Thin Ice Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Thin Ice

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  PART 4

  “What a beautiful little girl. What’s her name?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Thin Ice

  By Marsha Qualey

  Copyright 2013 by Marsha Qualey

  Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1997.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Thin Ice

  Marsha Qualey

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  Three hours into my birthday party, people were jumping off the roof. This was not dangerous, just dumb. It wasn’t dangerous because we’d had three blizzards in ten days and the snow had drifted high against the house, almost to the eaves.

  But it was dumb because by three hours into the party the temperature had dropped to ten above. Though their necks were probably safe from being broken, people risked frostbite. Come to think of it, that’s dangerous, too.

  I don’t know who had the idea to rev up my party with roof jumping. Probably the idea came from no one in particular, just got born out of the atmosphere—one of those inspirations brewed out of the combination of music, dancing, and chip dip. Before anyone had gathered her wits to say “That’s stupid,” about twenty people—old and young, my friends and my brother’s—had filed outside.

  The jumpers left doors open, and the exchange of cold air for hot was welcome. So was the extra room. Our house isn’t that big, and at one point I had counted fifty people. That was early on, and guests kept coming.

  The roof jumping didn’t last long. No one could find a ladder, so the only way to get on the roof was to climb up the drift. It was packed down quickly, what with twenty people jumping up and mostly falling short. But a few lucky fools made it, and I guess they must have thought the jumping was fun because someone got the bright idea to throw the birthday girl off the roof. I was in the kitchen hiding from my best friends, the twins, who wanted to make me a middleman in their newest juggling trick, which involved knives. Keeping one eye out for the twins, I was watching all the outside activity through the window when the jumpers came for me. I should have read minds, should have seen it coming. I did see all this huddling and laughing and everyone suddenly turning to look at me. Then five or six of them rushed inside.

  “No, no!” I shrieked as I was picked up, arms and legs.

  “Help, help!” I called as I was hauled out of the house, my butt swinging and bumping against every possible thing.

  My brother just grinned and watched, no help at all. But then, I’m sure there have been plenty of times in our life together when he’s wanted to do something just like that to me—no doubt without the landing cushion of snow.

  All the Einsteins present, no one could figure out how to get me up on the roof. It was just as well, because by then the drift was really packed down and the dumb idea had turned dangerous. They dropped me. The legs around me shifted, left, right. I rolled, picked up snow, and fast as I could, started stuffing it up the pants of my tormentors. No Einstein myself, I was on my knees when I began my attack and so unable to flee. Retribution was certain. I prepared to take it, maybe in the face. Or down the neck. But right then the loud siren and flashing lights of a cop car did what the January night hadn’t: froze us.

  The cruiser turned a corner a block away and headed toward my house.

  “Who called the cops?” people asked each other.

  I frowned. A complaint didn’t make sense. The music wasn’t that loud, it wasn’t even midnight, and there were only three houses on the street. Besides, all the neighbors were at the party.

  “Must be the light,” someone said, and we all looked toward the driveway. My brother was a mechanic at a car dealership and he had borrowed the owner’s spotlight, one of those monster beamers that twirl around and light up the sky. It was parked in the driveway, a zillion watts aimed heaven-high. It wasn’t rotating, though. Scott had fixed the beam so it shone on a huge bunch of helium-filled balloons.

  The jumpers and I went inside and waited. Everyone quieted, listening for the bell.

  Two rings. Scott opened the door and motioned the officer inside. It was Al Walker, an old friend of my brother’s. A good guy, and I’d always liked him. Amazing, though, how a uniform and gun can alter someone’s appearance.

  Al walked in, nodded to my brother. “Town ordinance, Scott. That spotlight should have gone off at eleven.”

  “Sorry. I’ll do it now.”

  Al the Cop smiled at everyone and walked into the living room. His head ratcheted around on his neck. Checking for underage drinking, I guessed. He came over to me.

  “Seventeen, Arden!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’m glad I got off duty in time to extend my good wishes.” And like an old car getting a jump start, the crowd roared back to life as his six feet four inches kind of curled around my five feet two and he laid one on me. Lips.

  Kissed by a cop.

  Happy birthday, Arden. Happy birthday to me.

  CHAPTER 2

  I know more about my family than I remember. I know I was six and at home with a babysitter when my parents were killed in a plane crash in Central America. They were doctors, volunteering for a few weeks a
t a rural clinic. I know that Scott, my only sibling, was away at college. I know he rushed home to be with me.

  I know we had no relatives and that one or two old friends of my parents’ emerged from somewhere far away and offered to take me so Scott could return to school. I know he refused the offers and instead moved back to Penokee and enrolled at the technical college in Superior. I know there was plenty of money left for us both, enough to pay for the house and for someone to watch me while he was at school. I know we went through a lot of babysitters. I know that Scott, after finishing school, got a job fixing cars. I know he dated, but I don’t know names. I know I got older and he did too. I know it couldn’t have been fun, being mother and father to a younger sister.

  I remember bits. My mother’s unruly hair slipping out of a scarf. My father’s hairy hands curled over mine as we’d swing a baseball bat. Singing in the car. A tent and a campfire. Smoky smell of a scratchy sweater. Bits.

  I remember story times. If I want to conjure up my parents, to remember a touch, a voice, a smell, it helps to think about The Sailor Dog, or Betsy-Tacy, or Frog and Toad.

  I know I had nightmares. I remember waking up shivering and screaming, wet with tears and sweat. I remember once Scott burst into my room. He held me and whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  I remember him saying, “I have dreams too.”

  That helped. Comforted me most of all, maybe, to know that those pictures in my head of flames and ripped metal also haunted my brother.

  I know we were watched by people who cared about us and by people with power to split us apart. I remember talks with school counselors, who always liked to take my hand and ask questions: How are you? What did you eat for breakfast? Do you need help shopping for personal things?

  They never asked what they really wanted to know: Does your brother bring home girlfriends? Does he drink and do drugs? Does he ever touch you? No, no, and no.

  With time my nightmares went away. And so did people’s questions. I guess everyone got used to us. And now, most of the time, it feels like we’ve always lived this way: Scott and Arden. Brother and sister. The Munros. Family of two.

  CHAPTER 3

  There’s a limited view from my bedroom window. I see the front yard and the end of the driveway. I see the twins’ house, and the windows of their separate bedrooms. Blue-striped curtains for Kady, tie-dyed sheet for Jean. Beyond their house, rising above everything, there’s the omnipresent plume of polluted industrial exhaust from the paper mill downriver.

  This is northern Wisconsin, so of course I see plenty of trees—pine, oak, poplar, and birch. A lilac bush.

  The morning after the party, aroused by an unidentifiable noise from a deep slumber, I saw two guys hopping out of a pickup. One spotted me and waved. I didn’t want to seem churlish and waved back.

  They’d come for the spotlight. Scott went out and shook hands, even slapped one of them on the shoulders. Weird how I’ve never seen a girl do that: shake, shake, how ya doing, whack.

  Scott was dressed for playing outside: snowmobile suit and huge boots. He stood around until the spotlight guys were gone; then he disappeared. I heard the rumble of a snowmobile, his new toy. The sled’s engine roared; then the sound faded as he drove into the woods behind our house. We live at the edge of town, just a quarter mile from a state forest and its miles of trails. He’d be gone all day.

  A horrible thought invaded my sleepy brain: Was I left with the party mess?

  When I need to, I can move. I jumped out of bed and hustled to the kitchen.

  Spotless.

  Living room?

  Immaculate.

  While I slept, he had cleaned. What a guy, my brother.

  CHAPTER 4

  I spent the morning in my workshop in the basement. Ten years ago, when Scott and I became the sole occupants of this house, we pretty much left things as they had been: Our parents’ stuff stayed in their room; their paintings and photographs stayed on the living room walls; their CDs remained stacked by the stereo. The basement too had been their domain. There was a small medical library, a huge desk, and several file cabinets. More pictures, tools, and a few pieces of beat-up furniture.

  Like a creeping weed, Scott and I took over the house. The life my parents had planted became overgrown with our stuff. First, Scott moved into the big bedroom, claiming the private bathroom with its whirlpool tub. Then our posters and music started to fill the living room. We stashed their pictures and knickknacks and sold the furniture the year I was in fifth grade, and for months the living room was empty except for some metal shelving, the TV and stereo system, and a futon, the first in Penokee. Then Scott hired a cabinetmaker, and now we have all this custom-made oak stuff. There’s a new futon.

  I took over the basement. I figured it was fair because he got the great bathtub. The biggest room has been pretty much a clubhouse for me and the twins and any current friends. There’s even a black curtain strung across one end, a backdrop for juggling shows.

  The back room is mine, all mine. Knock before entering. My workshop.

  I make picture frames. This is more than a hobby, it’s art. And it’s business. During the last few years I’d made a nice chunk of change from selling my frames through gift shops in the area. No lie. My stuff is good—northwoods folk art with an edge. And I’d recently branched out, added on mirrors and earring stands. I’m legit: The first summer my stuff was selling in shops, Scott hauled me off to a lawyer and I registered as a bona fide business. ArdenArt.

  I made my first frame at camp the summer after fifth grade— cardboard, painted macaroni, a whole bottle of glue. Pretty lame.

  But it must have been fun, because when I got home I started gluing painted Popsicle sticks together into rectangles and decorating them. Most of my creations fell apart, but one, decorated with acorns and seed pods, caught the eye of the cabinetmaker who was measuring the living room for bookshelves. He showed me how to use a saw and a miter box, where to glue, when to nail or screw. I took some classes on using power tools, and the rest—glass cutting, matting, staining—I learned from books.

  Lately I’d been working with costume jewelry. Last summer I foraged all the garage sales and flea markets and came away with boxes of cheap, flashy baubles to mount on birch and cherry frames. Rhinestones on dark cherry sell the best.

  It’s tricky, though. Not just a matter of glue. You have to carefully rout a hole in the molding that approximates the shape of the stone. I don’t just glue the stones onto the surface, I inlay. Careful touch required. My parents were both surgeons. I have their hands.

  It’s easy to get lost in work you love. Oblivious. I was setting a bar of fake rubies when a shadow fell over the table. Instead of plucking the stone, the tweezers I was using jabbed into my palm.

  Watch your mouth, Arden.

  “Did I disturb you?” Jean asked.

  I held up my hand to show her the tiny bubble of blood.

  “Sorry. Have you had a tetanus shot? Those tweezers look rusty.”

  “Lucky for you, yes. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I knocked. You didn’t hear?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Want lunch? Kady’s fixing something.”

  I looked out the small window. Nothing to see but snow. “I’m hungry, but not enough to put on boots and a coat. I’ll make a sandwich.”

  “She’s here. We thought there might be leftovers from the party.”

  My stomach rumbled. It’s a hard noise to ignore, and I seldom do, which is maybe one reason I’m a size eleven. At least sixty people had been eating nonstop for four hours last night; even so, there were leftovers. Kady had the kitchen table covered with food—salads, cake, bread, cheeses, spreads, and soda. We denied ourselves nothing.

  “Great party last night,” said Kady, just before biting into a sandwich. Mayo and mustard oozed out, coating the corner of her mouth.

  “The best ever,” said Jean, and she blew across the long neck of
a root-beer bottle. “We’ve got four older brothers and not one of them even gives a birthday present, much less a party.”

  With my little finger, I scraped and lifted a red rose off the cake. Licked it with my tongue. “If you have to be orphaned and raised by a brother,” I said, “be sure it’s one who can throw a blowout.”

  “Where is he?” Jean asked.

  “Snowmobiling.” They both made a face, and I laughed. Then they both made another face, and I laughed again. “You should see yourselves,” I said.

  Fraternal twins, they didn’t look a bit alike. Some people have even said Jean and I, with our auburn hair and fair skin, look more like sisters. Jean and Kady act like twins, though. Facial expressions, mannerisms, utterances—identical. They move, speak, and breathe just alike. Maybe that’s the result of five years of juggling, of all those hours spent practicing the precise motions needed to toss and catch the pins, dolls, balls, and other odd stuff they use in their act. Or maybe it’s the other way; maybe they’re so good at juggling because they have this innate togetherness. Synchronicity.

  I move alone. Artists do, right?

  “I’ve only been on a snowmobile once,” Jean said.

  Kady shook her head. “Too loud.”

  “I think it looks kind of fun,” I said. “All that speed.”

  “What would be fun,” said Jean, “is this.” She pulled a folded newspaper page from her hip pocket and laid it on the table within my reach. She and her sister exchanged identical looks—two brows furrowed, two mouths set.

  NORTHLAND WINTER FESTIVALS. Penokee’s annual winter carnival was highlighted, with a photo of last year’s award-winning snow sculpture.

  I shrugged. “Same old stuff. The usual crowds, ski races, and traffic. What’s fun?”

  “It gave us this idea,” said Kady. “We want you in on it.”

  “Not that we like you,” Jean added, “but because you have a car.”

  I tossed a slimy pasta shell at her. “Go eat at home.”

  Kady leaned forward. Her elbow pressed into a half-eaten whole wheat bun. “When summer comes, let’s go on the road. We’ll hit all the festivals and craft fairs. We’ll do our show and you can set up a kiosk with your stuff. Think of the money you can make if you don’t have to give a percentage to store owners.”