The Mountain Between Us (28 page)

“You've been this cold before, remember?” the ghost skiing next to Jameso continued. “That night you helped me with the ghost lights up on Mount Winston. Damn, we like to froze our asses off skiing around up there, waving those lanterns . . . all to give the folks in town a thrill.”

“That was cold,” Jameso said. “But not like this. This year when I did the lights there wasn't even any snow. It was almost easy climbing in the dark.”

“Keeping the tradition alive.” The ghost chuckled. “I like that.”

Jameso shook his head, as if to clear it. It wasn't a good sign if he was hallucinating Jake Murphy this way. Did it mean he was freezing to death? That the end was near?

“What the hell made you think this was a good idea anyway?” Jake asked. “You could be sitting in a warm bar in Durango, drinking a toast to Christmas. Instead, you're out here trying to freeze to death.”

“I have to get to Maggie.” Jameso faced forward once more and quickened his pace. Things were bad if he was hallucinating dead men.

“There was a time I would have kicked your ass for looking at her twice, much less knocking her up.”

“I'd like to see you try, old man.” He and Jake had had their share of brawls, and they always ended in a draw. Jake was bigger, but Jameso was younger and that made them about even.

“I didn't come out here tonight to beat you up.”

“Then why did you come out here?”

“Maybe I just felt like a midnight lark in the snow.”

Jameso grunted. Was it his imagination or was he moving downhill now? He must be over the pass. The knowledge renewed his energy. Downhill meant toward town. Toward Maggie.

“Maggie's happy about the baby, right?” Jake asked.

“She's happy.” At least he was pretty sure she was happy. Maggie kept her own council, one of the things he admired about her. She told him what she wanted him to know but didn't feel the need to share everything.

“If the baby is a boy, she should name it Jake.”

“Like the world needs another you,” Jameso said. His voice was hoarse from the cold and the words came out in a croak, but what did it matter since he was talking to a ghost?

“Maybe you have a point. And maybe she wouldn't want to name her kid after me.”

“It's not like you ever did anything for her.”

“I'm still her old man. And if I ever hear of you treating her bad or letting her down, I
will
come back and make you sorry you were born.”

“You're one to talk.” Anger at his old friend rose, and he stoked it. Anger had heat and strength to drive him on. “All she ever wanted was for you to be there for her and you couldn't even give her that.”

“Go ahead and call me a bastard. I know what I am. But whatever she thinks, she was better off without me around.”

“I don't believe that, and Maggie doesn't believe it either.”

“All you need to believe is that you shouldn't be like me.”

“Then why did you do it? How could you walk out on a helpless baby that way?” He shook, not from cold, but with rage. He thought of the tears Maggie had shed in his presence over her father—and all the tears she must have cried before. All for a man who had left her when she needed him most.

“I wasn't punishing her, if that's what you think. I was punishing myself.” Jake stabbed a ski pole into the snow so hard it sunk halfway to the handle. He pulled it out with a grunt. “I'd done so many bad things . . . killed so many people in Vietnam who didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve to be around an innocent little child, to poison her with my presence. I didn't deserve to be around good people.”

Jake's voice cracked with pain, and even though Jameso knew this wasn't real, that this was only some ice-fueled illusion, he felt that pain. “I didn't do bad things,” he said quietly. “But I saw a lot of bad things, over in Iraq. I lived when others didn't. It made me afraid to get close to people.”

“War does that. Sometimes life does that. But you've got to figure out how to beat it, for Maggie's sake. And for the baby's sake.”

“That's what I'm trying to do. That's why I'm freezing my ass off up here right now.”

“You can do it. Be there for her, I mean. And you won't freeze your ass off tonight. Is that a light up ahead?”

Jameso leaned forward, squinting into the whiteness. He could make out the black outlines of trees and a soft glow beyond that. He pushed harder, breath coming in ragged gasps. The glow solidified into a square of golden light, shining in the window of a cabin. “I'm going to make it,” he said, and turned to grin at Jake.

But there was no one there. He was alone again in the night, with the Christmas silence all around him.

 

Lucas's idea had been to fake a cold so that his mom and D. J. would have to go off together to deliver the presents. He hoped they'd talk and maybe, since it was Christmas and all, they'd figure out whatever was wrong between them and decide to get back together. Everything had gone pretty smoothly, too, except he'd ended up with a real cold, which kind of sucked. Especially at Christmas.

Grandma had offered to stay home from church with him, but he was thirteen, a teenager, so it wasn't as if he needed a babysitter. “I'll probably just go to bed early,” he'd told her. Except he wasn't really sleepy, and he didn't feel that sick; he just had a stuffy head and a little bit of a sore throat. Mostly, he was bored. And a little lonely. This was his first Christmas in a real home and he'd thought things would be a lot different.

He wandered down the stairs, into the big front room they hardly ever used. His grandmother called it the parlor. She and Lucas had set up a Christmas tree there—a real fir tree Bob had cut from the woods for them. It must have been close to ten feet tall, the tip brushing the high ceilings. That was another first for him; when his mom had bothered to have a tree it had been a little artificial number, set on a table in the corner of whatever apartment they'd been living in at the time.

Lucas stared at the big tree in front of the bow window, refusing to blink, letting his eyes lose focus until the tree became a blurry arrangement of softly glowing lights, like those Impressionist paintings he'd read about. Finally, he had to blink and bring the tree back into focus. And the piles of presents underneath. He dropped to his knees and picked up a box wrapped in red paper. For his mom from Grandma. Probably clothes or something. Grown-ups always seemed crazy about clothes. He figured his mom would probably get him a new coat, since his was ripped and a little tight. She probably thought that was a great present, but he needed the coat anyway. A present should be something you didn't necessarily need, but you wanted it anyway.

He wanted a gun—a .22 he could take hunting. D. J. thought it was a good idea, but Lucas wasn't sure he could talk Mom and Grandma into letting Lucas have it.

He looked out the window, at the snow softly falling once more. The flakes looked pretty, dancing in the soft glow from the porch light. What were Mom and D. J. doing right now? Had they made up yet? They loved each other—why couldn't his mother see that? Or why wouldn't she admit it?

He left the tree and pulled on his too-small coat, then went out onto the porch to watch the snow and to watch the street for his mom and D. J., or Grandma. They ought to be home by now, shouldn't they?

The street was quiet. Empty. No cars. No people out walking their dogs. No movement in nearby houses. He shivered. What if he were the only person left alive? What if zombies had killed and eaten everyone else?

Movement in the window of a house down the street caught his eye and he breathed a sigh of relief. He knew there really weren't such things as zombies, but still . . .

The figure in the window moved away. That was Miss Wynock's house. She was probably down there all alone; she didn't seem to have many friends. He wasn't sure she wanted any, but he didn't think she was so bad. He shoved his hands in his pockets against the cold and started down the street toward her.

He'd ring the bell, tell her Merry Christmas, then leave. She wouldn't even have time to be mad at him for disturbing her. But when the big oak door creaked open, he forgot what he was going to say. The old librarian stood there with her hair piled on top of her head, wearing pink lipstick and dangly earrings like his mom liked, and a long, sparkly silver dress. She looked almost pretty. “I . . . I didn't mean to interrupt anything,” he stammered. “I just . . . I just wanted to say Merry Christmas.”

He turned to leave, but she put her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Come in, Lucas. You aren't interrupting.”

What could he do then but follow her inside? The house was a lot like his grandmother's, at least the way the rooms were arranged. But these rooms were crammed full of old furniture and books and clocks and enough old stuff to furnish a museum. He guessed the house was a kind of museum. Cassie led him into the dining room, where candles in a silver candelabra shone down on a table set with china and silver. “It has always been a tradition in the Wynock house to dress for dinner on Christmas Eve,” she said. “You're just in time to join me.”

She indicated a place at the table, which was set for four. “Are you expecting other guests?” Lucas asked.

“No, but I like to be prepared in case someone stops by.”

“Is Mr. Pershing here?” He'd seen the old guy hanging around the place earlier, hanging lights in the big tree out front.

“Gerald? Oh my goodness, no. I sent him away as soon as he finished splitting the last of the firewood. He wasn't very happy with me, but I persuaded him it would be in his best interest to go. Living alone, I know how to defend myself.” She nodded to a pearl-handled pistol that rested on the table by the door. Its barrel was polished silver, engraved with lacy filigree. “Now, do have a seat. We don't want dinner to get cold.”

He pulled out the chair and sat, then wondered if he should have offered to hold her chair for her. He'd seen that in a movie once and it sounded like the kind of thing she'd expect. But she said nothing, merely slid into her own chair and reached for a bottle of wine at her elbow. She filled her glass, then hesitated and filled Lucas's.

He stared at the pale golden liquid in the glass. He'd never had wine before. He and his friend Ryan had sneaked a couple of beers out of the back of the Dirty Sally once, but Lucas hadn't been impressed with the experience.

“Just one glass,” Cassie said, as if reading his mind. “Sip it very slowly. After all, it's Christmas Eve.”

She removed the domed cover from a platter and transferred what looked like a whole, miniature chicken to his plate. “Cornish game hen,” she said. She added some brownish rice and green peas to the hen on his plate and motioned he should begin eating.

The chicken was scrawny, but it tasted okay. “It's good,” he said.

He sipped the wine carefully. It was sour and sweet, too. Not great, but not terrible. He watched Cassie out of the corner of his eye and tried to copy her movements, the way she held the knife and fork, how she set aside the utensils between every bite. He didn't want her complaining to his mom or grandmother that he had horrible manners.

“When I was a girl, we'd have a dozen or more people gathered around this table on Christmas Eve,” she said. “My father and mother had so many friends . . . famous people like the governor, doctors and lawyers, and wealthy businessmen. Everyone wanted to gather at our table during the holidays.” She looked around the table and smiled, as if seeing it full of distinguished guests.

Lucas's stomach hurt, thinking of her all alone in this house, setting the table for guests who never arrived. He took a drink of wine, forgetting to sip, but the tart liquid helped some. “Did you have brothers and sisters?” he asked.

Her gaze came more in focus and she studied him. “No, I was an only child. Like you.”

He dragged the tines of his fork through the peas. “It's lonely being the only kid at Christmas,” he said.

“Yes, yes, it is.” She stared into her own wineglass. The house was so quiet Lucas could hear a clock ticking somewhere across the room. He wondered if he ought to leave now. Mom would be worried if she came home and he wasn't there.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Lucas?”

The question was one adults often asked kids, but the way she stared at him so intently, Cassie seemed truly interested in his answer. “A historian, maybe,” he said. “Or an archeologist. Or a policeman. I'm not sure.” It wasn't as if he had to decide right this minute.

She nodded slowly and refilled her wineglass. “Whatever you choose, don't let others stifle your dreams,” she said. She sipped the wine, then pushed her half-full plate away. “I wanted to go away to college and my parents convinced me to wait. I was needed at home. I was always needed at home, so I never went away. I wanted to go into politics or the foreign service, to be a diplomat and travel the world, but I let them convince me to become a librarian instead. It was more practical. More suitable.”

“You could travel now,” he said.

She shook her head. “I'm too old.”

“You're not that old. You're not much older than my grandmother, are you?”

“I'll never be the girl I was.” She sighed dramatically, as if she were acting in a play.

“You can be whoever you want to be.” Lucas pushed aside his own plates. “That's what adults at school always say anyway. Do you think they're lying?”

She didn't answer. She held her wineglass in one hand and stared into the distance. He wondered if she'd forgotten he was there. “I'd better go now,” he said. He stood. “Thank you for the dinner.”