(For my co-author, who is fond of snow stories.)
(I might add in more vignettes one of these days, should the fancy take me.)
1987
Three hundred and sixty four days out of the year, Becky's definitely not a morning person. Christmas used to be an exception; but without her brother around to wake her up, she slept in until ten-thirty last year.
And yet-
"Unc, wake up! It's maple sugaring day!"
There are times to be grateful for nieces, and there are times to stare blearily at his watch in disbelief. "Now? Beck, it's four-thirty."
"I know, but I was keeping an eye on the street, and the Aidells are heading out already. We don't want to get beat to the punch, do we?"
"…did you even try going to sleep?"
"Too excited," she says, pulling on her coat. "Guess I had my first white night, I just couldn't stop wondering what it'd be like. I always nagged at Mom to let us come one year, but she didn't think it was important enough to let us cut school for it."
"And after all that, you're sure you don't hear your bed calling?"
"No way! Besides, you know you'll need all the help you can get."
That much is true; maple-flavoured coffee is easily the most popular drink he ever sells at the shop. Groaning, he lugs himself off the sofa (there was a real good reason he didn't sleep in his own bed last night, but deuced if he can remember what it was- oh, yes he does). "All right, then. But you're gonna have to let me know if you start feeling sleepy. Boiling sap can be pretty touchy stuff."
"Sure. Promise," she says, pushing a thermos of pleasingly hot tea into his hands. "Can we get going now?"
He remembers the first time he stayed up like that; so busy dreaming and scheming about a brand new orange crate design, he hadn't worried one bit about the waning night until the dawn started showing through his window. His niece keeps finding improbable ways to remind him about the most optimistic parts of his past. One of the things he loves most about her.
"As soon as I get Jack up. Um-" It'd made sense, inviting Jack over so they could get an early start; but there isn't exactly a satisfactory way to explain why the taxi driver's asleep in his bedroom.
Becky giggles. "He's already downstairs, putting on snowshoes. But he said he thought you'd mind less if it was me waking you up."
Tactful. Jack. Not really two concepts he'd have thought of putting together.
"Mac!" a familiar voice hollers from downstairs. "If you don't get down here inside of two minutes, Becky n' I are gonna go eat all the sugar without you!"
He grabs his favourite leather jacket and starts down the steps, two at a time. "Wanna bet?"
Becky grins, and chases after them.
Today is going to be a good day.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
1990
"It's almost too bad," Jack says thoughtfully, as he begins pouring the last bucket into the evaporator. It flows out with decided reluctance, and the pilot sighs a little as he holds it steady.
Their hard work's all done, now, the early rising and heavy lifting. All that's left is to wait for their spoils to be purified, repaired, redeemed- and then they're done sugaring for the season. The clearing in the woods to stay empty and untrodden, for at least another year.
"I know," Becky says, sipping at her cup of maple sap (no better than water, her uncle always says, but she can taste the hidden sweetness). "If there's anything I'm going to miss about Mission City, it'll be this...well, that and being all together, you know? 's nice."
Jack snorts, doesn't look at the woman sitting across from him, the extra party to break up their tightly-knotted trio. "Nobody stopped her being so high-and-mighty for lo this many years."
"Dalton," Mac intervenes, gently enough; but so is the touch of his gloved hand on the woman beside him.
"Just call it greed," Ellen says, holding herself still, seemingly impervious to cold or warmth. "Ralph can buy me enough Vermont syrup to drown in, to be sure, but it never tastes right. Not like this."
"Maybe we ought to charge you the same rates, then," Jack says. The pain in his voice rings out clear, hot as the fire; he tosses the empty bucket aside but stays put, staring into the sugar.
Becky winces. It's not like her favourite hustler, to wear his heart on his sleeve like this; she can almost see the pleasure of the afternoon ebbing away, with the temperature. Ellen notices it too (her former aunt is quick enough for sympathy, why doesn't she ever turn it to empathy?). She takes her hands out of the black mink muff, cups Mac's face in her delicate fingers.
(Becky, you were almost drowned in a river. Of course you've seen crueler things than this.)
(Has she, though? That'd been hate for her, hot-blooded and immediate; and what Ellen's doing is colder than fresh-fallen snow.)
"Enough of that," Mac says, drawing away to restack the wood pile. Coping mechanism, her mother would have said. Taking refuge in the material, to avoid going any deeper. "Becky, why don't you tell us a story, huh? Something funny."
"Uh." Ellen won't appreciate the ruder stories that Jack appreciates (and in some cases has taught her); Jack will be restive about anything too soppy or gossipy...but Mac will listen to anything, as long as it's her saying it. Maybe she can get away with retelling one he already knows. "Did I ever mention my first skating lesson? That was pretty ridiculous."
"Oh, I'm sure that was fun," Ellen says, with kindly interest. "Did your mother teach you?"
"It was Unc here, actually- because I was pretty scared of ice as a kid, I always worried it would break under me. It was sort of irrational- my parents actually brought me to watch them pour in the water at an artificial rink, so I could see it was all concrete underneath, but it didn't make any difference, I wouldn't even put the skates on. Chris thought it was dumb. I guess it was."
"Oh no," Mac says; his face is starting to go red, what's visible over her hand-knitted scarf. "Not this story, Becky, c'mon."
"You asked for it," Becky says, setting down her empty cup. "So I called Unc up and told him all about how scared I was, and everything, and he asked if I'd feel better about it if he was along to help. Which I said, duh, yes. So the next time we were visiting Mission City, we slipped out early one morning."
"Which I really shouldn't have done," Mac muses, tucking one last log into the flames. "It was an early freeze, too thin for a beginner- but we only had two days, and I was in a hurry. Imagine, a niece of mine who couldn't play hockey!"
"You don't have to imagine. You have one."
"But you know how, at least, so I've held up my end of the bargain." He's starting to get into the swing of the story now, she can see, slipping into a familiar vein of self-mockery. "So out we go to the duck pond- remember that, Ellen?"
"Is this where everyone used to go drinking after dances? Nobody ever told me where it was."
"Nu-uh, that's a different one- there's too many lakes in this silly old state," Mac says affectionately, holding out his hand for the cup; Becky hands it to him, and he dips it straight into the sap, hands it back dripping. "Never mind. Deepest watering hole I know, I was pretty sure there'd be some ice there and sure enough there was. So I fixed up her skates for her-"
"The lace on one of them broke, so he unlaced his to replace mine. Then he tied up his own with twine."
"Big ball of twine," Mac says. "Never leave home without one. Anyhow- so after a quarter hour or so of coaxing, and bribes, and a threat to tell her brother about it-"
"It wasn't that long!"
"All right, ten minutes. Finally got her out on the ice and started her skating. Holding on to me for dear life, but skating."
"And I suppose you were very graceful and charming," Ellen says.
Mac laughs. "Course not. She was as much an elephant as anybody their first time on the ice, but not too bad for a beginner- leastways, till the end. By then she was feeling confident enough to take a few strokes without me, finally."
"And it was just the best feeling in the world," Becky says. "Floating along the ice by myself, knowing that if I fell in I'd just have the worst ducking ever- but you know what? As soon as I had something to be scared of, really scared of, somehow it was okay. I was so busy making sure to glide smoothly, and keep my breathing even, and watching to make sure I didn't go over any bad ice- it was just making sure I got it right, that's all. I could do that."
"Of course, you knew I was there to catch you if anything went really wrong," Mac says. "And I was that proud, watching you go it alone."
"Fact is, he was so busy watching me that he didn't notice a tree branch stuck in the ice," Becky says. "And he went sailing right into a snowdrift. Just like a scene out of Charlie Brown."
"Bet you laughed. I would have," Jack observes.
Becky blushes. "A bit. Until we found out that he'd turned his ankle, anyway, and I had to help him hobble all the way back to the car, and Mom was furious that we'd gone out on a day when the temperature was above freezing. Unc came in for such a scolding- but she was really pleased I'd finally learned how to skate, so that was good."
Ellen's frowning. "I don't remember this. Becky, how old were you- ten? Twelve?"
"Ten. You were busy in Minneapolis that weekend, doing that television thing."
"You never mentioned getting hurt," Ellen says, almost curt. "Why didn't I know?"
"Ah, she's making it out to be worse than it was. Sprained ankle, that's nothing. I just bought an Ace bandage and wrapped it up tight for a week."
"I knew about it," Jack notes, mood suddenly much improved. "When I asked him why he'd turned a hatstand into a crutch- like an idiot, he hadn't thought of padding it. Couple of towels made all the difference."
"You never told me it was that bad," Becky says, horrified.
"By then you and Allison were back in Oregon, I didn't see it'd help things any to mention it."
"This is exactly why we broke up, MacGyver. That stupid, stubborn, pig-headed reluctance of yours to ever even let on to anybody else that you were in trouble," Ellen says, words hot but tone cool. "You never would let me in."
"You never paid attention," Jack snipes.
"If you two aren't the worst-" Mac begins.
"Would you all just shut up!" Becky wails. "I thought we were going to have a nice day, maple sugaring, and all you three are doing is quarreling with each other and I'm sick of it! Can I just have one sweet, peaceful day to remember about this place? Just one?"
The three adults, remarkably, shut up.
It's an awkward silence, but it's better than the fighting, she thinks. Easier to sit here, listening to the bubbling syrup and the occasional bird cry, then to have to tolerate their bickering any longer.
(They're all three of them family, really.)
(Why can't they get on better than they do?)