Lenny’s and Tom’s voices wake me.
Lenny whistles as the two of them peek out through the crack in the tent door. “Look at her out there. Ain’t she beautiful?” I figure they’re talking about Geraldine. I think of her silky hair, and the way it sometimes looks navy blue. And I think of the way her dark eyes twinkle when she says something funny.
Tom is crouched on his knees next to Lenny. “She’s beautiful all right. But cruel.”
“Yeah,” Lenny says, “she’s going to give us some beating today, that’s for sure.”
Geraldine cruel? Geraldine beating up on us? I don’t think so.
I sit up in my sleeping bag and rub the sleep from my eyes. The stove is making crackling sounds. “I have to take a leak,” I say.
“You might change your mind when you see what’s going on out there,” Tom says.
I crawl out of my sleeping bag and over to where Tom and Lenny are. Tom makes room so I can see outside too. Only there isn’t anything to see. Just white. Everywhere. That’s when I understand what Tom and Lenny have been talking about. It’s not Geraldine. It’s not any girl at all. It’s the weather. Beautiful and cruel.
“Is this a whiteout?” I ask the guys.
“Sure is,” Tom says.
I still have to pee.
I pull on my parka and put on Dad’s boots and my mitts. Even from inside the tent, we can hear the wind howling. I take a deep breath. This isn’t going to be fun. When I crawl out from the tent, the wind smacks my face so hard I’m sure it’ll leave a bruise.
Lenny pokes the top of his head out of the tent. “Hey, city boy, bring some wood when you’re done taking your leak!” he shouts.
“Don’t call me city boy!” I shout back, but I know there’s no point. Lenny is already back inside. He’ll never hear me over the wind.
The snow is coming down at a forty-five-degree angle. It isn’t soft snow like the kind you see in movies or on Christmas cards. These are tiny sharp pellets that prick at my skin like needles. But there are so many of them and they are coming down so quickly, they seem to be making the whole world white.
I don’t want to wander too far from the tent. I can’t see more than a few inches in front of me, and it would be easy to get lost out here. But I also want to be sure the guys won’t see me. I’ll never hear the end of it if they catch me with my fly open.
I try heading out in a straight line. I watch for landmarks in case I have trouble finding my way back. I see two small bushes in a row, but then there are lots of small bushes. Then I spot a jerry can that has probably been used for siphoning gas into a snowmobile.
I continue a few more feet. Walking is easier if I keep my head down. Okay, I think, now’s as good a time as any. I’ll just get this over with, collect some wood and head back. Maybe Steve will say the conditions are too bad for us to empty the fishing net. I hope so, but I kind of doubt it. I remember something Dad told me about Steve: “He’s lived here so long he thinks like an Inuk.” I’m pretty sure stormy conditions—even a complete whiteout—can’t stop the Inuit from catching fish. After all, we’ve got to eat, and so do the dogs.
It’s so cold that at first I think I won’t be able to pee. But once I start, I feel like I’ll never be able to stop. I try to concentrate on the puff of smoke my pee makes as it hits the ground, not on how the cold is seeping inside my bones and how the wind is whipping my face and fingers.
I had to take off my mitts to unzip my fly and now my fingers are numb. I fumble as I zip up my pants. Thank god my dick didn’t freeze right off.
The snow is coming down even harder now. I watch for the jerry can. Is that it? It seemed windy when I was walking away from the tent, but now that I’m headed back, the wind is twice as strong. It feels as if it might blow me right over. Small steps. I’ll just take small steps. Rats! What I hoped was the jerry can turns out to be a branch.
That reminds me: I almost forgot to look for branches. Luckily, there are a few more under the bush. As I reach down to grab at them a gust of wind sweeps down and carries them away. I hear a crack as, somewhere close by, a branch breaks. But with all this snow, I can’t tell where it lands.
What I’d give to be back in the warm tent. Even if Lenny’s in it.
There it is—the jerry can. And there are branches too, lots of them. Quickly, I make a bundle. I know I’m not far from the tent now. I try imagining how good it’ll feel to warm my hands in front of the stove. And do I smell pancakes? I’ve been so busy fighting the elements I didn’t realize how hungry I am. I hope Steve has syrup in one of his boxes.
Just then, I hear steps—heavy ones—coming toward me. “Who is it?” I call out. I stretch the top of my hands out in front of me like a blind man groping in the dark, which, in a way, I am.
The only answer I get is the cracking sound as another branch breaks. “Who is it?” I hear the fear in my voice. If there’s a polar bear out here, I tell myself, I’d have seen tracks. Or would the snow, falling so quickly, have covered them?
The steps are coming closer.
My breathing speeds up, and the top of my chest starts to hurt. I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from fear. Probably both.
“Hey.”
I recognize the husky voice.
“Geraldine,” I say. “What are you doing out here?”
I can see her now. She’s got on an old-fashioned pair of snowshoes, the kind made from wood and rawhide. They explain the heavy steps I just heard.
“Did I scare you?” she asks. Her dark eyes twinkle.
“Nah,” I say. I’m pretty sure she can tell I’m lying.
“Steve said he’d make pancakes for breakfast,” she says. “Me and my ataata are invited too. After that, we’re going to empty the nets. All of us.”
“All of us?”
Geraldine laughs. I figure that means me too.