Hawkins Creek

A Story of Loss and Redemption

Did I ever tell you how I left Core Hollow?
One cracking cold night I stuffed my clothes into my old Honda, grabbed my violin and laid it on top of the pile. Then I hid the guns, slid them behind the rocking chair and shoved them under the bed. Not very clever hiding places, but, all things considered, I hadn’t much time to think about it.
Of course he knew it right away, said: “OK! So where are the guns?” And then he said, “I love you.” Of course he was right. But, never mind that. I’m seeing life backwards right now, and if you could see life backwards, like through the rear-view window of a car, then you probably wouldn’t be so inclined to mess it up. So I…..I just edged to the door, stumbled down the icy steps and ran to my car.
It turned over twice and I floored it, fish-tailing up the drive, creaking over packed snow, never slowing down, and drove through the red garden gates at Core Hollow one more time…..one last time. The night had already taken a tumble, a slick free-fall to freezing depths, bitter-bare trees moaning with the cold; hard-sparkle stars flung frigid in stiff spirals. I jumped out and closed the gates, the sticky-cold metal grabbing my fingers through my thin gloves.
I drove blank-minded, staring, on auto-pilot, over the moony-white, twisting, pitiless back-roads, my heater blowing out lukewarm, useless air. A coil or something had blown in it the day before. My feet were beginning to numb when I narrowly missed a wandering deer beside Buck Creek School, became nerveless blocks when I rolled out of Rockbridge and into the birch-white woods, the harsh bluff walls rising around me, the glancing gleam of Hawkins Creek rigid below them in the moonlight.
Gabriel’s driveway, his squatty little house, were still as death under the ghost-white moon. No sign of car or life, except for the thick plume of wood smoke lazily licking around the chimney, rising slowly into the biting cold, edging towards the pines, taking its own sweet time. On the off chance that Gabe could be home, or the door unlocked - futile hope! I climbed stiffly from my seat and squeak-squeaked my numb feet across the packed snow to the door.
Dillon Dog hopped from his bed by the wood stove, pressed his black nose against the window. Mr Pussin Boots unwound his striped bulk from a tabled basket, ran stiff whiskers against the door frame.
Yes, of course. Of course they would let me in…….if they could. The problem became starkly apparent. It was only 9 p.m., and Gabe would probably work until midnight. I had no gas to run back to town, and no way of warming myself. If I ran the car it would run out of gas……it could be subject to gas-line freeze at that moment, as it was. I had no phone…….and, even if I did, nobody to call.
Resigned, I cracked open the trunk, scrambled around and pulled out a heavy quilt. Wrapping it tightly around my body I huddled deep within it, covering my head, re-breathing moist air, rolling myself into a ball, settling in for the long haul. Gradually, gradually, my long shivers subsided, and I drifted to sleep.
Gabe awakened me at 12:30 a.m. when he returned from work, marveling at the silvery frost lying upon the blanket, sparkling stiff and white within my tangled hair under the indifferent moon.
And that was the night I left Core Hollow.