I cast about in my mind, trying to think of something to say, some way to apologize, but I was sensible enough to realize his mood was unreceptive and the conditions of the night made silence valuable. I noticed he kept glancing down at the dashboard.
“I’ve either overshot the turn in this foul weather or it’s just ahead. You’ll have to walk point til we find that blank crossroad. It’s an oblique right.”
You don’t argue with orders given in that tone of voice. Not if you’re army raised. It doesn’t matter that you’re cold already. He knows that, because he is, too. It doesn’t matter you’re not quite over a bad illness and this could make you sicker. He’s taken that into consideration. I just got out and, with one hand on the right headlight, walked along the side of the road, peering through the sudden flurries, making out the black looming boxes of houses, the half-covered telephone poles, match-slim, until, fortunately not too far ahead of us, I found the turn. The brief walk had been stimulating. My toes burned and my fingers tingled. When I got back into the car, Merlin nuzzled my ear, crooning softly, deep in his throat.
The jeep proceeded a little faster until we reached another point predetermined by the odometer. Laird stopped the car and turned his head expectantly towards me. I got out, not even irritated with him when he held Merlin back from joining me. At the next crossroads we bore right again.
This road, even in the obscuring snow, had a different character: no houses, no trees, but, despite gusty winds, visibility improved. I could sense openness, could occasionally trace the horizon by the difference of the gray-white of land, the gray-black of wintry sky. Far on the left I caught a vagrant gleam of light quickly extinguished, for all Cape Cod observed strict blackout precautions. Once on the downslope to the right, I made out the tossing field of sea as it sent tentative fingers up coves on the forearm of Cape Cod. The road dipped here and there and we had to gun the car through drifts at the bottom. Sometimes the top of the road was swept clear, down to the macadam. Bay bushes thrust stark branches out to reflect the yellow slits of headlight. I don’t know how far we went along this road. It must have been some distance for the warmth exercise had generated in my hands and feet had dissipated. The snow, constantly thrown against the windshield, had a mesmeric quality to it. The crow-flight distance from Orleans to Pull-in Point was approximately eight miles, and only ten by road under normal conditions. No self-respecting crow was awing and these were not normal conditions. I only know that it had been about seven when the train pulled into the station. When we finally entered the kitchen, the clock said eight thirty-five.
I had one more short march as point for the final left-hand turn to Pull-in Point Road above Nauset Beach. The Laird house, which in fair weather had a full view of the sea over the tops of Nauset’s then substantial dunes, was partially protected by the lay of the land from the full brunt of the blizzard. Now its slanting saltbox roof was heavily laden with the accumulation of several snowstorms. It loomed blackly to our left, a solid bulk against the surrounding grayness.
“Find the driveway. There’s a post on the right-hand edge to guide you.”
I had trouble unbending my cramped knees. I got out very slowly, very stiffly. I came close to falling onto the post. Merlin bolted out the door as if he understood we had reached our destination. He promptly left a message at the beachplum bushes that formed the front hedge. As he barked ecstatically, snapping at the falling snow and rolling in it puppyishly, Major Laird revved the jeep for the dash up the rise to the garage I now distinguished in the gloom.
The major succeeded the second time. He gunned the motor peremptorily, recalling me to my senses, gesturing at the garage door. I slipped several times in the drifts, spitting out snow and cursing it as it leaked into my gloves and up my sleeves. I got a grip on the door handle and yanked. The top-hinged door stayed stubbornly shut. I made several more futile attempts and finally turned to the major, stretching my hands out in a show of helplessness. I heard him cursing with disgust as he crawled down from the jeep. There was some consolation in the fact that it took both of us, kicking and tugging, to loosen the frozen door.
He gave me a push towards the door in the rear of the garage. Unquestioningly I stumbled towards it as he drove the car in. My wet gloves slipped on the doorknob but I got it open the second time, gasping as warmth and light hit my face.
I lurched stiffly in, my entry hampered by Merlin who had had enough of playing around in the cold and barged past me. We entered a small back hall filled with fishing gear, hunting paraphernalia, oars, a well-greased motor, an imposing pile of cordwood, heavy-weather boots, and a filled meat safe high on the wall.
“Go on in,” the major ordered impatiently as I blocked his way to warmth.
I hastily opened the door and entered a welcoming kitchen. 1 hurried over to the huge black wood stove, drawn like a needle by the magnet of its heat-radiating bulk. A Dutch oven squatted at the back of the range and from it came the odor of rich meat stew. Turning to present the rear of me to the stove, I saw the major clump into a corridor. I found later that it ran along the back of the house, separating the kitchen, bathroom, and a small study from the living room, dining room, and front hall. From where I stood by the hot stove I could see only doors and an area for coats and boots.
The major beckoned to me. “Hang your wet things out here,” he said, less a suggestion than an order.
Mechanically I obeyed, fumbling with the ski-boot fastenings. My other shoes were in the suitcases which he placed just inside the dining room. I decided it was too much effort to rummage through luggage for mere shoes. I got my boots off. My socks were either very wet or very cold; my toes were too numb to know the difference. I hung up my heavy mackinaw and scarf and walked like an automaton back to the kitchen. I sat stiffly down at the old honey-colored table in the chair nearest the stove.
The major had filled two plates with stew and two mugs with coffee from a pot that had also been kept warm at the back of the stove. He served me and himself, then ladled out another bowl, splashing it with water to cool it quickly. He put this down by the hall door and whistled.
Merlin had gone on his own private reconnaissance through the house and, although he had never been whistled at in that particular arpeggio, he knew he was being paged. I heard his claws clicking against bare floors. He came into the kitchen, head high, eyes curious, darting, taking in everything in a sweeping gaze. He looked up at the major, at me, and then went to the bowl of food. He sniffed at it and sat down, tongue hanging out.
“Eat, Merlin,” I said and he rose and approached the food in earnest.
I had made it a point that Merlin should never accept food without my permission. I had trained him this way after two of his litter brothers were poisoned “by person or persons unknown.” Ha! I’d known. The disadvantage to this discipline was that I could not leave Merlin for more than forty-eight hours. He simply would not eat. When the strep throat had been at its worst and I was delirious, Merlin had stubbornly fasted for four days. Then one of my friends had brought him to the window outside the infirmary. Receiving my permission, though how he recognized me by the croak my voice had become I don’t know, the poor dog had wolfed down three pounds of horsemeat.
Right now he acted equally starved and I realized how hungry I was. Part of my depression must be due as much to hunger as cold. The stew had simmered into a semisolid mass, tasty, hot, restoring. The coffee, like any respectable army brew, was strong enough to have floated the stove. I cleaned my plate twice and felt infinitely more like facing the problem of the major.