The Blue Canoe
by J W Goossen
The thermometer shows the red line at fifteen below, Jack stares out the cabin window and reaches for his down-filled vest. I guess I shouldn’t have smiled, is all he can think. A white morning mist hangs over the lake. Yesterday’s drive to get here was teeth-gritting cold and lonely. Last night as well. His sleep, divided into a series of restless increments, brought no comfort.
Jack sits down on a wooden stool, wood stove radiant, feet warming in the green, thrift store, woolen socks Lily bought for post-Christmas getaways at the cabin. His teeth clench, a grunt escapes as he bends over and his right foot slips into the boot like a knife into a sheath. His feet are mismatched in size and the left will be more work, but he needs to hurry to get the cabin ready. The arch of his foot catches halfway in. He pushes the boot hard against the floor so that his toes inch forward. With a familiar routine Jack tugs the pull tabs and slips the heel further in. One more back and forth and his foot forms itself to the shape of the boot. Jack shakes his head. I still can’t believe her reaction. It was just a random photo taken in the bar at the convention.
Yesterday morning, Lily left for her parents’ place, as she usually did Friday morning, to make sure they had enough groceries for the week. Her plan had been to meet him here the next day. They hadn’t spoken the whole evening after she saw the picture. The only words she said before leaving were “You haven’t looked that happy for a long time.” I’m sure she’ll still come like we planned.
Jack steps into the mudroom, used as a buffer to keep the direct cold and wetness from cooling the cabin, and tugs his parka off the nail. Once zipped and buttoned up tight he picks up two, stacked metal pails in one hand and an auger in the other. A mouse runs across the floor. He drops the pails, and they clang with an echo as he removes the orange plastic blade cover from the auger, places it on the beer fridge and grabs his gloves. Next time I’ll stay in the hotel room and watch movies.
When he opens the outer door, a sharp coldness wakes him. He grabs his utensils, closes the door and crunches his way carefully down the stairs. At the bottom he stops and stares. Must have been eight inches of snow last night. Made everything look new, like a postcard. The light of day is soft on his eyes. Jack anticipates the warmth of the sun. It is coming but not quite over the low mountains that guard the far side of the lake. He was sure the truck that plowed the road between the cabin and lake would be by before ten. It usually was. A sporadic breeze left the air crisp and clean, as invigorating as the first cup of coffee in the morning. Jack stops at the low rumble of an engine. Could it be? No, the echo came from across the lake. An early snowmobiler. Jack exhales slowly. He feels a prickly stiffness under his nose as his moustache begins to freeze, reminding him of waiting for the morning bus in the Ontario winter.
The metal pails grind and chafe and the scooping saucepan inside echoes a tinny song as Jack reaches the dock. It is locked in the ice, settled with a slight list to the right. Not shaky like in the summer when he and Lily last used the canoe. She loved the ease of gliding on the water. Said it felt like flying. The boards squeal as Jack walks to the end. I shouldn’t have bought the photo from that guy, but he was just trying to make a buck, and my arm around her was just a reflex.
Standing sideways, with his weight on the dock, he lowers his uncomfortable foot down to test the strength of the ice. It appears solid but the new snow, hiding previous foot traffic, makes him press hard. Feels safe as he steps off the dock and slowly, alert for a telltale noise beneath his feet, Jack ventures onto the lake a good ten paces out. He wonders why he is so much more sensitive in these surroundings. Every noise, every sensation, every visual sign renews his being and purpose. It’s not like the last time. Nothing happened.
Jack sets the pails down and clears a spot with his boot. The auger reminds him of an old-fashioned wood drill his father had used except larger and without removable bits. He grabs the black metal head with one hand and the handgrip with the other and stabs the ice to establish a center point. Keeping firm pressure, he turns in a churning motion until the blade shaves the ice. As the circle of the hole is defined, Jack drills faster. His brow warms with sweat dripping from under his toque. Ice chips pile up and after a couple of inches Jack stops to lift the auger and clear the hole. He thrusts the auger back in the hole, turns it to get below the loose ice, lifts it and clears the hole again. Back to drilling. Another four inches. Clear the hole. Another two and the auger submerges. Jack pumps the auger like a piston. Water shoots up two inches above the hole and rhythmically settles down. He repeats this three times to clear the hole and rim. He looks across the frozen lake. Everything is so clear here but being away from home and on the road I feel lost. Too disconnected, too lonely. He plants the auger into the snow beside him and wipes his brow.
Jack’s eyes search for movement on the road that leads to the cabin. He scans to the far side of the lake and back. All he sees is his shadow, three times his length. He wishes he were a bigger man. Jack separates the two metal pails and places them on either side of the hole. Taking the saucepan from one of the buckets he begins to free water from the hole. The pan is too wide to fit in cleanly, so Jack just scoops up water from the surface of the hole getting about two thirds of a pan with each dip. Once the pails are full, Jack looks around the lake. He sees light at the cabin three doors down. At the other end of the lake, a pair of ice fishers set up. He might have time to use this hole for some fishing himself. Goodbye was all she said. Then her car sped away.
Auger in one hand and saucepan in the other, Jack bends his knees, and his free fingers grasp the pail handles. The offsetting weight keeps him in balance, but his stride causes water to slosh onto his pants and into his boots. The buckets are mostly full at the top of the stairs. Inside, Jack sets the buckets down, replaces the blade protector, puts the saucepan on the fridge and removes his boots using the toe of the snug one to remove the other one, then leaning against the wall brings up his too big foot over his knee and uses two hands to pull off the boot. His green sock comes half off in the process. Jack’s shoulders slump. Hope the roads are clear. Seems a bit gray to the south. Pulling the sock back up, he brings one pail to the kitchen, throws a couple of logs in the firebox, fills the coffee pot, dumps in some grounds, and sets it on the stove.
Jack looks out back through the kitchen window. The blue canoe he bought her last summer hangs in its shelter. The smell of perked coffee begins to drift through the cabin. Jack finds some cheese for the mouse trap and wonders if his fishing rod is still under the deck. Lily has to come. We’ll have fish for dinner and plan for the summer.
BIO: J W GOOSSEN, born and raised in Vancouver, currently lives in Ladner BC and enjoys carving out time for writing poems and stories, and painting. Publishing credits include Rhubarb, Red World Periodical, As Surely As The Sun Literary Journal, Grain, Canadian Stories, Red Ogre Review and Alchemy. www.jwgoossen.com.