apartment. Her “1001 Letters for All Occasions” software had seven inventive sequences of seven dunning letters, like the biblical seventy times seven. At first, assume that the person had merely overlooked the bill (reminder stage); then get the facts about why payment had not been forthcoming (problems stage); in the crisis stage, hint gently that it was to the miscreant’s credit rating that he pay, suggesting legal intervention only if all else failed. In Belle’s experience, professionals who baked in Jamaica over the winter and paved their double-wide drives in salmon stones were the worst. She typed “Dear Mr. Bowman: It has been ninety days since we . . .” Too bad she couldn’t hire Jimmy Cagney as a collection agent, someone to rub a grapefruit into the client’s face, or maybe a rutabaga.
Bored by her prosaic prose, she turned up the news on the radio and flipped off the computer. A bad storm was blowing down from the northwest, the worst direction. Thunder Bay had two feet of snow, and the blizzard was charging through the Sault, closing the Trans-Canada route. She tapped Miriam on the shoulder. “Bad storm. Better get home while you can.”
They trundled out together, pulling scarves up and wool hats down against the gusting white swirls. Five quick inches had fallen by the time Belle hit the Jem Mart for the obligatory cream, bread and eggs, along with a couple of packages of Kraft Dinner (50 cents—bargoon!). A Score bar jumped into her basket, then another. Her university roommate Pamela had always said that every now and then, everyone needed a score. True then, true today, she thought, crunching one for solace as the snow began to cover the vehicles outside. “Another bloody dump of snow,” a grizzled man in a snowmobile suit grumbled, tearing Nevada tickets in a mindless routine as he stuffed the unlucky remainders into the trash. “This winter’s the limit. I’ve been here sixty years and never seen the like. Can’t even afford Ft. Myers with the dollar in the toilet.” Then Belle remembered her fish. If they really were in for it, she had better stockpile feeders for Hannibal.
She reached the pet store at the mall just as “Mrs. Popeye” was turning the closed sign. The old girl was a living Victorian etching, impervious to medical advances; forever wheezing, with lively brown eyes pressed into her face like raisins into a cookie, she bullied her teenage clerks like an old pirate. “Do you want some feeders, my girl? You’re just in time. We are closing early with this terrible storm. The usual dozen?” She stroked an overstuffed Siamese which homesteaded by the cash register, then rocked on her swollen legs as a coughing fit shook her. A few whiffs from the oxygen bottle clipped to her hip stopped the spasms. “Mother’s milk,” she snuffed.
Belle paused to calculate. “Make it two. I probably won’t be back in town for a few days.”
“That’s a good idea. We are running low, and no shipment will leave Toronto in this weather,” the old woman added as she netted the merry victims, all anticipating a private bowl, a modest sprinkle of gravel, plenty of tasty pellets and a little porcelain “No Fishing” sign. Poor babies, Belle thought, if only you knew. She accepted the bag and couldn’t believe that she asked if they had any new Orandas.
“Some beauties. Golden pom poms.” Mrs. P pointed to a small tank.
Belle choked back a sob. They were tempting, even at $39.99. Words like “grotesque” and “bizarre” did them pale justice. Huge, porcine goldfish with bulging sides and gaping mouths, scales of a gleaming copper rare to the aquarium, they sported a floppy pom pom over each eye, like chubby cheerleaders who had plastered their decorations to their faces. Just in time, Belle recalled the tortuous deaths of her own Orandas, Beanbag and Ochi, hellish red streaks eating them alive. Her PH balance mastery was still in question. Orandaless but proud of her self-discipline, she returned to the parking lot, trying to remember where she had left the van. When she saw it, her attention fell on the wheelwells, clogged with crusted ice and grit jamming the tires and inviting steering problems. A few tentative pokes with her boot toe did nothing. The ice was too hard. So she backed up to the wells and aimed strong heel kicks karate fashion. At last the mess fell free, but at a painful cost. She winced as she tried the key. Was the lock frozen again? Then a thin voice screeched through the wind. “What are you doing to my van? I’m calling security.” Belle spotted a tall figure in a embroidered parka turn and trudge back to the mall. In her embarrassment, she recognized that her own van was one row farther down.
Her foot throbbing to the sounds of “Heat Wave” on the radio (very funny, guys), she wheeled out onto Lasalle Blvd, skidding on the greasy surface. How many words did the Inuit have for snow? How many for the sounds of a storm, the shriek of a wind which would freeze skin in thirty seconds and send weak branches crashing onto roofs, slicing off shingles? Just before the airport hill, Belle saw flashing blue lights, a comforting sight, and nestled herself in behind the plow, its mammoth wings clearing the way like the arm of a merciful God. For once she didn’t mind turtling behind since the flat, open stretch past the airport was famous for blinding whiteouts and head-on collisions. The radio reported that a ten-car pile-up near Whitefish had closed 17 East. Three were dead and many injured. When the plow detoured into the airport, Belle floundered along until she reached her own road. She stopped at the mailboxes to sight down the most dangerous hill, covered a good eight inches deep, pristine and untouched by tread. Turning off the radio to concentrate, Belle steered down the steep slope, wary of the treacherous ditching on either side. It was important to take the big dip by Philosopher’s Pond at top speed to make the grade up the other side. Anyone stuck at the bottom, at the bend of a paper clip, would stay there until the next thaw. As for the rest of the trip, Belle’s strategy was to hug the right and pray that no one would be coming around the tight and often obscured turns.
This time fortune had been with her. Belle whispered a special hosanna as she glided into the driveway, then tensed at the confusing sight of a dark form against a snowbank near the propane tank. It was Freya, still and limp, a bright stain beneath her head. How had she got out? Belle knelt in the swirling snow, smoothing the soft fur, following the shallow rise of the chest. One eye was barely open as the dog tried to lift her head, a torn ear pricking up feebly in response. A quick assessment showed the head wound as the only apparent damage. Nearby lay a shovel used for tossing ashes on the drive, its metal edge darkened. Back inside the house, Belle grabbed a sheet which she used to drag the dog to the van. No way could she lift nearly ninety pounds. A piece of plywood from the junk pile served as a ramp. The driveway was badly drifted, and there was no sign of Ed’s plow truck. He had probably come to fetch it home for a quick morning start. As for the road back, Belle didn’t allow herself to imagine its condition. All she knew was that Freya needed help.
After tucking several blankets around the dog, Belle dialed from her cellular phone, glad that Shana lived on the clinic premises. On the tenth ring, a tired voice answered, “Petville Animal Clinic.”
“It’s Belle. Freya’s been hit on the head. I’m bringing her,” she gasped, glancing at the quiet form in the back.
Shana had no patience for useless questions. “Is she conscious?”
“Barely. Slipping in and out.”
“Keep her warm. And for God’s sake, be careful. It’s pure hell on the roads. What if you have an accident in the middle of nowhere?”
“Don’t jinx me. See you in an hour with luck.”
Back down the road Belle drove, side-slipping, glad to have her own grooves to follow, taking the hills at crazy speeds, hardly caring if she were in the middle or not. “Hang on, pal,” she called. “You did your job. I’ll do mine.”
Battling thick gusts of whiteouts through unprotected spots, Belle inched along the flats. Night vision problems had been plaguing her lately. Ten or fifteen feet of road at a time emerged as she rounded corners, skewing dangerously. At a particularly bad stretch across the swamp, she forgot the icy patches beneath. The van tried valiantly to correct, but the steering was too tight for Indianapolis 500 hairpins. Pivoting
