Long Thaw

The days leading to winter’s arrival flew by for Emma. She spent much of her time–something she had in abundance–going back and forth between the small country town and her newly chosen home, stocking up on everything she thought she might need. She eventually learned to siphon gas, and while the old gas made the old Ford she had liberated sputter and occasionally not start, she had no other choice. She stocked up on gas additive, too. She didn’t know how long it would last, but she stored as much gasoline as she could find. She just hoped she could keep the generators running through winter, or at least until she figured out a way to go solar. She took a chance, loaded up Boy, and drove the sputtering truck to the nearest decent-sized town and raided the library. She had all of winter to educate herself. Boy rode with his head out the window, tongue waving to the side, as they rode along the quiet roads.

Books stored, more canned food gathered, bags and bags of dog food, and a ton of firewood chopped and stacked sat ready for the first freeze. The house had an old woodstove, and Emma planned on using that for heat throughout winter. It had a flat top, so she figured if pressed, she could use it as a cookstove. She wasn’t sure if a space heater plugged into a generator was going to be efficient. At least she had managed to get the well pump working with the generator, as well as the water heater. Her first long tub soak was the best she could remember ever feeling, even pre- Uber Flu.

The short, dark days and long frosty nights of winter reminded Emma that she was alone. There was only so much you could say to a dog without going crazy. She found herself pausing and looking at Boy, wanting him to answer a question she had just asked. Barks, woofs, and licks weren’t the type of feedback she needed. She needed to hear a human voice other than her own.

That day, midwinter, Emma decided to get a better look in the direction of the break in the fence. Emma had always thought of herself as a loner, but facing real isolation, and doing nothing but chores and reading before bed had proven to her that she did need others in her life. She hadn’t realized how important human contact was. Boredom was taking over, and she wondered if that would be her undoing. Something needed to change. A walk was exactly what she needed.

The fields were overgrown with frozen weeds and tall grass, tall enough to block her view before fall, and now, bent with the weight of a winter’s coat of snow and ice, were still tall enough to make the walk through the field potentially treacherous.

Boy, as usual, bounded ahead, leaping over piles of dead leaves and weeds, burrowing his nose through patches of snow. He loved the weather and spent his time liberating wonderful scents from the piles of patchy snow still in the field.

Emma broke through the field and found a well-worn trail and followed it gladly. When she looked back to see the trail’s origin, which led back to the fields, about 50 yards from where she had emerged. This was the path taken from the house to whatever was at the other end.

Emma quickened her pace, excited to see what was ahead. Maybe the path led to a neighbor’s house or maybe beehives; something that couldn’t be close to the house. The not knowing was like waiting to open presents on Christmas morning.

Rounding a bend, stooping low to go under two trees that had bent towards one another under the weight of the snow and ice, as if reaching across the path to be closer, Emma skidded to a stop. A large, frozen pond lay before her. Perhaps pond was too small a word, while lake too large. What would that be? A plake? It wouldn’t be a land. She’d have to Google it when the world returned.

Emma could see across this large pond and saw it appeared to be frozen through. She thought about walking out to the center so she could see the whole layout at once, but decided it was too dangerous. She didn’t know how thick the ice was, and wouldn’t that be a bitch, to die in a frozen pond after surviving the apocalypse?

“Come on, Boy. Stay by me.” Boy falling through the ice would be just as bad, because without him she’d die anyway. If he fell through, she’d go right in after him. She had no desire to be left alone any time soon.

Whistling for Boy, Emma started working her way clockwise around the frozen pond. She broke through a copse of willows. Breath left Emma’s body. The tree branches, draped in winter white, touched the ground. The morning sun shone through, creating a halo of light around the trees. The thin blanket of snow lay undisturbed at the roots. The trees looked like a group of wizened old women, clustered together sharing secrets.

As a child, Emma had been frightened of willow trees. She had gone with the family to Disneyland and ridden the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Around one bend, weeping willow branches reached towards the ride’s cars, looming menacingly.

“Dad, what is that tree?”

“That’s a weeping willow, Emma. Isn’t it pretty?”

“A whipping willow? Will it spank me?” Emma had leaned as close to her father as she could, hoping his arms would protect her from the branches. Her ear pressed to his side heard the rumble of his laugh.

“Only if you’re a bad girl, Emma. Have you been bad?”

“No! I’ve been good. I promise!”

Her father ruffled her hair, “Yeah, you’re a good girl, Emma. You have nothing to worry about. The whipping willows aren’t interested in you.”

They had been “whipping willows” ever since.

Now, standing in the middle of that beauty, Emma again felt the waves of loneliness envelop her. Her first thought, still, was to reach for her phone and take a picture. Her second thought was why bother? She had no one to share the pictures with, anyway.

She vowed to hold that picture in her mind for the rest of her life and promised herself she’d visit the copse frequently. It was probably just as beautiful in the spring as it was in the winter.

Choosing a boulder by the pond, Emma decided to wait for a while. She wanted to devour the scene, make it a part of her being. She brushed the snow off the boulder and sat down. There was a new beauty to the world. Emma wasn’t sure if the clarity was really there–a result of humans not intervening–or if it was a result of her seeing with new eyes, but colors were more vibrant, more tangible. The sky shone nearly violet, brilliant, alive. The clouds were sparse, scattered across the sky in small wisps. The pond, covered in a sheet of ice, held a dusky hint of brown below the ice, with fingers of white snow at the shoreline brushing towards the center.

The only thing missing were signs of life. She had seen the occasional bird back in the beginning, but hadn’t seen any signs of birds or any other animal since winter had shouldered in. She looked carefully in the snow, hoping to see tracks of anything, but the snow was pure, save for where she and Boy had disturbed its beauty. She turned and looked back towards the copse. Something was out of place, wrong with what she was seeing. It took a moment to recognize what she was seeing. It looked like a box of some sort. It had a few inches of snow piled on top. Emma went for a closer look.

The snow crunched and broke under her feet. It was colder in the copse, as the trees shaded much of the sunlight and the day was still below freezing. Rounding one of the trees, Emma froze. There, in the middle of the coven of trees, was the original owner of the house. His body was skeletonized, but who else could it be?

Emma stepped forward, ready to flee, but curiosity taking hold.

The old man had brought a lawn chair and a picnic basket with him when he came out to the grove. He probably knew he was going to die and wanted to die out there in the most peaceful spot on his property.

Emma brushed the snow off the picnic basket and opened it. Inside were more family photos, all with the same theme. Each picture was of the man’s wife. These held images of a long-ago wedding, the bride young and beautiful. There were pictures of the same woman, big and pregnant, wearing a shapeless smock with a big bow at the collar. More pictures showed more pregnant bellies, the style of maternity clothes changing with the times. There were pictures of the smiling new mom holding tightly-swaddled babies, some bald, some with wisps of hair, and one with a pink ribbon somehow clip to the peach fuzz on her head. Picture after picture held this woman’s life. There was a graduation here, a wedding there, and birthday parties, but not a single picture was of her funeral. Not a single picture showed this woman demented, confused by those around her, staring vacantly into space. No, in these pictures she was vibrant and alive and ready to leap out of the photos.

On the man’s lap was one more picture. The photo was well worn, but its image still held true. It was his wife, probably not long after their marriage, lying in bed. She wore pink lingerie. Her lips were Lucy Ricardo red, her hair held in place with hairspray. She stared seductively into the camera.

Emma turned and looked out towards the frozen pond. This was indeed the perfect place to die.

She would remember that for when Boy finally left her.