She was Good, She was Funny

In A Borrowed Cabin, in a northern wood, Walt Baffen welcomed winter. He had sacks and tins of food in the root cellar and a moose quarter in the cache. He had three cords of firewood. He had a bookshelf full of paperback classics and a propane lantern to read them by. He had a shortwave wireless and a carton of spare batteries.

Most of all, he had his work--ten crates of obsidian flakes from the University of Alaska-Fairbanks archaeology lab, a case of excavation maps and site catalogs, calipers, a stereomicroscope and a 12-volt laptop computer. By spring--if all went well--he would return home to England with his dissertation, The Detection of Meat Processing in the Prehistoric Record: Microblade Analysis of Late Pleistocene Denali Artifacts in the Brooks Range.

In the meantime there was plenty to do. Walt hauled water uphill by sled from a hole he had chopped in the lake. He split and stacked firewood. He shoveled snow from his rather lengthy driveway. He taught himself to cross-country ski and visited his few and odd neighbors.

In early winter, when it was still warm enough to start the old Subaru wagon, Walt made monthly trips down to Fairbanks to consult with his graduate committee chair, to take in a show at the Goldstream Cinemas and to get pissed or laid, or both.

Soon, real winter began. The dense Arctic cold settled itself about his cabin and pressed against the logs. The sun no longer rose above the ridge across the highway. At night the splitting crack of freezing trees sounded like rifle shots.

Walt stayed indoors. He fed the wood stove day and night. It hissed and groaned as it poured out heat. Walt slept in the loft, near the ceiling where the heat collected. During the day, no matter how warm the cabin got, the air near the floor was frigid. So Walt wore a silk kimono over heavy wool trousers and used his pac boots as house slippers. All in all, this log cabin--120 miles below the Arctic Circle, with no plumbing and no electricity--was more comfortable than his damp and drafty student flat back in Oxford.

Today the weather began to change. Walt checked the thermometer nailed to a tree outside the window. An American thermometer, it had two concentric scales: the Fahrenheit large and easy to read, and the Celsius grudgingly small. The Yanks would never convert.

It had indeed warmed up, but since he could make out only the Fahrenheit numbers, Walt wasn't sure by how much. The needle, these past ten days, had lingered near minus 40 degrees, equally bitter on both scales.

So today would be a good day to do firewood. There would be about four hours of weak daylight. But first Walt needed to make a quick trip to the outhouse, and then have some breakfast. He opened the wood stove and tossed two pieces of birch into the miniature hellscape inside. The bark exploded into flames, sizzling and popping, and trickles of smoke leaked around the edges of the cast-iron plates. Walt filled the teakettle and placed it on the hot spot. He donned his stylish wolverine hat--which had set him back $200--opened the thick cabin door and stepped outside.

Now he could tell with his nose it was warmer. And the patch of blue sky above the cabin was hazing over. The thermometer, up close, read minus 30 degrees Celsius, minus 22 degrees Fahrenheit. He took the path to the outhouse. If he didn't walk too fast, his thin clothes could actually retain a layer of warm air next to his skin--a trick of the North.

Walt stood behind the small wooden outhouse. It wasn't true what he'd been told: Urine at minus 22 degrees does not freeze before it hits the ground. It steams and cuts through snow like lava.

On his way back to the cabin, Walt was startled to see someone standing in the path. At first he didn't recognize the man in old insulated overalls and a bulky brown parka. The man's wolf-trimmed hood was pulled into a face tunnel so that only his eyes and the bridge of his nose showed. But his large size, the way he filled the path, made Walt think of his neighbor, Gus Ostermann. And he recognized Gus' mukluks, the ones made from caribou hide, knee-high and trimmed with bits of arctic fox, ermine and seal fur. Hell, thought Walt. Bloody, bloody hell.

''Gus,'' he said as he approached the man. ''Nice of you to drop by.'' Walt cinched up his kimono, which was cold now wherever it touched his skin. ''Come inside.''

Gus slipped his hands, in bright red cotton gloves, out of his pockets long enough to unfasten and pull back his hood. Underneath he wore a woolen watch cap that covered his ears. He hunched his shoulders and bent his neck left and right to pop his vertebrae. But his flat expression never changed. He fixed his dull gray eyes on Walt and said, ''I have a bone to pick with you.''

''Fine,'' said Walt. ''Let's pick it over tea--or coffee. I have water on the boil.'' He motioned with his arm, but Gus didn't budge. So Walt tried to step around him on the narrow path, but Gus leaned over to block him.

''Actually,'' said Gus, ''here will do.'' ''Don't be absurd, man,'' said Walt. He turned and walked to the other side of the cabin. He would have liked to run, so thoroughly chilled he was by now, but that might be interpreted as fear. In any case, Gus had cut around front and was waiting for him next to the woodpile.

Walt stepped right up to him and said, ''Are you mad?'' and tried to shove past him. But the big man easily pushed him to the snow-packed ground. Walt shivered, from the cold, from sudden anger, not from fear. He got up and said, ''You're behaving stupidly, I hope you realize.'' He feigned a lunge to Gus' right and tried to dart around his left, but Gus crouched like a goalie in front of the cabin to block him. ''That does it,'' said Walt. ''You've taken your little stunt too far.'' He balled his stiff hands into fists and tried to hit Gus, but he connected only with pillow-thick clothing. Gus pushed him to the ground again.

Walt stood up, refastened his kimono and said, ''I shall have you arrested.'' He walked around the woodpile, wading through deep snow, and came out on the driveway next to the Subaru. Meanwhile, Gus matched his progress via the path, and when Walt climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the car door, Gus sat down on the cabin porch a few yards away.

Walt couldn't bend his fingers, couldn't feel them. He used them like screwdrivers attached to the ends of his arms to jab the door locks. The little car shook with his shivering. American men, he thought, are so bloody primitive over their women.

Walt hugged himself, tucked his hands under his arms and shivered. His feet hurt. That much was true, at least. He hadn't even noticed his hands go, but his feet were freezing painfully.

Walt glanced through the car window at Gus, who was refastening his parka hood. Gus saluted him and buried his hands deep into his pockets. Dressed as he was, Gus could take a nap there if he liked. Still--there must be something Walt could do. He wondered if his car keys were in his trouser pocket. Then he noticed them dangling from the ignition of the steering column. Of course! But as he grappled with the ignition he realized the car had been sitting out at minus 40 degrees. The motor oil was toffee, the engine a block of ice; it would never start. And indeed, when he managed to turn the key, there were three or four metallic clicks, then nothing. Bloody hell!

Gus, when Walt looked at him, shrugged his shoulders.

There must be something, thought Walt. He crawled between the bucket seats to the back and rummaged through the cargo compartment. The emergency kit! He pulled the nylon athletic bag into the backseat with him and, with clawlike hands, unzipped it. Inside were woolen hats and gloves, an old vinyl mackintosh and a thin tartan blanket. That's all? He had packed this kit for an emergency somewhere warmer and damper. Still, it was something. He wrestled himself into the raincoat, covered himself with the blanket, stuffed the woolen hats beneath his kimono and draped the nylon bag over his boots. He could not put on the pair of gloves. His purple fingers kept jamming together. But he managed, using his teeth, to pull on a pair of mittens. These he held up to the window to show Gus, who nodded his compliments.

As bundled up as possible, Walt sat in the backseat of the Subaru and considered his options. The first option was to stay where he was until Gus got bored and left. There was a problem with this option.

Walt marveled at the calm lucidity of his thought process, his lack of panic or desperation. Was this the stiff upper lip he had always suspected he possessed, the cool head under fire? Or was it--despite his expensive wolverine hat--the effects of a cooling brain?

The second option was to run. If Gus allowed him. Running would warm him up, too. But run where? The nearest cabin was two miles away, and it belonged to Gus.

She'd be there, of course, glad he stopped by. We have all afternoon, she would say; let's go skiing. She would lead the way, kick-stepping up the ski trial with her long legs. She'd stop and wait for him, laughing with rosy cheeks. Her black hair would smell of woodsmoke. I'll turn off the light, she would say. Care for a drink? Let's get cozy.

Walt felt cozy. He noticed he'd stopped shivering. The blanket, thin as it was, must be doing the trick. And his

''He stared in disbelief at the lock. All at once it struck him that Gus intended to kill him. He really did.''

Feet had stopped hurting. But trying to wiggle his toes informed him that his feet had stopped hurting because they were frozen numb. And he realized that unless he got up immediately and moved about vigorously, he was surely dead.

So the third option was to get into the cabin at all costs, Gus or no Gus. Walt poked at the door lock and clawed the latch. The car door creaked open. Gus looked up but didn't move, so Walt climbed out. And fell on his face. Slowly, clutching the door, he stood up, wobbly on wooden feet. He draped the blanket over his kimono like some large plaid shawl. Walking was like walking on stilts; he couldn't feel the ground and had to look down to place his feet. He went to the outhouse side of the cabin. Gus didn't follow. He could break the window on this side of the cabin, but it was too high to climb through. He went to the back. There were no windows here except for the tiny one at the roof peak that ventilated the sleeping loft. The window on the woodpile side was likewise too high. He would need a ladder.

A ladder! What about the ladder he used for his monthly chimney sweeping? He lumbered back to the outhouse side, but the ladder was not leaning against the tree where he kept it. Two holes in the snow, like empty sockets, marked its absence.

I shall have to use something else, he thought as he surveyed the small clearing that served as a yard. The lumps under the blanket of snow were piles of rubbish. The large mound was the remains of a 1954 Chevrolet Bel Air. Or perhaps it was the stack of salvaged lumber. One of the smaller lumps was surely an empty 55-gallon drum. If he could identify it, wade out to it, excavate it, break it loose from the ground, roll it back--

Walt went to the woodpile side of the cabin again. Perhaps he could stack firewood under the window. Then he noticed the storage shed.

Yes!

There were all sorts of things in the shed he could use: wooden crates, sawhorses. An ax!

Gus was still guarding the porch. Walt hurried to the shed and reached up to unlatch the hasp. But it was padlocked. He stared in disbelief at the lock, a lock he'd never seen before.

A little brass padlock.

All at once it struck him that Gus intended to kill him. There were no two ways about it, he really did. Walt flushed with anger. The bloody arrogance of the man. The churlishness. The monumental ego. How dare he?

Walt fumed, but little of his heat reached his fingers or toes.

It came down to the fourth option, then. He must kill Gus. So be it. The problem was--with what? Even if he had the ax, he doubted he could grip it. He needed something big and heavy, like a rock. Small chance of finding a rock under all the snow. But what about a chunk of cordwood? He had birch logs, cut green, that were heavy--maybe two stone--and hard. They had clanked like bricks when he stacked them. Walt brushed snow off the woodpile, found a large piece of frozen birch and scooped it into his arms. There was no way to sneak up behind Gus, so the best attack would be a lightning frontal assault. When Walt reached the corner of the cabin, he hoisted the piece of wood over his head as best he could, took a deep breath and rushed the porch. But he could hardly walk, and the birch billet slipped from his hands. Gus saw him but didn't get up, so Walt picked up the wood and walked over to him, raised it and let it fly. It bounced off the step next to Gus and landed in the snow beside the porch.

''Nice try,'' said Gus, who hadn't even removed his hands from his pockets.

Let his arrogance be his death, thought Walt as he returned to the woodpile for another round. This time he positioned himself squarely in front of Gus, raised the firewood high overhead and brought it down with all his strength. This time Gus did take his hands out of his pockets, caught the wood easily and tossed it lightly back to him. Walt caught it and fell backward into the snow.

''So,'' said Walt when he discovered he couldn't get up, ''you had something on your mind?''

''I warned you away from her--twice,'' said Gus.

''And I stayed away,'' said Walt.

''Do I look blind?'' said Gus. ''You think I'm stupid?''

This discussion is stupid, thought Walt. Lying in the snow is stupid. Yet, Walt felt comfortable where he lay, warm, even drowsy.

''Help me up,'' he said.

''Soon.''

Soon, but not soon enough, thought Walt as he watched the sky through the treetops, now completely overcast with cotton-batting clouds. Walt could see part of the cabin roof and chimney. The woodsmoke did not rise in a straight column as it usually did but spilled out and fell before being swept away by a breeze. Another sign of the changing weather, no doubt. Walt could hear the muffled whistle of the teakettle inside the cabin. A spot of tea with honey. A biscuit from the round tin.

''They'll catch you,'' he whispered.

Gus' face hovered over him, blotting out the roof and sky. ''I wouldn't count on it,'' he said. Walt could smell the heat of Gus' breath. ''You had an accident, Walter. You went out to the crapper in your kimono, just like you brag to everyone all up and down the road. Just like the dumb cheechako shit that you are. And you fainted or something. There will be no blood. No cuts. No marks on the body.''

''Your tracks,'' whispered Walt.

Gus laughed. ''What tracks? Look.'' His face moved away so that Walt could again see the heavy sky. ''A foot of new snow by morning.''

There were some nice dreams, of Mother finding the red disposable lighter and holding it up to the window. ''Aha!'' she crowed.

Of Peter in the bath, and pennies for the electric fire.

Of someone putting him on the potty when he didn't even have to go. His thighs were blue.

''That oughta do,'' said Gus.

Walt sat propped on the seat in the outhouse. His trousers were pulled down around his knees. The mackintosh, blanket and woolen hats and mittens were gone. A wad of toilet paper was stuffed into his frozen hand. Gus was closing the door, entombing him in the tiny slat-wood outbuilding.

Wait, thought Walt. He struggled to speak but only murmured.

''Don't fight it,'' said Gus through a crack in the door. ''Just close your eyes and go back to sleep.''

Walt commanded his frozen mouth to move, to mold the three words, She was good.

''Huh?'' said Gus.

''She was good.''

''Oh, all right,'' said Gus. He opened the door, removed his hood and brought his ear in close.

''She was good. She was funny.''

''Who was good?'' said Gus.

''She told me all your secrets.''

''You're babbling, Walter. Good night, Walter.'' Gus rose to leave.

''You can't read,'' said Walt.

''What's that?''

''You've a rash on your bum.''

''Is that what she said?''

Walt looked up into Gus' eyes and said, ''She makes you wear condoms.''

''Now you just wait a minute,'' said Gus as he grabbed a fistful of kimono at Walt's throat.

''Careful,'' said Walt, ''she bought me this.''

''She did not,'' shouted Gus. ''You're, lying.''

''We screwed in your pickup once.''

''Shut up!''

''She makes you wear condoms--but not me.''

''Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you.''

''She says, 'Fill me up, Walter, fill me up.''

Gus' fist, big and red, came hurtling like a comet.

"He stared in disbelief at the lock. All at once it struck him that Gus intended to kill him. He really did."