please.

  “The fact is, Ida Mae knew what she was doing, sending you here. She was aware that one of my residents died soon after we moved, of pulmonary heart failure—he couldn’t take the cold, poor man—and that he had type 2 diabetes, among various other ailments.”

  She placed a jumbo-sized plastic pill bottle in my hands. I gave it a shake. It sounded almost full. “Today is my lucky day,” she said. “Old Jim Cronin would be pleased to know that his medication is helping someone else. It’s a fitting memorial. But I do worry how you’ll get home.”

  “The same way I came.”

  She chuckled. “You think I don’t know the difference between downhill and uphill?”

  “I’ll make it, promise.”

  “It doesn’t seem right, letting a boy your age attempt such a dangerous journey on his own.”

  “Kids my age or younger used to fight in wars.”

  Lydia sighed. “Some still do. That doesn’t make it right, but I can’t confine you against your will, even for your own safety, not with your mother’s life at stake.” She picked up the lantern. “Off you go, then, before I change my mind.”

  The residents had put together a package of food for me, including a still-warm loaf of bread. Tammy had stayed up all night, learning how to bake, and finally got it right. She was so pleased to give it to me that she didn’t say anything at all, just grinned from here to tomorrow. Edgar contributed a small jar of peanut butter from his personal stash. Paul didn’t have any food to give, so he presented me with a spare deck of cards. “You can play solitaire,” he said. “I give you permission to cheat.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I hope to see you all again sometime.”

  Paul said, “Not on a professional basis, we hope!” and laughed like a loon. A very funny loon.

  * * *

  I was out by the entrance to the refuge, adjusting my ski bindings and putting on my mittens, when the hairless man in the upstairs window appeared out of nowhere. A great big guy with a moony face and wild shiny eyes and no eyebrows, wearing so many layers of clothes he looked like a ragged planet.

  For such a big dude he had a surprisingly high voice. Oddly childish. Almost like he had a little kid inside who did all the talking.

  “Want to know a secret?” he asked. “Huh, do you?”

  I didn’t dare say no.

  “Lydia isn’t really our nurse, she’s one of us!” he hissed. “She’s in charge because we gave her the keys!”

  “Okay,” I said, backing slowly away.

  His eyes got bigger and rounder. “Or maybe I’m delusional. Or maybe I’m the man in the moon. Or maybe I’m nobody at all.”

  “You’re not nobody.”

  He hesitated, as if he wanted to share another secret but didn’t quite dare. “You can come to my room if you want,” he said. “I have invisible toys.”

  “Maybe some other time, okay? I have to go home.”

  “Okay.” He headed back inside, then turned and beamed at me. “Don’t forget me,” he said.

  How could I ever?

  I found my way back to the highway and climbed the cloverleaf and headed north. Felt like the buildings of the city were watching me with their empty-window eyes. It was cold beyond belief, but lucky for me there was almost no wind so I was able to push and stride like mad for the first couple of miles. Slight incline but that was okay, a good pair of cross-country skis grip the snow and prevent you from sliding backward. Thank you, Gronk.

  I wondered what he was thinking. What Mom and Becca and King Man were thinking. What were they doing at exactly that moment? Gronk would be doing chores. Becca, too, because Mom would want to keep her busy. If I knew Mom, she was over being angry at me and was just plain worried. And Becca, well, if anybody understood why I had to do it, Becca did.

  Gone for medicine. Be back as soon as I can.

  I intended to keep that promise, but a couple of hours of slogging up the highway made it very clear: coming down was the easy part. My plan was to cross-country ski as far as I was able, then hike the rest of the way home, using snowshoes wherever the snow was too deep. I’d have to find places to sleep along the way, preferably where the coyotes couldn’t find me.

  Figure ten hours of daylight each day. Even if I only averaged a measly two miles an hour, I’d be home in three days. Unless a blizzard shut me down. Then all bets were off.

  No blizzards, please. No coyotes. No surprises.

  Fifteen miles to the Boncoeurs’ house. I did it in one day, going in the other direction. And against the wind, too. When I promised Pete and Louise I’d stop by on the way back, I was thinking of it as a courtesy. No longer. Now it had become a necessity, and as I hauled myself up each yard of snow-packed highway, I dreamed about the warmth of their tidy house, and the smell of Mrs. Boncoeur’s cooking, and how odd and wonderful it was that they felt like old friends, even though we’d only recently met.

  The sun was about halfway up the sky when my knees and arms began to tremble with exhaustion. Gripping the poles became difficult. No idea how far I’d come, but for sure there was still a long way to go. So I had to buck up and ski through the weakness. I had to keep going.

  Plant your poles. Stride. Push with your legs, pull with your poles. Stride, stride.

  Keep moving, whatever it takes.

  I knew what I was supposed to do, but somehow it wasn’t working. My legs were so weak they were making me dizzy. Was this how Mom felt when she was having one of her spells?

  Take a break, Charlie. Eat something. Drink something, too.

  Not sure how it happened, but I ended up on my butt, with the skis tangled under me. It was all I could do to peel off my mittens and punch the binding release with my thumb, and get loose without spraining my ankles.

  For a couple of minutes there, what I really wanted was to lie down in the snow and take a little nap. Bad idea.

  You’re not thinking clearly, Charlie. Don’t forget to breathe.

  I rolled over, up on my knees, and forced myself to deeply inhale the frigid air. Hurt my lungs but that was okay because it helped to clear my head. I fumbled around, retrieved the package of food provided by my friends at the refuge, intending to finish the loaf of bread.

  Frozen solid.

  What to do? What was it Mom always said in her teacher voice?

  Study. Think. Solve.

  I zipped open my parka, tucked the bread inside, zi
pped it back up. Warmth from my body would thaw the bread out, eventually. Should have thought of that earlier, before it froze.

  Next stop, peanut butter. The jar was icy to the touch, and the peanut butter was really thick, but not so thick I couldn’t scoop it out and get it into my mouth.

  Not so much you choke on it, son. Just a taste.

  I worked my tongue against the clot of peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth. Breathing heavily through my nose. Which hurt, but so what? Humans need calories. Calories help keep us warm. Remember the Inuit.

  I could almost hear Mr. Mangano telling us how Inuit seal hunters ate lots of raw blubber because it helped keep them warm and strong. And if the human body falls below a certain temperature, you go into shock.

  I wasn’t sure what shock was, except that it was bad. Was I in shock? Was that why I felt so weak?

  I sucked snow from my mittens, letting it melt in my mouth. Then did it again and again. Slowly the peanut butter dissolved and warmed my throat going down. And then it warmed my stomach, and the dizziness passed, and I was able to stand without wobbling.

  Get a grip! I urged myself. Remember you can’t do it all in one day. Today the goal was fifteen miles and you’re at least halfway there. Pay attention. Keep your eyes peeled for that embankment shielding their house from the highway. You don’t want to pass it by.

  I strapped the poles to the skis and hefted them over my shoulder. I intended to hike for the next few miles, give my legs a rest, sort of, because walking uses different muscles. The snowpack was dense along that stretch of highway, and I was able to trudge along pretty good. No problem breaking through, and therefore no need for snowshoes, which required at least as much effort as cross-country skis.

  For a while I tried pretending I was a soldier marching into battle. Left right, left right. I remembered from one of my class projects that in the Civil War, soldiers carried at least sixty pounds and sometimes covered thirty miles a day on foot. And sometimes barefoot! At least I had really good insulated boots, and I wasn’t toting anything like sixty pounds. Ten pounds tops, not counting the skis.

  Left right, left right. Enemy in sight, sir! March to the sound of gunfire! Left right! Left right!

  The last time we all went someplace together as a family was the weekend before Dad got killed. We drove over to Gorham and hiked Mount Crescent, along this beautifully groomed trail. Two miles up to the summit. Gorgeous winter day. Sun so bright off the snow that we had to put on sunscreen and wear dark goggles. Dad looked really cool in his, like he could have been climbing Everest. The skier’s tan made his teeth look really white. I remember Mom laughing a lot and pointing out the birds. Becca just beaming, because she loved it when we did outdoors stuff together.

  I felt so lucky that day, to be part of such a great family.

  You still are. Don’t forget it, never forget.

  March, soldier, march! Left right, left right! Marching home, marching home.

  March for your sister, march for your mom, keep on marching or you’ll be a bum!

  Left! Right! Left! Right!

  After an hour or so I checked the bread and it was soft enough to eat. Peanut butter on bread was an improvement on just plain peanut butter, and it seemed to give me strength and lift my spirits.

  Left right. Left right. And keep your eyes peeled for that embankment, because it hides the Boncoeur place and you don’t want to miss it or you’ll be sleeping out in the cold. Food for bears. Coyote bait.

  As it turned out there was no way to miss it because they had left me a sign by the side of the highway. An actual spray-painted sign with my name on it and an arrow pointing at their house.

  This way Charlie Cobb

  It took me hours to warm up, even with the woodstove blazing and the house as cozy as could be. Mrs. Boncoeur encouraged me to slurp down about a gallon of hot, salty chicken broth, and gradually I stopped shivering and began to feel like my normal self.

  The elderly couple waited patiently to hear about my adventure, but Pete finally couldn’t contain himself any longer.

  “So?” he asked. “Your quest? Did you meet with success?”

  My grin was my answer, and they both seemed to be as happy about it as I was, which was nice. That got me rolling and I ended up describing all the stuff that happened since I left their house. How tough the going was those last fifteen miles with the wind in my face, and the eerie, half-burned city on guard against gangs and looters, and Mrs. Rand sending me to the asylum, and the friends I made there, and Lydia giving me enough medication to last Mom until spring, and the man in the moon saying don’t forget.

  When I was done, Mrs. Boncoeur beckoned me to her wheelchair, threw her arms around me, and kissed my wind-chapped forehead. “Très bon, very good,” she said. “A boy came down the mountain, a man goes back up.”

  “What she say, double that!” Pete said.

  “You’ve been busy,” Mrs. Boncoeur said, warming my hands in hers. “We’ve been busy, too. Arrangements have been made, mon cher! Tomorrow you go home in style!”

  Arrangements have been made? Go home in style? What was she talking about? The old couple was super nice and everything, but what could they possibly do to help, beyond providing a hot meal and a warm place to sleep?

  Pete Boncoeur, beaming with pride, explained exactly what had been arranged for my benefit. And if I hadn’t already been sitting down I’d have fallen right to the floor.

  * * *

  Shortly after dawn I hugged Mrs. Boncoeur goodbye and followed Pete out into the front yard, not far from the woodpile that had almost killed him. It was intensely cold, but there was almost no wind, and our frosty breath hung in the air like smoke.

  The old man unzipped his parka pocket and withdrew a bright orange flare gun. A gift from their son, Renny, who lived about three miles away, just over the horizon. Who needs smoke signals to communicate if you have a flare gun?

  “You ready, Charlie? Won’t take long, once he sees the flare.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Pete aimed at the top of the sky, where the stars were just beginning to fade, and pulled the trigger. With a whoosh the flare streaked upward, bursting into a bright, sizzling flame, and then very slowly descended under its own little parachute.

  We heard them coming long before we could see them. The excited, high-pitched yipping of running dogs. Pete squeezed my arm and said, “This is the beauty part,” and right on cue the sled dogs burst through an opening in the trees, running so hard and fast their blurred feet didn’t seem to touch the snow.

  Crouched on the sled, urging on the blue-eyed dogs and grinning like he loved it, was a young version of Pete Boncoeur. Same jutting chin beard, but the younger beard was black, and the man who leapt from the sled was slightly taller and way more nimble than the old man.

  “Charlie Cobb, meet our son, Renny Boncoeur,” Pete said with unmistakable pride. “He and his team of huskies, they win the thirty-mile sprint last year at Bretton Woods. Lots of other races, too.”

  Renny clapped his leather mittens together, more or less silencing the eager dogs. He grinned at me and said, “You’re not going to need those skis today. Not if me and the dogs have anything to say about it.”

  I explained that the skis belonged to my friend Gronk and that I had promised to return them.

  “Oh yeah? Okay then!” Renny declared. “No problem. We’ll make room.”

  He tied the skis and poles and my backpack to the sled, then strode into the house to greet his mother, who had been waving from the window.

  He returned a few minutes later with a thermos of coffee and showed me where to sit in the racing sled and how to brace myself.

  “Ever ride a dogsled, young man?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ha! Better than flying. We’ll do all the work. You pull down your ski mask, sit back, and enjoy the ride. Bye-bye, Papa! Bye, Mama. I’ll be home for dinner!”

  Renny gave a shout and the dogs straine
d forward, tightening the harness. He ran behind to get the sled going and then we were on our way, gathering speed as the dogs quickly got into rhythm. Tails up like furry exclamation points, their beautiful thick coats bristling in the cold.

  The amazing thing, they all panted at the same time in the same way, ten red tongues wagging together, first one side of their mouths, then the other, like the tick-tock on a cuckoo clock. I glanced back and saw Renny’s eyes so big they nearly filled his goggles. He was supposed to be a professional racer, but he seemed to be just as excited about the ride as me.

  The sled was equipped with brakes, but I don’t think he ever used them. I’d only ever seen a dogsled race on TV and had no idea what it would feel like, sitting that low to the ground and going that fast.

  It felt jet-propelled, that’s how it felt. Or maybe dog-propelled was more like it. For sure it seemed faster than most snowmobile rides, with the ground blurring by only inches from my face. Careening through the woods on narrow trails that hadn’t been groomed since the power failed. Crossing snow-blasted meadows and frozen ponds and mountain passages, through sunlight and shadow, with Renny Boncoeur clinging to the sled and yipping like his huskies, shouting, “Gee to the swing dog! Haw to the swing dog! Pull for the lead dog! Hi! Hi! Hi! On Aby! On Aleu! On Ada and Bullet and Cricket! On Hotfoot! On Juno! On Miki and Suka and Stash! On, you huskies, on!”

  It was a song of speed and endurance, of strength and skill. A song of friendship, passed from parents to son. A song that filled me with real joy for the first time since my father had passed. And why not? I had the medicine in my pocket—mission accomplished—and a fast ride home that was a dream come true. Except I never could have dreamed it! I’d thought it would take me days and days to fight my way back up the mountain, trudging on snowshoes and boots, but with the help of some good people and a team of amazing dogs, I’d be sleeping in my own bed tonight.