4. First Hour
Kelsey raised her head, tilting it to the road as her ears funnelled the sound, then threw herself at the fence, barking without pause. Then Bob heard it, a car, maybe a truck, but it was coming down the road. He screamed with little effect. Previous yells had made his voice weak—the cold was winning the war against his vocal cords.
She’s loud. That should get someone's attention.
The pick-up pulled even with the chicken coop. As if on a pogo stick, Kelsey jumped repeatedly, smashing against the pickets, making noises new to Bob.
She's scared shitless.
Bob's voice was gone, and so was the truck.
Since he'd made the deal twenty-eight years earlier, Bob built his life around the farm. It remained as natural as possible, but he was in control. If Bob needed warmth, a tree got cut. If he wanted a Koi pond, it got dug. He nurtured every aspect of this rural lifestyle and asked very little in return, always giving back more than he took. Yet, here he was, with no control, no comfort, and no one to blame but himself.
Get a grip. Breathe.
He never wore self-pity well, saw it as a weakness in others, and didn't dwell there long. He was pissed at himself.
Leave it at that.
Bob tried again to hook his foot on the base of the lowest stair step. The door was closed but not locked—Bob never locked it. The limited motion he retained delivered the same result as before, but he kept trying.
Bob's temperament, his emotional spine, was one of solid resolve, some would say stubborn, others bullheaded. He was seldom down or depressed, rarely angry and not for long. He had used his energy pushing limits, experiencing any new adventure.
Kelsey settled back in next to him.
"Quite an adventure, Kelsey. A shitty one, yes, still an adventure."
Even in this first hour, his strength of will was tested. The thought troubled him. Kelsey didn't need to know his unease. He talked to her in encouraging words.
"This cold will find out I'm a stubborn SOB. You already know that, don't you, Kels?"
As the freezing and shaking took stronger hold, he would lose this tiny bit of foot movement, so he continued probing for the stair. His bare foot did not connect with the step, yet Bob continued to believe he would get to that door handle as soon as he regained a little more motion in his body.
"That foot will be stronger when I get some movement back."
Bob's voice would not carry the distance to Rick's house, his closest neighbor, and a quarter-mile down the road. Inches above the ground, pointed the opposite direction from Rick, the fresh snow absorbed his cries. The more he screamed, the more his exhales hollowed out a frozen concave dent in the snowbank.
Kelsey was much louder and always marked her territory with barking; at coyotes, deer, fox, even a gray wolf one time. Nocturnal foragers like raccoons, possums, and skunks, found holes of invisibility with Kelsey’s first scent, long before they heard any barking. Few of the animals appeared afraid of her whatsoever. But they all kept a distance. Their instincts taught them there was usually a human not far from a dog. Her voice that night, even if heard, would not create a reaction, especially from Rick.
Kelsey was a great dog and loyal friend, but she wasn't Lassie. Even if she had the training to grab Rick's sleeve and drag him to Bob, at eighty pounds, her days of clearing that fence were, tragically, in the past. Had Rick looked across the long stretch of land separating their properties, he would have noticed the television was off, and his neighbor had gone to bed.
As the shivering pulsed through him, he remembered the first time he met Kristin. A smile formed and he clutched Kelsey. In desolate contrast to his current relationship with Kristin, this feeling made him warm and was welcome.
#
Bob loved Ann Arbor and stayed there after college. Although a small city, due to the imposing presence of the university, entertainment, live music, and diverse cuisines were abundant. Some of his college friends had made it their permanent home, and many more, who had moved on for careers and family, visited Ann Arbor each fall for football games.
Bob's friend, Wayne, a professional commercial painter—the best Bob had known, completed a stunning re-design of Stage Door, an iconic restaurant a block off-campus. They were having dinner with friends and toasting Wayne's craftsmanship when Bob needed to make a bathroom run. On his way to the restrooms, Dorothy, the mother of one of his high school friends, flagged him down. She was seated with a petite girl named Kristin, who Bob knew of, but not well. She had attended the same high school, a year behind Bob.
Kristin was a pretty girl—quiet, reserved, brilliant, and extremely focused on Russian literature. Bob was outgoing—to a fault, more clever than genius, and as random as a roll of the dice. Staring at Kristin, his blue eyes the size of nickels, he thought, what a difference a few years do for your perception. Bob did not mind Dorothy playing Cupid. She insisted they exchange phone numbers. Kristin was house-sitting for her favorite professor, Deming Brown.
"I'm here for the summer," Kristin said.
"That's wonderful," Bob said.
"Professor Brown is an authority on Russian literature."
"I've heard his name."
Having read The Gulag Archipelago several years earlier, when Kristin mentioned the professor was a personal friend of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Bob hit it like a hungry bass on a crankbait.
Reel me in.
Bob was seldom enamored by celebrity or status. But he loved literature. Four years earlier, Solzhenitsyn had been stripped of his Russian citizenship for daring to shed light on atrocities within the Russian forced labor camps. This did not sit well with Bob and was the reason he had purchased the book. Now, here he was, dumbstruck in front of a girl who was the confidant of a man who knew a Nobel laureate well enough to share Bourbons on the veranda. She was also the only person Bob knew who spoke Russian.
The more they chatted, Bob placed check-offs on his mental list of future soulmate requirements. The attraction and interest appeared mutual and comfortable. Bob finally had to get to the bathroom, and wore a big smile down the hallway. Yet, despite the magnetism and flush of infatuation, Bob still acted like most young men—an idiot. He ghosted her.
Six weeks passed when Bob received a voice recording on the business line he had given Kristin that day.
"Tell Bob that Kristin called."
He returned the call, excited to talk with her, utterly oblivious to the valid apprehension she may have felt from him going "Invisible Man" after what seemed like a fabulous first encounter. They were like two magnets in parallel. When the poles were in the correct order, the attraction was intense. She explained Professor Deming's home was on the Huron River.
"He's given me the use of his sailboat," Kristin said, "But I lack all skills to enjoy it."
"I've done some sailing," Bob said.
Five years earlier, Bob had spent six months as the first mate on a luxury sailboat.
"I know you have. Maybe more than you wish to remember."
"Oh, you heard about that?" Bob basked in the fame, however fleeting.
His nautical career had ended following an incident at sea.
“Everyone in Grosse Pointe knows about it, Bob."
"Wow. My mom spinning the tale?”
"It's an incestuous community."
Bob laughed out loud. He was a big fan of acerbic wit, especially when delivered by a pretty girl.
"I'd be so grateful if you could teach me some of the basics," Kristin said.
"It would be my pleasure."
"But, let's both stay in the boat. OK?"
#
Two days before their first lesson, Bob's friend, Junior, scored two tickets to the Bob Marley concert at Hill auditorium on the same date. Bob called her.
"Who?" Kristin asked.
"Bob Marley,” he said.
"The reggae singer?"
"Yeah, it's a once in a lifetime chance to see him," Bob said, more excited than Kristin by order of magnitude of at least a thousand.
"Maybe we can go together?" she suggested.
"That would be great. But it's sold out, and Junior only has one extra ticket."
“Isn’t the concert at night?” Kristin probed.
Bob was not at a place in this budding romance to explain what the pre-concert party would involve. Kristin was as straight as a pin. Bob needed time, a lot of it, to cement a deal with her before she discovered just what it meant to be in the circle of his friends.
“Let’s just reschedule,” Bob said.
He never regretted that decision, especially after Marley died three years later. A week passed and Kristin decided to give Bob another chance.
"How about dinner one evening?" she suggested.
"That would be wonderful," Bob said, smiling.
He had dodged the first bullet in a relationship that would have many more. Bob and Kristin finally had their first date at the Blind Pig, an unpretentious European-influenced cafe that featured blues music, but later hosted first-time bands REM, 10,000 Maniacs, and Sonic Youth. It went well, much better than either of them had envisioned, before the first bottle of chardonnay got to the table. They discussed Russian literature, Grosse Pointe, sailing, even the tedious nature of Bob's growing water treatment business for automobile manufacturing plants.
"It's boring, I know," Bob said, "And I can get in the weeds pretty quickly explaining it."
"Not at all," Kristin assured him, "We need cars and trucks coming off the assembly line without a hitch, don't we?"
"Yeah, we do," Bob smiled, "Can't be born and raised in Detroit and not understand that, I guess."
"Well, there you are," Kristin said.
Bob liked this girl, a lot. He ordered another bottle of wine, but Kristin covered her glass.
"I'm a very light drinker."
Bob was not a light drinker.
"What I do seems rather mundane when you can discuss layers of nuance in Russian literature… in Russian,” Bob said.
"They're both important, Bob. I’m sure Stalin made those poor prisoners use chemicals just like yours to keep the machines running smoothly."
Bob looked at her, unafraid in the short silence, a mix of awe and attraction swirling behind his eyes which never left hers.
"And I know your interests go well beyond industrial chemicals."
"They do," Bob said.
"For example," Kristin said, "Teaching me to sail."
"That's right! I forgot about that."
"You forgot to call me as well."
Her smile projected neither sarcasm nor pleasure as she tilted her head a few degrees. The rest of the dinner went smoothly and he walked his intriguing date to where she had parked.
Bob opened her car door, and before the first awkward seconds gained any momentum, they kissed.
A damned decent kiss, too.
They separated but remained close enough to feel each other's breath. Kristin wound her arms around Bob's neck, and they kissed again, this time longer. There was no invitation in it—there wouldn't be more that evening. She was a classy girl, confident in herself and the message she had delivered.
"When are we going sailing?" Bob asked.
#
A harsh shudder returned him to the snow with a deeper level of cold rolling through him. He was grateful for the shivering. Although accustomed to cold climates, never had he envisioned a crisis like this. Exposed, unable to move, and most importantly, he was likely to be there for a while. Bob had been in life-threatening situations before, several. The resolve he needed that night, Bob had forged during a lifetime of pushing limits, most written off to the immaturity of youth, others as just plain stupid. Similar challenges, much more personal and heartbreaking, Bob believed had made him stronger. He always tried to be resilient for his family. Tonight, he was facing the realization he needed to be strong for himself.
It was not yet the first moment of the New Year. Folks still partied at the Moose Jaw bar and restaurant, watching television screens, and waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. The Jaw was three miles from Bob's farm and packed for the celebration. There was a lot of land between people in Emmet County, but there wouldn't be one foot of space between people in that restaurant.
"Someone coming from Moose Jaw will see us, Kels. I promise."
Bob loved the Moose Jaw, especially the food. In the middle of nowhere, just like his farm, the place thrived. Locals could drink lots of beer and stay on budget. The kitchen turned out a comfort cuisine that pushed the limits as much as any posh restaurant in Petosky or Harbor Springs. He remembered the smell wafting through the order window when cod cheeks and pickerel were on the menu. The two indigenous tribes, allowed since 1836 to net year-round, delivered fresh fish to the Jaw every day. This was part of the one hundred eighty-year-old fishing rights that allowed Bob to own his farm at all. It eliminated the white middleman, secured a lower price for the local businesses, and a much better return for their tribes.
"Umm, that smells good, Kelsey girl.”
Bob played as if he had just taken a bite of the pickerel.
"Oh, that's the best I've ever tasted."
Since Kelsey went everywhere Bob went, she had enjoyed a doggie bag from the Moose Jaw many times. The Jaw's clientele reflected the design of Bob's life. Rednecks and millionaires mingled as one, discussing the level of Lake Michigan, the weather, and when internet would finally be installed along their road. Little class structure existed outside the city boundaries of Harbor Springs, where legacy families Ford, Wrigley, Armour, and Gamble, still influenced policy and culture. A gentleman from Pellston, old enough to be missing most of his teeth, passionately restoring antique snowmobiles in his barn, was as engaging to Bob as having Bourbon with Henry Sturgis Morgan.
Bob knew cars would go by when the Jaw started emptying after midnight. Contemplating what he could do different than the first time, he heard the sound of a car engine. It was coming south on his road and would be in front of the house in less than a minute. He hollered with all the force he had. Kelsey was already at the fence closest the road barking wildly. The SUV slowed in front of the house, then continued into the hard right turn two hundred feet from her. Jumping at the fence and barking had not drawn a glance. Although his back was to the road and Kelsey, Bob stopped yelling when he realized the vehicle had not stopped. There would be more cars and trucks coming after midnight. He blew hard into the snow dent inches in front of his nose, not yet ready to accept there may not be a different option. Once Kelsey was barked out, she returned to Bob, nestled next to him, and shoved her head into his face. He liked that.
"You are more agitated than the day you saw that wolf."
They had been through a lot together, these unconditional friends. Three years before, a veterinarian refused to give up on Kelsey after discovering cancer in her abdomen. He convinced Bob to try an aggressive new treatment and two exhausting operations. Bob was on board, willing to do anything to save his friend. The vet was the reason she was lying next to him in the snow. That night they needed each other more than ever. His arm wrapped around her head, his nose and lips immersed in the fluffy undercoat of her ears; her smell was intoxicating, hopeful. He spoke into her ear, reassuring her, thanking her.
"We are going to make it, girl, we will make it. I promise we will get out of here."
It was a taxing first hour for Bob, trying to avoid thinking how screwed he was, and tempering his anger with varying levels of efficacy.
"All I've got is you, Kelsey. We’ll make it."