with directions to Ice Lake.
“Take Rt 80 to exit 46. Take Rt 307 south. Turn right after the purple hitch-hiker. Ice Lake 5 miles. You can’t miss it.”
Not a lot is known about St Elizabeth other than she was the mother of John the Baptist and her husband was struck dumb when he doubted her pregnancy. (That’ll teach ’im). The bible makes no mention of her having a penchant for purple robes but that is how the artist who painted the statue saw her. Outside of St Elizabeth’s Catholic Church on Route 307 stands a double life-sized cement statue of the saint wearing a purple robe, with both hands out to her sides, palms facing out. It’s a common position for saintly statues that somehow depicts piety, but if a real human were to adopt the same pose he or she would probably look like they were saying, “I guess,” with a shrug.
Years ago a young teenager started his drinking career by stealing a bottle of altar wine from St Elizabeth’s sacristy. His drinking career never slowed, and a decade later, neither did his car as it careened off Route 307 and ploughed into one of Pennsylvania’s hardy scrub oaks. The statue’s left arm seemed to have tried to stop the poor lad from merging with the local flora but only managed to get itself pulverized.
The driver fared worse. The ambulance service could have spared the county the expense of a trip to the hospital and morgue because he was back at St Elizabeth’s just a week later for his funeral.
Harry had texted back to Trooper Cirba, asking him to explain what he meant by “purple hitchhiker”.
Cirba replied: “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Harry laughed out loud when he crested the hill on Route 307 and saw the statue of the purple-robed saint with one hand at her side, palm out, looking all the world like a hippie seeking a lift to Woodstock.
Ice Lake isn’t very big. Carved out of the Pocono Mountain’s ubiquitous forest of conifers and scrub oaks, it’s short of two miles around and is circled with a line of lakeside properties, a road, and another ring of roadside properties. It is spectacularly peaceful. The Ice Lake Association allows no motorized boats on the lake – only rowboats, canoes, and sailboats. They won’t even allow those tiny five horsepower electric trolling motors that the old fishermen use on other lakes. As Leo Carter said years ago at a meeting of the Ice Lake Rod & Gun Club, “If you’re too old to row 300 yards you shouldn’t be out on the lake by yourself.”
Ice Lake began its life as the name suggests – as an ice lake. Ebenezer Dinklocker dug out the lake in 1863 to harvest ice blocks in the winter. The frozen water was then stored in special barns with double walls filled with sawdust. These Ice Houses would keep the ice frozen all summer when Dinklocker made a good living delivering blocks to the iceboxes of most of the people in the tri-county area. That was until refrigeration was invented and the ice industry melted.
Harry pulled into the only commercial enterprise on the lake. Its official name was the Ice Lake Café but the locals just called it the Store. To call it a grocery store would have been an injustice to grocery stores everywhere – including ones in blockaded war-torn communist countries. To the left of a cooler containing milk, Coke, and eggs was an almost-empty shelf peppered with bread, Spam, and Pepperidge Farm Milano Cookies. Across the room a lunch counter sported a coffee maker and a pile of donuts under a clear plastic dome. A sign said: “HELP YOURSELF AND LEAVE A DONATION (OR AN IOU) IN THE CHAMBER POT.”
“Hello?” Harry called out.
A groan and then heavy footsteps preceded the arrival of a 70-ish-year-old man wearing a wife-beater T-shirt and two-day old white stubble.
“What’s your problem?” he asked.
“Hi,” Harry offered, as lightly as he could. “You still serving breakfast?”
“Uh huh,” the old guy said pointing to the glass case. “Coffee and donuts – breakfast of champions.” He started walking back to the upstairs door. “Leave the money in the chamber pot.”
“Ah, how much?”
The old guy turned and for the first time properly looked at Harry. “What do you pay at Starbucks for your none-y fatty amaretto latte cappuccino?”
“I pay about four bucks for my regular latte.”
“How much do they charge for donuts?”
“I don’t usually eat donuts.”
“Well today will be a treat for ya. Leave five bucks in the pot.”
“You’re a trusting soul.”
“Look around you, mister. If somebody came in here and cleaned the place out – including the Mr Coffee machine – they’d get maybe a hundred and twenty bucks worth of stuff. I have better things to do than guard three dozen eggs and two gallons of milk.”
“And Spam. Don’t forget that.”
The old guy leaned one elbow on his counter. “And what is wrong with Spam?”
“Other than it’s Spam?”
“Listen you, Spam is good food. Have you ever had a fried Spam and cheese sandwich on white?”
“Sounds great,” Harry said. “Do you serve that here?”
“I have decided I don’t like you,” he said as he turned to leave.
“I have a feeling you don’t like many people.”
Just before the old guy began his clump up the stairs, Harry heard him say: “That’s no lie.”
* * *
Sitting alone at the counter Harry felt as if he had broken into a stranger’s empty house. He placed a fiver into the chamber pot and helped himself to a coffee and a donut. The donut was fresh and delicious. The old guy had been right about one thing – it was a treat.
The door opened behind him. Harry noticed that there was no bell like in most establishments but of course a bell would just disturb this proprietor. A tall man, in his mid-50s with thin but still flaming-red hair, walked up to the counter, dropped a dollar in the pot and helped himself to a coffee.
Harry looked into the pot and said: “I guess I paid tourist rates.”
“What’d he get you for?” the redhead asked.
“Five bucks for a coffee and a donut.”
The man walked to the steps and shouted, “Todd, get down here.”
They both waited for any sound to come from upstairs. Eventually the slow clump heralded the arrival of the old man. “What da you want?”
“Did you charge this man five bucks for a coffee and a donut?” the redhead asked.
“No, I asked this nice New Yorker—”
“I’m from Philadelphia,” Harry interrupted.
“Like
