Matt closed his eyes, to ward out the pain and offer a thankful prayer when a man’s voice responded to his telephone call. After twelve years, it shouldn’t bother him this much. At least his mother hadn’t answered. “Hello, Dad.”
Nearly a minute elapsed before a reply came from the other end of the line. “Matthew? Are you all right, Son? Has something happened?”
He heard the excitement, the concern in his father’s voice. “Yes, I’m fine. But I got some unexpected company Friday afternoon. I hoped you might call her parents to let them know she’s okay. It’s LeeAnne Blake. I understand her father works for you at the Superior plant. She got lost and ran out of gas on her way to visit her parents.”
“LeeAnne? What an odd coincidence! Of course, I’ll call Joseph. Imagine the two of you meeting again after all these years.”
“Again? I don’t remember...”
“Oh...of course, you wouldn’t. She’s younger than you. Six or seven years. She wouldn’t have been more than, oh, maybe thirteen. I haven’t seen her myself for seven or eight years now. Fine-looking young lady. Ran out of gas, you say? On that road...”
Matt made the quick calculations as his father continued. Her thirteen to his nineteen – or maybe twenty: Junior’s funeral. A shudder swept him; she had seen him – before. If she remembered...He couldn’t stand pity from her. Why make such a big deal about pity from her? he chastised himself. He had endured everyone else’s. Hers was no different. She was no different. He had to convince himself of that before it was too late.
“Are you still there, Matthew?” Matt hastened to apologize for his lapse and his father repeated his question: “I asked if I could do anything else.”
“No. Just contact her parents. I’ll have her out as soon as possible, but you know how the roads are up here.”
He harrumphed good-naturedly; he had helped build most of the roads running through the forests of northwestern Wisconsin. “All right. Good.” After a long pause from Ian McBain’s end of the line, “Matt? It’s good to hear from you, Son. I hope you won’t wait for an emergency to call again.”
Matt had no answer for his father. He could lie, probably, and assure him of a call in the near future. Or he could be honest and tell him what he already knew – that in all likelihood, it would be another year or two. He found it too hard, too painful to hear their voices, his father’s and his mother’s. So, he grunted a good-bye and hung up. He still needed to make several stops before leaving town.
While actually only seven miles – by snowshoe, cross-country on a not-easily-detectable trail – instead of the fifteen by road, she would have frozen on the way to town in her attire. Probably, he could get the road plowed sooner because of her presence. And certainly, knowing the driver, he could arrange for the plow to carry a five-gallon can of gasoline. If all went well, she would be on her way tomorrow afternoon. Not soon enough.
Yet too soon.