What If?

It was the colour that grabbed her eye. That bright, yet muted, subdued shade of green. On a portion of the metal handrail beside the short set of steps leading to the cottage. Then her eyes focused more clearly on the extraordinary shape and she drew in her breath in disbelief. Clearly, the largest winged insect of its type she had ever seen, with a wing span of at least five inches. What kind of exotic butterfly might it be? If indeed butterfly it was. It just stayed there, alive yes, but still, too. Only its long and delicate antennae moving fractionally. She ran back to her own cottage, grabbed her digital camera, and returned. Still there. The long, black, silky filaments of her hair kept slipping annoyingly over her forehead, wisps across her eyes, as she assumed various and awkward positions, attempting to secure better advantage to photograph the creature. Wished she had tied her hair back into a ponytail, earlier. But how could she have foreseen this?

Finally, after a succession of shoots at various angles she felt satisfied she had captured what she could. Could be, she told herself, the recent weather events had taken its toll on the exotic creature, imagining it had been blown off course from its true destination by insistent, wayward winds. Instead of a tropical, even a semi-tropical destination, it had gained access to back-country New Hampshire. Where last night’s series of rolling thunderstorms had drenched it, and the following cold chasing out the previous warm front had obviously beset it with conditions detrimental to its existence.

An hour later, as dusk began settling in, she prepared to return. Remembered she had ventured out earlier with the intention of flicking on the cottage interior lighting. Already, because of its set-back into the enveloping woods behind the cottage, the interior was dark. She had meant to avoid that. Forgotten, when she had seen that creature, now nowhere to be seen. Plenty of ambient light elsewhere, including the interior of her own cottage, but not in this one. A real nuisance.

The proprietors of the cottages had urged them to move to one of the unoccupied cottages. Burton thought that was a good idea. She hadn’t. She liked the one they were in, a nicely-appointed, well-equipped housekeeping cottage in the Waterville Valley.

“Hey, let’s just do it”, Burton urged.

“Not interested”, she responded. He shrugged, left it to her. Always did.

The problem was, staying there meant no hot water. Walter, the owner, tried to re-light the burner, but had no luck. He could see the spark, he explained to them, but the pilot light just refused to take. He was confident he would succeed, he said, next morning. In the morning, he tried again. Sitting in the cottage, having their breakfast, they heard a loud bang, thought Walter had slammed the door (with anger) under the cottage floor where the utility pilot was located.

He explained sheepishly, a little shaken, his normally ruddy face looking pale, that the bang they’d heard was a blowback.

“Never experienced anything like that before”, he said to them, wiping the back of his dirty hand across the forehead of his broad face. “Not about to experience it again, either”, he grinned nervously.

“Never seen anything like that sheet of flame reaching for me. Scary as hell. Look, I’m still shaking.”

They commiserated. Felt a little alarmed themselves about their proximity to this flaming beast. He assured them it hadn’t lit, there was no danger. They could stay there, if they insisted, he reassured them.

They weren’t all that desperate for hot water, they said. Best wait, after all, for the utility company to send along a worker. Too bad the light to the hot water tank went on a week-end. And no, really, they were all right. They’d stay right where they were. And just, as was recommended, take their shower in the closest unoccupied cottage.

It was irritating, but these unanticipated, awkward things happen. The same inclement weather that had clearly devastated the physical resources of that remarkable flying creature had obviously snuffed out the gas pilot light of their cottage hot water heater.

The very thought of re-packing everything, moving it all from their current cottage to another one had no appeal to her. Come Monday, Tuesday at the latest, the utility company would have returned the hot water heater to functioning capability.

They had driven into the Franconia notch that day. Climbed up to Eagle’s Cliff, felt confident enough in the weather and their energy levels, to go on to climb Mount Lafayette. They were young and in good shape. Enjoyed the challenge. And challenge they found it to be.

The ascent demanding, but intriguing. From the moss-filled granite grottoes to the steeply narrow ledges with their wire handrails, the planked ‘bridges’ over the black-bogged areas, and the steep uphill scrambles over the huge tossed boulders on the trail. By the time, three hours after they had left the trailhead, they had reached the bunkhouse cabin close to the summit they were tired. They were grateful for a proffered cup of hot tea.

And then on to the final thrust well above the tree-line, to the summit. Where, every few feet on the exposed rock-face there were stones piled for the express purpose, a sign told them, of taking cover, if the winds were too high and threatening. They were hot and perspiring heavily, requiring frequent spurts of flagging energy interspersed with panting stops, to make the summit, but theysucceeded.

They rested a short while, appreciative of the sharp cool breeze drying their shirts. Amazed at the flying insects that were pushed skyward by that same breeze, seemingly helpless to deflect themselves from its insistence. They would surely die up there, those insects, at a height beyond their normal habitat, and with only sparse bits of alpine growth to sustain them.

They sat there, recovering their strength, grateful the sun was in, the sky well covered with lowering, but white clouds. Bushed, but triumphant.

The descent represented a relative breeze. They could hardly credit that some hardy mountaineers prided themselves in actually running the ascent. As they descended, their legs felt wobbly, their knees and their toes feeling cramped-achy and sore. But for those runners, achieving record-time was the motivating force. They must have been, they said to one another, in amazing physical shape. At the time that the hut above the tree-line was built, much of the building materials had been brought up on the backs of volunteers. Now, such materials would just be dumped as a helicopter load.

They felt pretty good about themselves. And thought they would try another, less physically-taxing summit the next day. Maybe Mount Pemi. It was invigorating, physically exacting, but worth it.

After dinner, he flaked out on the little sofa in the living room, which was simply an extension of the cottage kitchen. Television set on, a channel featuring old re-runs of NYPD.

She texted a few of her friends, bragging about their exploit. Then she realized twilight had set in. Gathered body wash, shampoo, body lotion, and a change of clothing. Reasoning she would feel better showering while it was still light; would change into night clothes later, as she’d done the night before.

She thought about waking him, asking him to walk her over, wait for her. Thought better of it. What was she, a little kid, afraid of the unknown? She’d felt the same way the evening before, thought it was kind of creepy, being alone in that cottage, closing herself into the bathroom, having her shower, speedily drying herself, fleeing with her bags back to her own cottage. Later, feeling very childish about her unreasonable fears.

Already, it seemed like a routine, second-time-around-process. Except she had forgotten, earlier, to flick the light switch. Pushing open the screen door, letting herself into the cottage, she groped for where she thought the switch was, on the wall. Found it, and light flooded the combination kitchen-sitting room. Similar to their own, but a slightly different layout in back, where the bathroom and bedrooms were located.

She looked about nervously. What if someone was already in here? She turned the lock. Berating herself for being pretty stupid about something so unremarkably routine. She locked the door to ensure no one might accidentally enter while she was showering. There was no one present other than herself. No one other than she had any reason to be there.

The light was dimmer as she proceeded down the hall. First, the larger of the two cottage bedrooms, with a full-size bed, dressers, night tables and lamps. Then the door leading to the bathroom. Beyond it, the second bedroom with its twin beds and dressers. She glanced perfunctorily into each, turned back to the bathroom door. Feeling as though, if someone was watching she must look very uncertain of herself.

She felt awkward, child-like in her sensibilities. Not a grown woman, married a dozen years, a woman with a career, an assured woman with a wide circle of friends. How utterly absurd, she thought. How an innocently untoward event can disturb one’s equilibrium, bring uncertainty, interrupt maturity, recall vulnerabilities reflective of a child’s world view.

She opened the bathroom door, was greeted by a dark, yawning space where she could make nothing out. She drew herself halfway around the door, felt for the switch and was rewarded by the now-familiar sight of a generous vanity and sink, toilet and shower-bath She felt suddenly angry, impatient with herself.

The removal of her clothing, placement of her toiletries took a nano-second in her efficient determination. She cranked shut the tiny window looking out, at eye level, to the dark woods beyond.

Ah, the water was hot, cleansing, refreshing, just perfect. She assiduously soaped, vigorously massaged her scalp with the flower-petal-fragranced shampoo, and glanced down to see a frenzy of foam gushing into the drain.

Her hands, scrubbing her hair, pulling long gathered strands under the hard spray of soft water, wandered to her face. And suddenly those hands felt different. Larger, tougher, as though they were masculinely calloused, more brusquely intimate than her own. Whose hands then, were they?

Her chest felt suddenly tight, her heart began thumping as she thought to herself. What if these are not my hands?

This is sheer, unadulterated lunacy, she shrilled at herself, while suddenly becoming aware of a high-pitched scream of sheer terror, surrounding her, seeming to come from somewhere very close.