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Thaw

Jack Daniel Miles

    The old man and I drank coffee together every morning at 7:20 am, ate dinner at 4:30 pm. We kept to it every damn day for an entire season—I had rented a cabin in the wilds for the winter. Alone time was work, good work, new work, old work, work I had to learn, relearn. Food, firewood—hunt, chop—eat, live—survive. Sabbatical, reformation, something. Escape from a world that had lifted me from reality, planted me in a high-rise, cursed me with endless lovers, generated a fractured self, and driven me to cherish my loathsome goals. The envy of devils had sustained me, propped me up, and let me fall. Envy had become jealousy, had become resentment, had become what I deserved. I withdrew into obscurity to escape my addiction to Hell.
    The old man showed up at my rented doorstep on my first morning in the cabin. He said, “I walk by this cabin every morning and every evening.” Then silence. He did not offer his name. Was this a question? He appeared inquisitive rather than confused. He had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder and a tattered canvas sack tucked under his belt.
    My brain wavered; I was baffled. He was either crazy, friendly, or a real life Bear Claw Chris Lapp—that old Robert Redford movie, Jeremiah Johnson, was my dad’s favorite; probably saw it a hundred times when I was a kid. I decided that I did not care. My life had attained no worth up to that point. Therefore, its removal from this world would have proved no loss. “Coffee?”
    “Reckon it’ll save me a couple miles.” His voice was slow country. He edged past me toward the wood stove. I plugged in my shitty coffee maker and chucked in a few scoops of some garbage-brand coffee, both of which I had bought at the general store down the road.
    I had the door open less than a minute; it was long enough for the temperature in the cabin to drop noticeably. It became a struggle for the meager fire—I had built it with a bit of kindling I had found under a tarp on the front porch—burning in the cast-iron beast to get the cabin back in the tolerable range. I did not care, though. I figured a memory of cold might relieve me in the worst moments of my eventual perdition.
    The old man’s beard was defrosting; he shed his layers by the stove. “Been a while since more’n just coons and such gave any interest to this place. Yep, save me a couple miles.”
    It took me a second to figure out what he meant by, ‘save me a couple miles.’ “So you walk to the general store for coffee every morning?”
    “Yep.”
    “Why not buy a can of coffee and a cheap machine next time you’re there, save yourself a hell of a lot of trouble.
    “Ya know,” he said, eyeing me cunningly through heavy, gray eyebrows, “You must be one of the brainiest motherfuckers I ever met. Don’t suppose I ever thought of doin’ that.” His raw sarcasm surprised me—I gave a small, lopsided smile. I deserved the abuse.
    “I don’t think brainy is the word for what I am. So why do you do it? You know, walk,” I paused thoughtfully and scrunched up my eyes a bit in curiosity, “wait, how far’s your place from here?”
    “About two and a half, three miles; maybe more, maybe less.” I poured us each a cup of coffee; kept it black.
    “You walk, even with this weather, five miles each way, to get yourself a cup or two of coffee?”
    “Yep, twice a day, mind you. Like to get dinner there, too.”
    “You do have a kitchen, right? A stove, electricity, or whatever?” What about lunch?
    “Yep. Suppose it’s a pretty nice kitchen, got everything most folks need, except for people. General store’s got people there. No community in my kitchen at home. Lunch? Eat lunch home most days. Usually a bit of whatever I can kill on the way back. Sometimes carry home a few biscuits from Loraine down there at the store, too. Don’t always find a lot, a few rabbits here and there, but I make due. Got some deer meat in the freezer at home. I like goin’ twice. Yep.”
    I finally sat down across from him at the table. Silence settled in, and I was okay with that. The whole thing was a little odd.
    After a time, the old man grabbed the pot and poured another cup, topped mine off, then sat back down. “What ya reckon sounds good for dinner tonight? Tuesday’s Lorain’s got liver’n onions, cornbread, such, at the store. I know you don’t have none of that, but I guess you’ll come up with somethin’, you know, smart bastard that you are.”
    The old man stood up, went to the stove, and started reassembling his elaborate winter defense—I watched. Layer, coffee, layer, coffee, layer. “Well, I’ll be back over ‘round 4:30. If I got any whatever left from lunch, I’ll bring it with me, add to the pot, so to speak.”
    He picked up the coffee mug I had provided him, nodded, shook the last drops out over the floor, and stuffed it in one of his coat pockets. I did not protest—it was not really mine anyway. He then re-slung his rifle, tucked the canvas bag back in place, and said, “Gonna need more wood, bring ya ‘n ax when I come back. Dead trees mind you, dead trees,” and walked out with about the same amount of mystifying fanfare with which he had arrived.
    I was less bothered by the whole thing than I likely should have been. It was either the start of a horror movie, or a boondocks “Dinner with Andre.” Although, at that point in my life, I would rather have been murdered than eat French food and be forced to wear a coat and tie ever again.
    I wanted to drive up to the general store and ask about the old man, but I could not. I had taken a taxi from the airport, had it stop at the general store on the way in and went straight to the cabin after that.
    I had very little with me: my hunting gear, which had been in storage since my dad died, winter clothes, and whatever paltry supplies I had picked up at the general store. It was going to be a figure it out or die kind of winter. I would have wagered die.
    The old man kept to the 7:30 am, 4:30 pm schedule up until the thaw began. Our conversations often consisted of a great deal of silence. I quickly found out his name was Paul, I told him my name was John. He said, “So, you’re a smart son of a bitch and a liar.” I told him he was right on at least one account and then told him my real name. I had instinctively felt compelled to lie about who I was—I had no longer wanted to be who I was.
    On a fair day, toward what I figured was the middle of April—there was only an old wind-up clock in the cabin, I had dropped my cell phone in the trash at the airport, and I did not dare turn on the TV—the old man, Paul, showed up at 7:30 am as usual but in less winter armor. “I walked up to the store this morning, just to let folks know I wasn’t dead, you know, since they hadn’t seen me in a while.”
    “Shit, Paul, what time does that place open?”
    “Early enough, most the time. So, where you goin’ after today?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Today’s your last day rentin’ this place. Think you’ll go back to the big city, back home; hell, maybe look for a new home, new job? Yep, probably need a new job. Gonna have a hell of a time of it.” My bowels loosened and I felt the blood drain from my face.
    Paul chuckled slightly, smiled a half smile, gestured his coffee mug at me. “I ain’t got much, but I do got a TV, son. Lawyers worked things out for ya all legal-wise, huh, kept ya outta prison, sent them other boys up the river, as they say. Obvious you still tryin’ to get things straight with yourself, though. That’s why you come here, right? Not just to run away. Can’t run away from yourself, but you already know that. Well, I imagine you’re gettin’ shit figured out; seem to be. You done all right here over the winter, I imagine. Didn’t die.”
    Hear you and them other boys fucked a whole buncha folks real bad, folks want your head, think you escaped justice, folks wanna know where all that money got to. Don’t suppose you really even know for sure, do ya?” He looked halfway up at me from his coffee mug and wrinkled up his brow so that those bushy eyebrows seemed to go halfway up his forehead. The universe paused for the briefest of moments as his eyes bore into me, then his entire face relaxed and he began reexamining his mug, “Nah, didn’t figure so.” He seemed pleased, from what I could tell.
    Folks at the store asked about you. Told ‘em you’re pretty smart, you’ll do good running the place; told ‘em I trust ya, ‘cause I do. Ernie had a heart attack ‘fore the cold set in, won’t be comin’ back to the store. The crew done all right by me over the winter, but gotta have someone with a brain to run things now the seasons comin’ back around. Suppose traffic’ll be pickin’ up through here again.”
    It was similar to the first day Paul had invaded the cabin—we were immediately drinking coffee together every morning and eating dinner together every evening as if God himself had predetermined it. Now I was running the general store. It just was—no other scenario existed other than this, no other possibilities. This was truth. “You own the general store?”
    “You can have the cabin, you’re the only one rented the damn thing in ages. Suppose I’ll tell Ernie’s wife to not worry about tryin’ to rent it out for me no more, take it down off that computer mess.”
    “You mean the internet? You own this cabin?”
    “You’ll have to walk to work for now; don’t have a car to lend ya. Alright, I’m gonna do dinner at the store tonight; suppose I’ll see ya up there in the morning.” Paul stood, left his mug on the table, slung his rifle, nodded, and headed out the door. I threw a couple more logs in the stove, poured another cup of coffee, and looked out the window at the newly visible traces of life peeking out from beneath the melting snow.’

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