“Right this minute, solitude isn’t what I’m craving.”
He gave her a look that widened her eyes.
But the door into the kitchen swung open, and a
voice called, “Mr. Fallon? It sounds like the plow
stopped. Do you think they’ve gotten to your road?”
“I’m coming,” he called, then backed a couple of
steps from Fiona. Tearing his gaze from her was downright painful. He limped toward his room.
The boys were waiting impatiently when he emerged
in boots and shrugging on his parka. Gloves in the
pocket—yep. Polartec hat in the other—check.
Pros with the snowshoes, they made it up the hill
faster than John would have liked. By then, the plow had
reached the van and come to a stop, the blade a foot or
two from the bumper.
John greeted the men who emerged, recognizing
faces from last winter. “Glad you could make it.”
“Just sorry it took so long. Been a busy weekend,”
the bearded guy said.
“Heard even Portland got buried.”
“Six inches. Can you believe it? Damn near closed
down the city. Had the traffic slip-sliding away.”
John shook his head. “I can imagine.”
“Well.” The man surveyed the boys. “You three part
of the Willamette Prep group?”
They nodded. “Did we make the TV news?”
Hopper asked.
“Might’ve.” He chewed for a minute, then spat a
stream of brown tobacco juice. “Yeah, a couple of
groups from that Knowledge thing… What was it,
somethin’ like a football game? Anyway, a couple of
groups didn’t make it back.”
“A couple?” John knew the first thing Fiona would
ask. “Is the group from the other school okay?”
“Yeah, they were stuck up Government Camp way.”
He nodded roughly north, toward Mt. Hood. “That road
got plowed a while ago.”
Relieved, he nodded.
They turned their attention to the problem of getting
the van back on the road. Finally, Dieter got elected—
because he was skinny and capable—of lowering
himself into the soft snow and shinnying under the van
to wrap a chain around the axle. They dragged him
back out, clutching the end of the chain. Then, with the
snowplow pulling and the boys pushing, the van
bumped back onto the road.
It took a hell of a lot longer to turn it around. The
plow widened the road as much as possible. Then John
got behind the wheel and backed up, inched forward,
backed again, while everyone else pushed, until the
damn thing faced uphill.
Predictably the boys cheered and gave each other
high-fives. John felt branded as the cripple who hadn’t
been able to pull his weight. Telling himself none of the
boys had the skill to maneuver the vehicle under such
difficult conditions helped about as much as a skinny
bandage on a bone-deep gash. The truth was, he
couldn’t have been much use. His leg and hip wouldn’t
have stood up to the strain at the same time as his feet
were slipping in the snow.
Face it: he was a cripple.
The highway guys introduced themselves to the kids,
and everyone shook hands. John expected to be seeing
the two men regularly this winter. Not likely nature
would throw a temper tantrum like this in November
and then turn mild and easygoing come December and
January. John figured it would pay to be on good terms
with the guys who had to dig him out every time the
snow came down.
After some discussion, they backed the plow out to
the highway and John followed with the van so that they
could finish plowing his road down to the lodge. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get out with his SUV.
Time could be elastic; he knew that. For example,
getting stuck on an observation post during your tour
in Iraq. You’ve donned full combat gear and body
armor, made sure you have five hundred rounds of ammunition for the machine gun you’re carrying, then have to go stand or sit in full sun—120 degrees. Sweat
pouring down your face, soaking your uniform. Time
didn’t just crawl, it eked. What had to be half an hour
would pass, you’d look at your watch and see that the
hand had hardly moved at all.
In contrast, the next hour here and now sped by. He