could call the sheriff in Barley to ask for help. But now I saw that, with the second snowstorm coming so fast on the heels of the first one, the phone might be out of order for three, four, or five days, even longer. By the time the lines were finally repaired, we would all have gone the way of Blueberry and Kate? When the telephone next rang there would not be anyone alive to answer it.
The ideal solution was evident if impractical: we would all get dressed in our warmest clothes, put on our snowshoes, and walk out of here when dawn came a few hours from now. Just walk off, bold as you please. Just stroll out through the open fields, over the hills, on through another stretch of woods but not the same woods in which the aliens had landed, straightaway to the Johnsons' farm where we could call the sheriff on their telephone (which was an altogether different line from ours) and get help? It was a pleasant fantasy-but it was a long way from reality.
The Johnsons, our nearest neighbors, lived slightly more than two miles from
Timberlake Farm. Although Toby was very self-sufficient, he was still a child with a child's limited physical stamina. In this brutal weather he could never hike two miles on snowshoes, probably not even one mile. And neither Connie nor
I would come through alive if we had to take turns carrying him; the burden would sap us and leave us floundering weakly in deep drifts. As with everything else in this life, the ideal was unattainable and even laughable; therefore, I would have to seek help on my own and leave the two of them behind-leave them alone in the farmhouse.
Once we had made that decision-Connie and I sitting in easy chairs in the living room, Toby sleeping on the sofa in front of us-we had to choose between two courses of action. I could try to get help in Barley. Or I could hike to the Johnson farm and plead my case there.
First of all: Barley. I could walk due east, along our private lane, until I reached the county road that lay a bit less than two miles from here. The first time that a snowplow came along, I could flag it down and ride in to Barley. It appeared to be a simple plan, nearly fool-proof. But there might be complications. What if there were no snowplows working the county road-no traffic moving whatsoever? After all, it was not a main route. It served a handful of rural families who expected to be snowbound for weeks every winter and who would not ordinarily be bothered if the road remained closed for several days. In a blizzard of these dimensions, the county and state highway maintenance crews might concentrate their efforts in the towns and on the superhighways and primary state routes that were more heavily used. With the wind drifting shut highways they had plowed open hours earlier, they would be kept busy with the major thoroughfares-while I might stand beside the county road for hours, waiting in vain and gradually freezing to death. If no plows came by I would have to return to the farmhouse in defeat or walk yet another two miles to the nearest house that fronted on the county road, without any guarantee that when I got there I would find someone at home and/or a working telephone.
'If you went in that direction,' Connie said thoughtfully, 'I don't believe you'd find help in time. I don't think you'd make it through to Barley.'
'Neither do I.'
'Then we rule it out?'
'Yeah.' Both of us had changed into dry clothes and had drunk mugs of steaming cocoa. I closed my eyes, wishing that I could hold on to the warmth of the house and not have to go outside again. 'So I'll have to go to the Johnson farm.'
'We always say it's two miles from here. But is that right?'
'That's what Ed told us.'
'Two miles
But two miles as you walk-or two miles as the crow flies?'
That was a disturbing thought. I had never walked the full route any farther than to the top of
Pastor's Hill from which you could look out across a forest and see the Johnson farm perched on another hill in the distance. I opened my eyes and said, 'If it's as the crow flies, it could be considerably more than two miles on foot.
Might be three or four miles. Might be too far for me.'
She said nothing.
She stared at me with those incredibly beautiful eyes, bright gazelle eyes.
'But that has to be wrong,' I said, trying hard to convince myself. 'Look, when you tell someone that your nearest neighbor lives two miles away, you mean it's a two-mile walk or a two-mile drive-not a two-mile flight.'
'Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But what if you get there and discover they aren't home?'
'They're homebodies. They'll be there.'
'But just what if?'
'I'll break in and use their phone.'
'And if the phone isn't working?'
'Then we're no better off than we were before I went-but we haven't lost anything by trying.'
'You're right.'
'And I'm positive they will be there.'
'I remember? Ed has a gun case. Shotguns and rifles.'
'Of course,' I said, starting to feel better. 'Every farmer around here goes hunting. So? Ed and I can arm ourselves? And even if the telephone lines are down at his place, we can come back here for you and Toby.'
She sat up straighter, sat on the edge of her chair. 'You know, I'm beginning to think maybe there's a chance.'
'Sure. Sure, there's a chance. A good chance!'
'When will you leave?'
'At first light.'
'That's only a few hours away. You'll need to get some sleep before you go,' she said. 'I'll sit up with Toby.'
'You need to sleep too.'
She grimaced. 'We can't both sleep, that's for sure. Besides, I've already slept for an hour, before Toby tried to run out on us.'
'You can't get through tomorrow on one hour of sleep.'
'And you can't hike to the Johnson farm without any sleep at all,' she said, getting to her feet.
Realizing that she was right and I was a fool to argue, I folded up my misguided chivalry and tucked it away in a mental closet where it wouldn't attract me again. I got up and stretched and said, 'Okay. Better wake me around five.'
She came to me.
I put my arms around her.
She put her lips against my throat.
Warmth, a heartbeat, hope.
She switched off the lamp, plunging the living room into darkness, and came to the front door where I was waiting in my heavy coat, scarf, gloves, toboggan cap, boots, and snowshoes.
'When will you get there?' she asked.
'In this wind, on snowshoes? Four hours.'
'With a couple of hours to rest at the other end, maybe you'll get back here by three or four in the afternoon.'
'Sooner, I hope.'
'I hope so too.'
I wanted to be able to see her, to drift for a minute in the bright pools of her eyes.
'I love you,' she said.
'I love you too,' I echoed dumbly, meaning it with all my soul, wishing that there were some clever phrase that would say it better. 'I love you.'
Two patches of blacker black in the blackness of the room, we embraced, kissed, clung to each other for several seconds, clung like drowners to a raft.
