Snowbound (11 page)

Abruptly, Rebecca wondered if things might have been different if she and Matt had had a child. Well no, probably not, and anyway, the question was academic. He had told her during their brief engagement that he was sterile—their childless marriage was in no way responsible for his infidelity, either—and she had said then that it didn’t matter, they had each other and that was enough. There had been some talk at that time of adopting a baby later on, but neither of them had mentioned it again in the seven years they had been man and wife.

Her eyes strayed to the window again, and she could just make out the familiar, iridescent glow of light in the cabin above. And she found herself wondering about Zachary Cain again, wondering as she had on the previous night if he too was lonely. Would he welcome some company on this stormy night, the same as she? Would he be receptive to a visit from a young-old and cuckolded wife?

Oh, stop it, she told herself. The only thing you’d accomplish by going up there is to make a fool of yourself; remember Reno, remember that, and it doesn’t matter that it’s not the same thing. There’s nothing up there for you, nothing at all.

Rebecca finished the last of her coffee, put the cup down, and went back into the living room. She was cold again—odd how she couldn’t seem to keep warm lately. Picking up her book, she climbed the stairs and ran a hot bath and undressed and slipped into the tub. The steaming water helped a little; she could feel herself beginning to relax.

The book she was reading was one of those sex-and-big business best sellers—not really absorbing, just something to read—and she opened it again as she lay soaking. After two pages, she came to another in a long series of boudoir scenes; but this one, as coldly clinical in detail as all the others, had a curiously and intensely erotic effect on her. Her nipples grew erect beneath the warm bathwater; her hips moved featheringly against the smooth porcelain; her thighs opened and closed in a gentle, involuntary rhythm. God, it had been such a long time now! Dry-throated, she closed the book sharply and put it aside, shutting her eyes, willing her body still. After a time the sexual need began to ebb—but she was cold again, even in the warm bath she was cold again....

Half an hour later, fully dressed, she sat with a tasteless sandwich—she could not recall the last time she had taken a genuine pleasure in the consumption of food—and a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Seven o’clock now. Blizzard flinging snow at the window, wailing emptily. It was going to be such a long, long night——and I don’t want to be alone, she thought.

The window seemed suddenly to develop a magnetic pull for her eyes. After a moment she stood from the table and went there and saw again the diffused yellow light in the cabin. She looked at it for a full minute, and then she thought: Well, I
could
go up there, I could go up and talk to him for a while; there’s nothing wrong in that. Just two people, landlord and tenant, talking together on a stormy, lonely winter night. And she
was
curious about him, there was that too.

She kept on standing there, thinking about it—and then she walked into the hall, to where the coat closet was located near the Dutch-doored front entrance. You’d better not do it, she told herself—and knew that she was going to do it anyway. She opened the closet and put on fur-lined snow parka and fur-lined ski boots (presents from Matt in one of his contrite and attentive moments); then she tied a scarf tightly around her head, put the parka’s hood over it, drew on a pair of wool mittens. And went out into the blizzard before she could change her mind.

The tails of her parka and the flared legs of her slacks slapped and ballooned in the chill white wind as she crossed the front yard to Lassen Drive. She started up the road, struggling through the dry shoulder drifts. The cold numbed her lips and her cheeks; the night and the snow pressed down on her, sealing her in a thrumming vacuum. Finally, she reached the cabin and stepped off the road, bracing herself against the heaving wind, moving toward the dull warm light in the facing window.

As she drew opposite, she could see beyond the ice-frosted glass, and Cain was there, sitting there in the window. He was smoking, looking down at the table: remote, grim-visaged in his thick grayish beard. Rebecca stopped abruptly, and she was less sure of herself now, less convinced that coming here was a good idea. What did she know about Zachary Cain, after all? He was a complete stranger, she hadn’t spoken twenty words to him since he’d arrived in Hidden Valley; what could she say to him tonight, where would she begin? She thought of retracing her steps to the road, leaving as quickly as she had come. But she did not move. Home to the big, empty house had no appeal; being alone tonight disturbed her more than the unknown qualities of Zachary Cain.

The wind slackened and began to gust, and the cold penetrated her clothing to chill her skin. Through the hazy window, she saw Cain rub one hand over his face and through his unkempt hair—a tired, despondent gesture that cemented her resolve. She moved forward again to the front door.

Rebecca knocked loudly several times. When there was no immediate response, she thought he hadn’t heard above the sound of the storm and reached up to knock again. And the door opened with a jerky suddenness, and Cain stood holding it against the force of the wind, peering out at her with red-flecked eyes. There was a surprise in his gaze, but it dulled and faded almost instantly. She saw pain there, too, and what might have been irritation. He did not look drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking.

She tried a tentative smile and felt the tightness of it on her mouth. He did not return it—except for his eyes, his face was totally impassive—and the doubts began to wash over Rebecca again. Her mind seemed to have gone blank; she could not think of anything to say. She had a foolish impulse to turn and run away into the snow-riddled night.

Cain said finally, “Yes, what is it, Mrs. Hughes?”

She found words then and pushed them out diffidently. “May I come inside? It’s terribly cold out here.”

He hesitated, and then shrugged and moved aside so that she could step in past him. The cabin was warm, fire in the hearth; but it smelled of liquor and stale cigarette smoke, and when he closed the door, cutting off the scream of the wind, it seemed too quiet. She was conscious of the snow that had blown into the room, that still fell fluttering from her parka; she wanted to say something apologetic about it, but the only words that came to her were acutely inane:
I’m getting snow all over your floor.

Cain was standing with his back to the door, watching her, waiting silently for her to tell him why she was there. Instead, Rebecca said, “Quite a storm, isn’t it?” and those words seemed just as inane as the other, unspoken ones. She began to feel awkward and incredibly silly.

He said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well—I hope I’m not intruding. I mean, you’re not . . . busy or anything, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. What did you want to see me about?”

“Nothing in particular. I just . . . I thought you might like to have some company tonight.”

His barlike eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh? Why?”

“I don’t know, I just thought you might. I’m alone too this evening, you see, my husband is . . . away, and it seemed like a good idea to—” She broke off, realizing how wrong that sounded; she looked away from him and then said almost desperately, “I was feeling lonely, and I wanted someone to talk to.”

“Why me, Mrs. Hughes?”

“I had the idea you might be lonesome too, that’s all.”

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. “I’m not lonesome,” he said harshly. “I live the way I do by choice.”

“Does that mean you don’t like people?”

“I prefer my own company.”

“Would it be prying if I asked why?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Well I’m sorry.”

“Do you make a habit of calling on men you hardly know when your husband is away and you’re feeling lonely?”

“Of course not. . . .”

“What would he say if he knew you’d come here tonight?”

Rebecca felt her cheeks begin to flush. “What are you getting at? Do you think I came for some . . . special reason?”

“Did you?”

“No. I told you, I only wanted some companionship.”

“You won’t find it here, in any variety.”

“So you’re inviting me to leave.”

“To put it bluntly, yes.”

Bitter, defensive anger welled inside her; words tumbled out unchecked, mirroring her thoughts. “Oh, we can
really
put it bluntly if you like. We can say, ‘You’re a bitch, Mrs. Hughes, I don’t want anything to do with you, Mrs. Hughes, find someone else to go to bed with, Mrs. Hughes.’ That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Cain seemed to wince slightly. His voice a little softer, he said, “There’s no need to—”

“Of course, how thoughtless of me to bring it out into the open like that. Well, I’ll just be going. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Cain. It’s been very pleasant; it isn’t every day I get to feel like a cheap whore.”

She moved gropingly to the door, fumbled at the latch, and got it open. The sudden gust of wind and snow was like a slap. She ran out and across the yard and down the road: staggering and reeling in a surrealistic coalescence of white and black, the sound of it now raging in her ears like mocking, hysterical laughter.

When she reached the house, an interminable time later, she was asthmatically breathless and trembling uncontrollably. Inside, she stripped off parka and scarf and mittens and boots and flung them into the closet; ran upstairs and into the bedroom. Slacks and sweater and undergarments were icy-damp against her skin, and she shed them urgently and located the warmest nightgown she owned—a heavy flannel—and put that on and got into bed. The shaking refused to abate; her teeth chattered, her body crawled with chills. She tried to smoke a cigarette, could not get it lighted, and finally threw it to the floor, burrowing deeper under the blankets. Cold, cold, trembling, cold. . . .

And after a while, when it became unbearable, she turned her face into the pillow and slid one hand down beneath the covers and pulled the hem of her gown up over her hips; parted her thighs and began to massage herself harshly with her fingertips—a kind of rhythmic self-flagellation. In less than a minute, she climaxed; and her body, at last, was still.

Rebecca rolled onto her side, drew her knees up to her breasts, and willed herself into a sleep fraught with dismal dreams.

The blizzard continued to gather strength as the night progressed, dumping huge quantities of snow on Hidden Valley and on the high, steep cliffs through which County Road 235-A passed down into the valley. The last two cars to traverse the road—crawling ten minutes apart shortly before 1 A.M., like yellow-eyed animals in the storm—belonged to Matt Hughes and Peggy Tyler, returning from the Whitewater motel. Both sets of tire tracks were obliterated almost immediately.

More hours passed, and still the blizzard remained relentless. Drifts built higher and higher along the cornice at the near, lee side of the western cliff crown, while the screaming wind dislodged other snow from unsheltered places and hurled it downward into the pass in lacy white spumes. Long since rendered impassable, 235-A had a covering of more than eighteen inches by five o’clock.

At five thirty the blow reached its ultimate savagery. The scattered lodgepole pines clinging to the top of the western cliff were bowed double like genuflecting pilgrims, and the swollen cornice collected ever-greater amounts of heavy snow. It went on that way for a time—and then, just before dawn, the low-hanging clouds that sailed continually eastward on the high-altitude currents began to develop fragmentation lines, like amoebas about to reproduce. The snowfall decreased steadily until it was a thin, fluttering curtain. Gray light filtered into the sky, lengthening visibility, giving substance to the bloated shadows along the crown of the western wall.

The blizzard was over; but the destruction it had fomented was only just beginning.

First there was a rumbling—a low-pitched, throat-clearing sound. The overburdened cornice shuddered, shaking whiteness as if a buried giant had awakened and were trying to rise; slender vanguards spilled free in frothy cascades. The rumbling grew louder, and louder still.

And the entire cornice gave way.

Billowing snowclouds choked the air like white smoke, and a massive tidal wave of snow and ice and rock flooded downward with a thunderous, vibratory roar that was as loud as a bomb blast in the early-morning stillness. Granite outcroppings were ripped loose as though they were no more than chunks of soft shale; trees were buried, uprooted, or snapped like matchsticks and carried along. And in a matter of seconds, the plunging mass filled a section of the pass the way a child would fill an excavation in the sand. . . .

Lew Coopersmith sat bolt upright in bed. The deafening noise rattled the bedroom windows, reverberated through the big, shadowed room. He struggled out from beneath the bedclothes and moved in sleep-drugged motions to the window; but from that vantage point he could see nothing to explain the sudden explosion of sound, now lessening into small, receding echoes.