South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [64]
In her rambling she stumbled across a shallow pit behind the cabin. She poked through it and found a rusted metal ash bucket with the bottom missing, the spout of a thick white china pitcher, the delicate handle of a teacup, and a bunch of rusty tin cans. But better than any of this was a glass ink bottle stained indigo blue.
What words had been written with that ink? Household accounts, tonics, a diary, letters to family?—her own family, she realized with a start. If there had been letters or a diary or even a prosaic accounting book, they were written by her own people, by dear Walter’s parents. Or by Joe. Standing beside this shell of a cabin so deep in the woods, she was willing for the first time to be impressed by the thought of them. What a life must have been lived here. Not a life for the weak. A hard life that might make you hard in return. Gladys was right, she didn’t know anything about it. How could she judge people she had never known and could hardly imagine? They were hers, for better and worse, and they’d actually lived and worked in this very place. She put the ink bottle in her knapsack.
Eventually she took out the snack she’d packed, a cheese sandwich and an apple and a chocolate bar. She glanced at her watch when she finished eating—ten thirty already. She’d better go. She’d just take another ten minutes and soak the place in. She settled her head against her backpack, closed her eyes, and basked in the sun, listening to the buzzing of flies and calls of ravens and jays, the insistent hammering of the woodpecker. Smelled the pungent wild roses that were blooming all along the back wall of the cabin. She felt drowsy and relaxed, as happy as she’d been in a long time.
Madeline didn’t know what woke her. The shifting of the sun, probably. A shadow fell across her, the breeze picked Up a little, and suddenly she was wide awake, shocked that she’d dozed off. How could she have? She looked at her watch. Nearly eleven. If she hurried, she’d make it to work on time.
Things were going all right Until she hit the last stretch of water and sucking black muck. Maybe she wasn’t paying close enough attention because she was worried about being late. She knew she was driving too fast. For whatever reason, she got stuck. Even with the four-wheel-drive button punched, she was stuck, deeper and deeper every minute, the muck swallowing the tires. Was the four-wheel drive even working? How were you supposed to know?
Madeline hit the button again and again, rocked the truck, felt it keep sinking and sinking. No! she yelled in frustration, but of course there was no one to hear. Finally in a great miraculous burst the truck slewed sideways and Madeline gave it a full stomp of gas, determined to get out. She did, but she had so little control in the slimy, sucking mud and was going so fast that the next thing she did was plow into a tree. The back end slid into the ruts again, and then the engine died.
Madeline dragged into Garceau’s at four o’clock. She hadn’t bothered to go home to clean Up or change into her work shirt. She came in the kitchen door bedraggled, muddy, weary, and ill with apology and regret. Paul was swamped, chopping, tossing dough, spreading sauce, sprinkling cheese. She knew better than to interrupt him, but she couldn’t wait to say what she had to.
“Paul, I am so sorry I’m late.”
His face was set and pale with anger and he didn’t answer. She didn’t blame him. She tied her apron on. “I can’t begin to say how bad I feel, and I’ll work for free for however long it takes to fix everything.”
His eyes flew Up at that.
“I really am so, so sorry.”
Paul pulled a finished pizza out of the oven and rang the bell. She was relieved he’d