Zero degrees.  Wind chill -30.  Trevor nodded and his mouth formed a stiff, closed smile beneath his face-warmer.  Frosty.  Hereabouts, only newcomers would call it raw, frigid, numbing.  Like the wind–seventy mile gusts were breezy in Wyoming. He didn’t mind the cold, savored it on days like this when things were even chillier at home.  Home.  He snorted and felt vapor harden on the cloth beneath his nose.  He’d never meant for that relationship, as she called it, to become home.  But he was stuck with a kid because screwing her was preferable to screwing nobody in a town of 302.  He’d always imagined someone, something better.           

        Better?  He mulled the understatement.  Someone smart, smooth–attractive not flashy, strong not hard.  Surely not this tacky–strident, his mom would say–foul-mouthed woman who smoked, even around the baby, who drank too much, who resented everyone with more than she had.  And that amounted to just about everybody.  And now she wanted to get married.  Brought it up morning and night until he stormed out, she shouting, cursing after him. 

          Thank God the baby wasn’t old enough to understand.  Or was she?  At least it could have been a boy.  Maybe that would have given him something to hang around for.  But this poor kid was doomed to turn into her mother. 

          Or worse, her grandmother who grew more outrageous by the year–stringy black hair, clinging leather, tattoos, her attempted youth belied by the decaying teeth and rough face.  It wasn’t just the unnatural hair, the wind-dried skin, the furrows etched above her mouth by twenty-five years of puffing.  No, take all that away and it was the expression, the challenge when there was nothing to challenge.  The rebellion, without reason or logic, against all that was good for them.  And then blaming others when it all caught up.       

          He thought ruefully of his quiet mother.  She had smoothness–refinement, some would say.  Everything about her seemed orderly, thoughtful.  Even her home.  Especially her home.  His home for all those years.  How did he get into such a mess?

          He pulled on gloves, an orange stocking cap over the face warmer, deftly unloaded his four-wheeler.  He left the ramp down.  No need to worry about space for others today.  A ranger truck, half buried in snow, was the only other vehicle.  He glanced over and thought breakdown.

          He loaded his fishing rod on the the front rack, minnows, tackle box, creel, a pack onto the back, and rode confidently onto the ice.  Winter fishermen appreciated such cold when the ever-changing North Platte froze deep. The reservoir lay like tundra before him.  On a brighter day he’d have seen rhythmic ripples of snow to the far shore but now only thin gray light penetrated the low

clouds, so earth and sky and frozen lake merged into one.  Trevor knew the tricks

such light could play but thought he saw something thirty–forty yards from shore.  Something interrupted the gray-white expanse just once, an odd drift a couple of feet high.

          Probably something left yesterday by another fisherman to mark a good spot.  Someone who didn’t have to work weekdays.  Some Greenie with a fine new pickup, whose wife drove a BMW, who lived part-time in one of those million dollar cabins above the lake, far enough from town to lose the constant rumble from the Burlington Northerns.  Yeah, wouldn’t want to disturb their sleep or their cocktail party prattle.  He swung defiantly toward the drift.  First come, he thought.  No goddam rich bastard…then he laughed at himself.  Now who’s resenting without reason or logic?  One more reason to move out.  Starting to think like her.

           He angled toward the drift and suddenly slowed as he circled.  From the upwind side, a glove protruded.  He braked and left the four-wheeler hesitantly, snow crunching beneath his thick boots.  He kicked some snow, uncovering boots, legs, coat.  Could be a practical joke, he thought, and scanned the shoreline.  Was somebody back there watching from the cottonwoods, waiting for him to call in the law, only to find a scarecrow under the snow?

          He knelt down to uncover the head and drew back.  No joke.  This was a real

face, frozen, pasty, and he recognized it:  a ranger, the new one, a retired policeman from Chicago.  Saw him mornings at the café.  Not this morning, though.  And never again.

Nearest law, he thought, would be the deputy sheriff who was probably hanging at the café right now.  Trevor had his number but reconsidered.  Something this serious should be 911.                                   

“Please repeat that,” the operator responded.

“A body.  Frozen.  On the ice off Broken Lance Lot.”  He paused, aware that half the town listened on scanners.  “Not a stranger.”  He clicked the engine off and sat to wait, uneasy and alone.  Absently, he thumbed through his pack for food and saw his camera.  He snapped pictures, circling to get every angle.  The wind was rising and clouds opened briefly, then closed again.  When the sheriff pulled into the lot, the clouds had lowered and snow was blowing sideways from the west.

                                      #

          “Does this call for an autopsy?”

          The sheriff hmphed.  “Judgement call.  And my call is to save the money.  Plain case of suicide–or drinking himself senseless and freezing to death.  Everybody knew he was sort of down–lonely.”

“Odd place to commit suicide.  Or to get drunk.”

“Suicide doesn’t make sense no matter how you look at it.  Used to see more of it when there were more Injuns around.  Drinkin’.  Freezin’.  You’re just not as old as I am.”

Trevor watched the second Suburban pull into the lot. 

The deputy looked at the body, at the crushed snow where Trevor and the sheriff had circled.  “Good place to drop a body.  Tracks drift in and if you’re lucky the lake will melt before it’s found.”

“This body dumped itself,” the sheriff grunted. 

“You think so?  Cause of death?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.” 

Trevor sensed some tension but he just wanted to get away.  “Mind if I go home and warm up?  You know where to find me.”

Yeah, sure.”  Both seemed eager to see him gone.

He meant to go to the café for coffee but noticed with relief as he drove by the trailer that Wanda’s beater was gone.  He wondered how she got it started in this weather.  No matter.  Solitude.  That’s all he wanted.  As he opened the storm door, he heard the baby.  “Shit, she’s still here.”  He was attempting to close the door silently when he noticed the note taped to the glass.

“I moved out.  You have been a majer disapointment.  I have plans and I don’t need a kid so you can have her.”

Hope her plans don’t involve spelling, he thought.  Then it hit him:  the baby.  She stood in her playpen in a T-shirt and diaper, wailing.  He threw his coat on the couch amid snack food wrappers and baby clothes.

He stood over the little girl, then knelt.  “Well, kid, what are we gonna do with you?”

She beamed suddenly and pointed a finger toward him, jabbering.

He pointed back and she grasped his finger with a tiny hand.  It felt cold and he decided she needed more clothes on such a day.  He found jeans and a sweater on the couch but lifted her and realized she also needed a clean diaper.  When he couldn’t find one, he cut a bath towel in half with his pocketknife.  He knew better than to look for safety pins so he managed to knot the sides.

“Just till we get to the store, Tiny.”  He considered.  “Do they carry diapers?”

          The small general store was just two blocks away next to the Cedar Springs café but he drove; only the elderly and children walked.  He wandered down the store aisles and was relieved to find diapers.  He changed her in the truck.  She was shivering and crying again when he finished.  Time for some nourishment anyway, he thought, and toted her into the café.

          Every face was familiar.  Four couples sat at scattered tables.  Two ranchers, Wes and Ed, sat at one end of the counter, two rangers at the other end, somber and quiet.  He tried perching the baby on a stool but quickly decided against that.  He found a booster chair and slid baby and booster into a booth.  He started to sit across from her and realized he might have to help her, so he got up, feeling foolish and angry as he finally settled beside her.

           He felt out of place in a booth; news crossed the counter and he liked to ask questions, offer his thoughts, watch Fox News on the TV above.  But he was part of the news today.  Wes slid onto the bench across from him.  Ed pulled up a chair.  He knew everyone listened.

“Sounds like you had quite a morning.”

“No shit.”

          Francie, the owner, approached with a menu but Trevor handed it back.  “I’ll have the special with coffee and water and she...”

          He stopped and looked helplessly to Francie.  “I...Wanda moved out so I guess...I’m clueless about babies.”

          “I’ll come up with something.”  Francie spoke without surprise. 

          Trevor watched her thoughtfully.  How long had everyone else known?  It annoyed him that he’d been abandoned.  If he’d followed his instincts a week earlier–a day earlier… Why hadn’t he? 

          One of the ranchers was speaking.  “Accident?  Suicide?”

          “I don’t think they know.  Sheriff thinks he got drunk and passed out.  Maybe just fell and hit his head…and froze.  Said he saw a lot of the same thing when there were more Indians around here.”

He saw a look pass between the rangers at the counter. 

           “Are they gonna investigate?”

          “Got me.  I left.”                         

          When Sheriff Wendel Amory and Deputy Cory Sidell entered, Trevor’s plate was empty.  The baby was asleep, slumped against Trevor.  The sheriff stopped at the cash register and spoke with authority.  “I’d like to ask you all to let us know if you saw Pete Samson anytime yesterday.”

         The two rangers started to speak but the sheriff interrupted.  “We’ll get together at the station later.  I’d like to know if anyone saw him after work.”  No one responded.  “At the bar maybe?”

The older of the rangers spoke softly, firmly.  “He didn’t drink.  Never touched it.”

          The sheriff was unfazed.  “Some problem with it in the past?  That why he

couldn’t touch it?”

“Not that he mentioned.  He’s only been around here a couple of years.  We wouldn’t know.”

“Exactly.”  The sheriff spoke like a man who’s just heard unanimous agreement.  “Well, let us know if you remember anything.”

                                                                                      #

 

          Sunday morning Trevor wanted to sleep but Ella was bawling.  God, he hated that sound!  He fumbled through cabinets.  Baby cereal.  What do you know?  He read the directions.  Easy enough.  He heated cereal and water in the microwave, tasted, grimaced and held out a spoonful.  Obligingly, she stopped crying and opened her mouth.  He fed her every last bite and repeated with another bowl until she lost interest.  What would he do with her tomorrow?  High school kids would be in school.  Could he afford official daycare?  He couldn’t take her along to work.  He worked outside all day.  Well, maybe not all day and not in weather like this.  But that’s what he told people.  In barns and sheds this time of year but just as impossible for a baby.  He managed a 10,000 acre spread west of town for its Denver owner who hardly ever showed up and Trevor was pretty much on his own.  So it was an OK job.  He didn’t mind the sun and wind and dirt of ranching.  Every job around Cedar Springs sprang from dirt.  Men commuted north to mines or oilfields, built roads or irrigation systems or ranched.  Until some outsiders moved in around the lake, the population had been steadily declining.  And the newcomers weren’t really what the town needed.  They were retirees or summer people who scurried home in the fall to bigger towns and schools. 

          Cedar Springs School had less than a hundred kids now.  Not that it had ever been big but every year brought talk of consolidation.  The ranchers were barely hanging on and aging, reluctant to admit they lived on what their wives brought in from jobs in Carson or Sapwood.  If the wives stayed.  Seemed like women were first to leave and with them went the kids.

          In high school he’d read a book about a valley of ash–where ash covered men and their lives.  “It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.”  To no one would Trevor have confided the effect of those words.  In the book two unblinking, bespectacled eyes stared down at the ash from a billboard.  His teacher had read a few pages aloud and the eyes had troubled him.  He had to know what happened in a land so like his own.

          Around him too men grubbed amid ever-growing neglect and decay to extract a living from mines, oilfields, ranches, shipping by train hard-won fruit of the earth to faraway bustling prosperity.  And high above, watching over all like the famous eyes, flashed a fiery red sign offering food and fuel, visible for miles up and down the interstate.  He’d read the book despite pretending to friends that he hadn’t.  Aced the test too and asked the teacher to keep it quiet.  And years later, the eyes would revisit him.  If they represented the eyes of God to that valley of ash, why wouldn’t they blink?  And what then was this sign to Cedar Springs?  To unwilling thoughts of fire and brimstone, a baleful voice agreed, “Yes, and it is willing to blink.” 

          Maybe that’s why he hadn’t gone to college.  Yes, that book made aspiration seem downright futile.  Now he wondered.  He knew he was smart enough.  But those jobs…they weren’t for men like him.  The people who left Cedar Springs for Casper or Cheyenne or Denver couldn’t even point to paper anymore as accomplishment; nowadays it was data on a computer.  He wondered about working all your life with no tangible result.  A man wanted something to show for a day’s work–a pile of coal, barrels of oil, lines of irrigation pipe, earth moved from here to there, branded calves, a gutted elk–something.  Something from dirt.  Who was he kidding?  What did he have?  Somebody else’s cattle that weren’t supposed to thrive lest they tip the tax scales. 

          His parents still pushed him to get an education.  His parents.  Like so many in Cedar Springs, she had a degree, not him.  Without her, they couldn’t have  retired on an acreage near the lake amid other properties sold off by a rancher who kept his operation afloat with land sales.  Didn’t make sense to Trevor but he didn’t have any better ideas.  The joke about the rancher who won a million dollars was no joke.  When asked what he planned to do with it, the rancher said, “Oh, just keep on ranchin’ ‘til it’s  gone.”  But this rancher, McIntosh, had barely started selling when the cancer diagnosis put all on hold.  Now he rotated between home and hospital, waiting for the end when his heir, a daughter who had long since left, would sell off what remained.   

Some ranchers tried to find another use for the land, offered hunting and guiding, but that often didn’t go well either.  People expected luxurious lodges and fine food–cuisine.  No such thing as roughing it for most of ‘em.  And they didn’t take kindly to going home empty-handed so the hunts were just ranch tours.  Might as well walk up and plug a beef. 

Mentally, he tried to shrug it off.  Why should he care?  Wasn’t as if he had a ranch to worry about.  But it was the reason for the shabbiness all around.  When his folks were kids, Cedar Springs had a real main street with stores that supported families.  One-room schools had dotted the countryside.  Railroads had carried everything and everybody.  Now they carried little but coal and never stopped in Cedar Springs.

His friends told him he dwelt too much on this stuff.  No, they wouldn’t use those words.  His friends said it bugged him too much.  Nobody had any answers, they said.  But he didn’t believe it.  Somewhere there were answers but the ones with answers had left.  Or had they left because there were no answers?

Often, when Trevor looked around Cedar Springs, at the rusting junk along the highway, at the vacant, roofless structures, the crumbling sidewalks, at the shacks with four or five vehicles on blocks amid knee-high grass, he thought this is what a town without women looks like–without strong women.  This is how the West would have looked if it had been left to men.  To men who didn’t mind living without women. 

He knew he was sounding like his mom again who had a surprising spunkiness.  The town mess constantly annoyed her.  And he chuckled to himself.  She had made it clear a few years back that even those words–spunky, feisty–annoyed her.  “They’re a put-down,” she’d said.    “Sounds like a twittering chipmunk or a pesky prairie dog.  Would you call an eagle feisty?  A mountain lion spunky? 

He and his dad had teased, “You think you’re an eagle or a mountain lion?”

“I’m talking about the words you’d describe them with.  Powerful.  Impressive.”  She thought a minute.  “Fearsome.” 

          To this they had really laughed.  “OK.  We won’t call you spunky or feisty.  But don’t expect ‘fearsome’ either.”

          And here he’d gone and done it again, in his head anyway.  But it gave him an idea.  She could get him through this first week.  She might appreciate something to do.  Comments like that annoyed her, too.