I snatched an oil-scented wool cap off the dashboard, yanked it over my ears, and stomped the gas pedal—engine bellowing, rear tires digging and screeching—while I rocked back and forth against my steering wheel. “Come on—move!!” My toes mashed the pedal until white smoke strolled past my window, belted me with a scent of burnt rubber. I snatched my gearshift into park, swiped a hand through the air nearest my face, and twisted wires that dangled from a nearby panel which controlled the door locks. Once they’d popped unlocked, I hurled the door wide, marched outside behind it, and shoved the window pane but slipped, plummeted onto all fours.
Following a lengthy sigh, I scraped myself upright but kneeled there, brushing flurries from my palms, peering through a distant night—beyond a driveway lined with leafless trees and a snow-covered lawn—at two-dozen windows that shimmered beneath a star-speckled sky—Uncle Gem’s estate.
Having meandered through the trees, the driveway circled before a wide front door and manicured hedges, and along the blacktop, dozens of cars and vans were parked.
I climbed on my feet and surveyed the precession, unaware this many people had lived in or around Hunting Hollow; much less Uncle Gem kept them as friends. Once I’d observed the endless silhouettes that sashayed past the first floor windows however, I realized a party was going-on and heaved the door closed—there was no telling how many attendees had arrived from out-of-town and therefore were overnight guests whom uncle would spend much of his time entertaining and leaving little for me.
Perhaps he’d forgotten what had happened to my Somerville High friend within this village three years ago. Perhaps he’d forgotten today was the final day of my senior autumn semester and that we’d agreed months ago I’d spend my concluding winter break here discussing this classmate. Now that she was no longer with me, I was unsure about my future after graduation come spring and wanted to discuss this with him; and, despite the party however, I would discuss it… that is, after I’d heaved my car from a certain ditch.
I trudged to the rear passenger tire, snatched a glove from my hand, and traced the warm, smooth wheel wedged within the snowy hole and then glanced over my shoulder at the clumps of earth its whirling motion had catapulted across a blanket of snow. Both legs bent and steadied beneath me, I pressed my thigh into the rusted bumper and thrust, rocked the car back-and-forth. “Come on!” I said, gritted my teeth. “Move!” A scorched-tread scent paraded stars past my eyes, but given the wheel had gained height on the ditch’s wall, I stayed with it. “Come on!!”
Out of the blue nonetheless, frigidness avalanched past my collar and then down the back of my shirt. I bellowed and collapsed backward onto the driveway though snatched my foot from the hole before the wheel barreled to the bottom. I yanked the base of my shirt open, and a handful of snow showered onto the blacktop.
Behind me, someone cackled.
I sank teeth into my knuckle, spun around, and saw a lofty teenage boy—but three times my size—bent-over with laughter. He wore hefty construction boots, hockey goalie-like gloves, and a wool coat which revealed suspenders that strained to hold-up Paul Bunyan-sized pants—a bona fide lumberjack.
“I’m going to die out here watching you!!” he said and whacked his broad thigh. “Just die!!”
I sprung to my feet. “Well, nobody’s stopping you, Timotheos!!”
“Hey!!” he said, seized my collar, pinned me against my trunk. “You know better than that like the rest of the students at school. The name’s Timber, Short-stacks, and this hasn’t changed since sixth grade!”
The reality that I’d known him that long made me shudder. His big yellow eyes burrowed into mine, and I could smell ham-and-cheese hors d’oeuvres from the party on his breath.
“Is it my fault my parents met at a Greek restaurant and decided to remind me of it for the rest of my life?!” He jerked my collar. “Is it??”
“No!” I said, shook my head. “Of course not!”
He released my collar, brushed flurries from my coat. “Then ease up, Short-stacks, you’re turning blue.” He kneeled at my tire. “This thing’s bald as a bowling ball. You won’t be able to drive it out.”
“What are you doing at my uncle’s place??”
He glanced back at me.
“I meant, ‘What are you doing here in Hunting Hollow?’ Shouldn’t you be in Somerville tossing snowballs off a roof or something?”
He grinned, arose to his feet. “I’ll toss you off a roof.”
I took a step backward.
“Relax, Short-stacks,” he said. “I took a job at a renovated assisted-living facility on County Line along the edge of the village. I’d just dropped a few folks off and had climbed back into my work van when I’d heard a car down here coughing and gagging.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s only a temporary gig for now; just picking-up some extra cash for prom.”
“You found a date??” I said. “Who??”
“Don’t worry about that, Short-stacks,” he said and poked my chest. “You’ll see who come spring. Don’t get all full of yourself because your little friend’s the best dancer in school.”
I closed my eyes, sighed, and heard him slap a palm over his mouth.
“Or, umm… was the best dancer,” he said. “No, I meant…” He sighed. “Man, I suck…” He placed a hand atop my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Stacks, I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”
I snatched away, backed up the driveway toward the estate. “Y-you didn’t happen to see my uncle inside, did you?” My eyes fluttered and fell to the ground where I couldn’t lift them. “Tall, black spectacles, wears a Santa Claus-looking beard?”
“Sebastian…”
“Well, did you see him or not??”
“Sebastian,” Timber said, arms held wide. “That’s not your fault. You didn’t sit Francesca behind any wheel—”
“No, you d-didn’t see him?” I said. “Not a problem—I’ll find him myself!”
I spun on my heels, jogged up the driveway until I reached long black cars parked before the front door and then swiped my eyes. I didn’t want to hear an apology. I was fine, and a person who was fine didn’t need special treatment. Along a walkway, my boots crunched, and I glanced at elevated windows which peeked above trimmed hedges. I halted at a thick green door where I reached through a Christmas reef, rapped a brass knocker. I stood there, blew warm breath through my fists, and knocked again, and, at last, a bolt clacked and the door opened. A woman who wore silvery hair, a black and red rose-print dress, and an outsized smile stood there.
“Good evening, Miss. Jones,” I said.
“Sebastian?!” she said. “Well, don’t just stand there—get in here and give me a hug!!” She dashed out to me anyway and threw her arms around my neck. “And that’s Auntie Lynette to you!”
Lynette owned a fabric shop four miles up County Line situated on the town square roundabout called Lynette’s Linens. Throughout winter—months before prom night—Somerville girls piled into her shop in search of the freshest materials for Lynette to construct their gowns with. I’d never visited it but had seen it from my rest-stop at the town gazebo one mild winter morning years ago when I’d bit up enough courage to take a jog; and ever since, by the way, treadmills have been just fine—I never was much of an outdoorsman.
Lynette however tugged me into the foyer and peeled my coat away. I stamped snow from my boots and then gaped over her shoulder at a candy cane centerpiece buffet table which rested at the base of a grand staircase where trays of cookies and brownies lay alongside a glass bowl of eggnog.
“My uncle must be enjoying himself,” I said.
Lynette shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, dear,” she said. “I haven’t seen him yet this evening.” She threw my coat over someone else’s and lugged me across the hardwood past the table.
“My aunt then,” I said. “My other aunt—Evelyn. She must be somewhere around helping him entertain, huh?”
Her grip tightened on my arm like a blood pressure strap a doctor would use. “Now Evelyn, I’d caught a glimpse of maybe an hour ago. She’d likely guided guests through a corridor and showed them around.”
Lynette dragged me into a living room before no less than thirty-five people who either sipped eggnog on a sofa, fiddled with ordainments on a ceiling-high Christmas tree, head-gestured in conversation, or squeezed into a corner and traded bags of flower-printed children’s dresses which were perhaps Lynette’s latest creations. She raised a hand, cleared her throat. “Excuse me, folks—may I have your attention?? Excuse me!”
“Uh, Aunt Lynette?” I drew my arm back but she’d clutched it like a mom who walked a child across a busy intersection. The more the crowd turned our direction the more I stretched a plastic smile. “Lynette, I umm… really need to locate my—”
“Call me Auntie Lynette, dear,” she said. “And your uncle and aunt can wait for now.” She turned toward the partygoers. “For those who don’t know, this is Gem and Evelyn’s nephew Sebastian—the young music phenomenon I’d spoke about earlier who’ll soon graduate near the top of his class.”
Everyone applauded, and Lynette glimpsed at me and squeezed my arm, and then I nodded and mouthed the words thank you.
“And if you think that’s something,” she said. “At age sixteen, he’d committed to carry-on the prestige of our great Gem Westbrook and therefore, like him, plans to attend West Preston Conservatory—one of the greatest performing arts institutions in the world—next autumn!”
My mouth fell open, and then, while the room erupted, I shot Lynette my wide-eyes—I hadn’t yet made a decision. Nevertheless, she clapped and smiled, pointed at me, and stepped aside as dozens of senior citizens flooded my space, patted and hugged me:
“Outstanding, young man!” a gentleman said. “Knock their socks clean-off their toes!!”
“You want to measure up to the ol’ man, ay??” another said and dry-coughed. “Then you’ve got bigger marbles than most do!!”
“Good luck, honey!” a lady said. “Do your best, and any nerves you may have would fly out the window!”
Greeting and thanking a number of them, I was backed, before long, against the Christmas tree.
“Alright, alright,” Lynette said, slipped through the horde. “He’s just a boy, and he hasn’t seen his uncle or aunt.”
“Thank you,” I said and stepped sideways, but she grasped my arm and jerked me close.
“But before he goes however,” she said. “Sebastian will perform a Christmas selection for us. So if you’d all be so kind as to tail us to the piano in the den, we’d appreciate that.” She hooked my arm as though I’d been her escort an entire evening, guided me through a doorway alongside the grand staircase and down a corridor ribbed with marble arches. “You’re a good nephew, Sebastian,” she said and patted my arm.
I nodded, widened my plastic smile. “Oh I try sometimes, auntie.”
We ambled to the end of the corridor, through a dining room, and into the den which—at first sight—shortened my stride. Given an unadorned sofa, fireplace, and grand piano occupied it last year, I only just recognized it. Now it hosted decorative pillows, candy-stuffed stockings, cherry-scented logs, ribbon-bound reefs, glittery holiday cards, shimmery brass candleholders, dangling silver bells, trays of ginger bread, and a banner which read Welcome Home, Gem! that hung over a wall-to-wall window behind the piano.
While Lynette herded everyone around the instrument, I stood beside the doorway and stared at the banner.
Welcome home??
Lynette dashed across the hardwood. “Okay, Sebastian,” she said, smiled at the people. “Are we all set??”
I glimpsed at the Welcome sign, and my forehead wrinkled.
She pulled me to a back wall. “The banner, the party, the decorations… everything was your Aunt Evelyn’s idea. For your Uncle Gem…”
I stared at her.
“Her dear brother tours spring through late autumn with his orchestra then returns to a drafty estate for the holidays to no wife, children, or pet. She thought this would be a welcomed change. Not that she said he’d complained. She knew he wouldn’t want to rely on your holiday visit or her travel from Alberta.” Lynette peered at the crowd. “She knew our guests would be orchestra lovers and Gem wouldn’t mind having them here; nor should he mind my promoting new creations from my shop. After all, I did assist with this evening’s arrangement. Anyhow, for some reason, your uncle and aunt aren’t here.”
“Why??” I said. “Where could they have gone??”
She shrugged. “How should I know?? They’re your relatives…”
I shook my head.
“But what I do know is these folks are loyal customers I’d invited to meet your uncle, and I won’t be embarrassed!” She seized my arm, dragged me through the multitude to the piano stool. “And now folks,” she said, hands in the air. “Enjoy a selection by the nephew of our esteemed host, Sebastian Westbrook.”
People beamed and applauded.
I nodded, rustled through sheet music on a stand and found A Love’s Midwinter Night—written by my uncle, a soothing ballad I’d only caught him playing when I’d walked into a room on him at night.
My fingers shivered, and before I sat, I grinned at the crowd, turned toward the fireplace, and wiggled my digits over the flames. While I did, I glanced at picture frames atop the mantelpiece. My uncle and I posed in one, he and Aunt Evelyn in another, and the remainder featured him only within rooms throughout the estate.
Suddenly, someone behind me cleared their throat, and I didn’t need a glimpse in the sound’s direction to know who this was.
I sighed, sat, and slid my fingers along silky keys and then proceeded at a pace I’d heard my uncle once. As I did, I envisioned things its melody suggested: a rural town blanketed with snow, an icy branch in a moonlit sky, a mug of hot chocolate alongside a fire, and a family around a Christmas tree. But as the tune progressed, I could tell he’d penned notes as though he wanted their sound to whimper. I shook my head and then peered around the instrument at married couples who held one another, shared a peck on a cheek, and drank a cup of eggnog. But then I envisioned my uncle on this stool in the wee hours playing the melody and gazing through the window into night.
Fingers tapping the keys, I leaned into the glass, peered outside, and saw a woman who stood—back-turned—on a frozen walkway which extended partway into the backyard before it curled back alongside the estate. She was without a jacket, and though her shoulders shivered, she held stock-still.
I leaned closer, squinted.
She was the one of my two aunts I was in fact related to; the one that cared without end about my uncle and me—Aunt Evelyn.
Five minutes passed, and the wintry ballad ended. The crowd applauded, and I sprang to my feet, bowed, and dashed for the kitchen doorway which led to the backdoor. Before I’d reached it however, Lynette snagged my arm.
“No worries, folks,” she said. “Sebastian won’t go far. He’ll be back soon with a second selection; well, that’s if our esteemed host doesn’t beat him to it!” She chuckled. “Everyone, please eat, drink.”
She released my arm, and I scrambled through the kitchen and into a back hallway where I snatched open a closet door and combed the hanging outerwear without the slightest idea which piece was hers. I grabbed a cashmere coat and scarf, leapt down a short flight of stairs nearby, and dashed to the backdoor where I peeked through its window.
Her back was turned, and she hadn’t moved.
I skulked out into the wintry air and trekked along the slick walkway, observing her grayed hair and boney arms until I arrived only just behind her.
“Good evening, auntie,” I said, hung the coat on her shoulders.
She didn’t budge.
“Auntie??”
I circled toward her front, examining her profile, uncertain of her facial expression. Once I’d slinked before her however, I found her gawking over my shoulder, unblinking. A quiet moment tiptoed about, but before long, I asked what was wrong.
“I don’t understand them,” she said. “What is it about these trees?”
“Trees??” I followed her gaze across the snowy yard to silhouetted trunks along the border. “What about them?”
“For the past three years, I’d traveled to this estate to visit my brother only to catch him standing on this walkway and gaping at them.” Her stare shifted to me. “Do you have any idea why?”
I bit my lip, studied her until suddenly, something yelped from quietness along the yard’s edge, and when I’d snapped my eyes there, nothing budged or made a sound. I chuckled, stretched an arm around her. “Let’s get you inside, auntie.” I peeked at the den window—inside, guests mingled before the fire. “Someone’s started on the piano,” I said. “Let’s go see who it is.”
She shook her head. “The window’s triple-paned, Sebastian,” she said. “From out here, we couldn’t hear the piano explode. What’s more, tonight, your uncle’s not coming.”
I gasped. “Not coming?? Why not??”
Lips quivering, she lowered her eyes and, after a second, turned her face away.
I leaned close. “Has something happened to him?”
She said nothing.
“Please tell me—what’s happened to my uncle?”
Her head bowed.
“Auntie, please—tell me.”
She glanced at me, sighed, and gaped at shaded stalks out back; and I observed her a moment and trailed her eyes there.
“For the past three months,” she said. “I’d arranged he’d arrived home to supporters, plates of food, and gifts underneath a Christmas tree. Early yesterday morning, I’d met Lynette here to hang banners and prepare food, and ever since later that afternoon, when all was finished, I’d dialed his phone each hour to suggest we link-up at a Somerville café upon his arrival in the area tonight—therefore he wouldn’t appear at the party early—except he’d never answered. Before long, tonight arrived and the first guests turned-up, and at about this time, I’d received a call from Gem who’d apologized for both the missed calls and café rendezvous but mentioned he’d been aiding an ill friend. Given that he’d arrived in the area safely nonetheless, I’d made little fuss over the calls and café though had wondered what friend he’d nursed as I’d come to know, throughout the years, his acquaintances. But when I’d asked who this person was, he’d said he’d had to end our call. Without further thought on this, I’d ambled to his office downstairs to make party cancelation calls but, once there, noticed a light on his answering machine blinked. I’d played the message, and a voice said his ‘private room had been prepared’ and ‘admittance was now possible’. I’d stared at the machine and scratched my head but listened further and learned the voice belonged to an administrator at an assisted-living facility on County Line.”
My forehead wrinkled.
“Since it’d seemed he’d devoted his evening to helping his friend into a facility despite recent travel into the area, I’d presumed I’d known who this person was for certain. So given this—and an idea his friend could’ve used an added hand—I’d took-up my keys, darted to my car, and wheeled down County Line where, after a few miles, I’d realized I’d forgotten my jacket. At this facility nonetheless, I’d asked a desk attendant whether or not Gem had stopped by, and after I’d supplied my name, I was identified as an emergency contact and, without further conversation, escorted upstairs to a guestroom where a gentleman stood—back-turned—gazing out a window and into dark trees beyond. He was my brother, your uncle—Gem.”
My jaw dropped.
“For a while, I’d stood frozen, observing him and then, after a time, pictured our mother when we were children and how—after our father had passed—she’d gazed out a window for hours on end: her face elongated and colorless, she’d peered through a pane as though she’d lost something in our backyard she’d only needed to spot and retrieve; and after I’d thought about this, I’d remembered a longtime friend who’d, after his son had passed, spent time beside a pane, as well. But Gem had lost no wife, child, or acquaintance yet had spent more time gazing than both of them. Thereby, I could only imagine what he’d lost.”
“But why’s he at a facility??” I said. “Why not come home??”
“Once I’d entered the room, he said he needed time away from the estate and wouldn’t revisit it this winter; and then I’d wondered whether or not this was because of his annual return to his empty residence except when I’d informed him about our welcome home party—and that you and I’d reside here a few weeks—this didn’t change his mind, and I’d realized another reason existed. Given he was worn from travel and had hid his face most of our conversation, I hadn’t pressed the matter further. Therefore, I’d plodded to my car, drove back here, and—once parked—ambled up the walkway alongside the residence—bypassing related discussion inside—to this backyard and stood, searching darkness, hoping to unearth what had slipped from his grasp.”
Her eyes wondered the yard, and I studied them and soon bit my lip. “My car’s stuck in a ditch along the driveway,” I said, shuffled backward. “But I won’t be long with yours.”
She wheeled. “No, Sebastian!” she said. “Don’t go there! I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone; not even you!”
“Why not?” I said. “He’s my uncle, and I want to make certain he’s well.”
“I’ve no doubt he will be. I don’t believe he’d lost anything that’d keep him away long. Maybe he wants to be alone with his thoughts—whatever they are—awhile.”
“But what if he had lost something?” I said. “What if he was afraid to admit it? What if he needed someone to talk to now?” I tugged her arm. “Come on—we’ve got to head down there!”
Her hand rested atop mine. “Sebastian…”
I glanced back.
“Give him a few evenings, please,” she said. “The food, the rooms—the estate’s yours; and then, one night a week from now, I’ll drive you to see him.”
I sighed, but then soon I nodded, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and escorted her up the walkway. While I ushered her through the backdoor nonetheless, I thought I’d heard footsteps along the pavement behind me. But when I spun and glanced, the walkway was empty, and—across the backyard—silhouetted stalks stood in silence.