Thin Ice

As if they hadn’t answered that question already, hadn’t toyed with similar courses, or left doors ajar to accident on occasions marked by pink slips, hangovers, court orders, and emptied closets. In short, occasions like this when no amount of sunshine, no incipient tinkle of snowmelt could cancel the fact of their private failures or the nasty example before them.

For the moment, nothing was happening on the ice. The diver had disappeared. The winch was in place. In the sunshine, a deputy smoked, leaning on the hood of his car with an insouciance that none of the crowd could muster.

Then the doors of the tavern opened and the bartender waddled forth to rescue his little flock. He lived behind the bar in rooms never seen by his patrons, but known to be empty since his wife’s departure; rooms he now seemed intent on filling with his own ever-swelling bulk.

“What a way to wake up,” he announced, addressing them collectively, accustomed to commanding the bar with his voice. He ran a hand across his pate: smooth and pale as the pickled eggs he kept on the bar. A bathrobe and bare legs showed under an overcoat, which seemed to cover another, much larger egg.

“You’ve looked better,” said one of the watchers.

“It’s the season,” the bartender said, waving vaguely at the new fallen snow that barely covered grey trees and dirty snow banks. “I’m tired of winter and letters from my wife’s lawyer. They’re playing golf in Phoenix and I spend my nights shooing dopes like you out the door—is it any wonder a guy starts drinking the profits?”

Kern joined those who nodded gratefully, noting his companions’ willingness to chuckle. He studied the nervous hands of the bird watcher beside him. He peered at the vitreous eyes of the Peterson twins: colder and just a bit bluer than the hole in the frozen lake.

“So who decided to take a dip this year?” asked one of the twins. He pointed across the thin ice.

“Last night it could have been half the guys in the bar,” the fat man answered. Then he smiled. “We should have set up a betting pool: ‘When will the first car go through.’ ”

“Why couldn’t it be a snowmobile?” the birdwatcher asked, accustomed to argument and the early hour.

“You’re talking about my customers, guy.”

“Noisy ones. I wouldn’t mind—”

The bartender patted his shoulder. “So who’s being noisy now?” he said—not a question so much as an invitation to drop the discussion. He studied the faces around him, then jingled the tavern’s fat key ring. “Anyone for an eye opener?”

Kern remained outside, keeping watch with the deputies and the Ojibwa who had stayed in her car all the while. As the sun rose higher—almost a spring sun—he felt its warmth on his face and unzipped his jacket. Water dripped from the tavern’s roof. Soon he and the deputies had to step around puddles. A radio squawked. Kern eavesdropped, but understood nothing. Then the deputies began directing church-bound cars away from the scene. Drivers slowed and stared, sometimes pulling onto the shoulder with a crunch of loose gravel that made Kern start pacing again.

At 11:00 a.m., the screeching winch drew his fellow watchers from the bar. They blinked in the sunshine as firemen guided the burdened sledge and the diver followed with his head down. At first, Kern could tell nothing about the load, but soon he recognized a familiar type, one whose jacket bore the patch of a motorcycle the wearer could never afford, one whose wallet was hooked to a sagging chain attached to a broad leather belt. As the sledge drew into the lot, Kern saw all he needed to peg the boy: from his stringy blonde hair to the set of self-inflicted tattoos—crosses pecked into knuckles—that warned off sensible people.