The Cranberry Cabin

The Cranberry Cabin

Walter Hayes woke to a creak of the rocking chair where he’d spent the night, an empty whiskey bottle at his side. His heavy eyelids opened to the usual dimness of the cabin room, a welcomed relief to his throbbing headache. Somehow, he’d survived the bitter night before—the anniversary of his best friend Darrell Foster’s death.

It was being there in the cabin—the place Walter and Darrell had spent every hunting season since they met sixteen years ago. Everything was different without Darrell, but the cabin remained the same: same plank floor, same knotty pine table, antique log walls and cedar-beam ceiling. Bits of Darrell were all around the cabin. His Real Tree camouflage boots still stood by the door beside Walter’s Mossy Oak muck boots. On a shelf sat a box of Texan cigars, and the cowboy hat and bandana Darrell wore after every hunt still hung from a peg by the loft ladder. It seemed the door would open any minute and there would be Darrell with his carroty hair and coy grin.

A chill shuddered through Walter’s body. He glanced at the empty fireplace. The cold nights had come, yet just the thought of striking a match brought in the haunting memory he longed to forget.

It was last Thanksgiving; Walter had just arrived at Darrell and Abby’s place. Single and with family hours away in Massachussettes, he’d been a regular guest at the Foster’s holiday dinners. Walter watched Darrell and his eleven-year-old boy D.J. cheering at the football game on TV.

“Wicked awesome play . . . for a cowgirl,” Walter joked in his slick Boston accent.

Darrell laughed. “Come on in. Abby says the bird’s near done.”

“Ah no.” Walter’s forehead wrinkled; he glanced down at his empty hands. “I forgot the cranberries,”

Darrell looked over his shoulder at the kitchen door, and then back at his friend. “Ah’right, I know—your mama’s recipe—y’all can’t eat turkey without it—”

Walter laughed. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” He turned to walk back out the door.

“Hold up; I’ll tag along.”

In the truck, Darrell talked about their hunting trip to the cabin planned for the next morning, the pot of chili Abby had made for them, and about how the cold weather was perfect to move deer in the woods. They didn’t notice anything wrong when the truck pulled into the driveway—not until they stepped into Walter’s house and billows of smoke rolled out, into the dark night.

Coughing, Walter found the fire extinguisher and moved through the house, searching for the source of the smoke. Just as he heard a roar, he saw the bright, vicious blaze in the cellar doorway.

“Here,” Darrell yelled holding open the basement door.

Walter aimed the extinguisher and started toward him, but it was too late. He watched in horror as the floor broke open beneath Darrell, collapsing into the hungry fire burning through from the level below.

Walter rocked hard in the chair. If it weren’t for him, his best friend would still be there. Walter picked up the empty whiskey bottle and threw it into the fireplace; it landed with a thud on the cold ashes.

His nagging thirst motivated him out of his chair and into the kitchenette. He reached for the steel ladle that clanked at the dry bottom of the basin. I never drove down to the frickin’ creek yesterday for water. He scooped up an empty jug beside the basin, and headed outside.

Cutting through the hardwoods and evergreens surrounding the log cabin, Walter ambled along the short path toward the dirt drive.

At his truck, Walter opened the door, tossed in the jug. slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the ignition key. As the engine rumbled to life, his cell phone, still connected to the car charger, lit up; a new voicemail alert flashed on the screen. The callerid read ‘Abby’.

“I’d like to talk to you. I’ll be coming up to the cabin Friday after Thanksgiving.”

Walter sighed and leaned back against the seat. “Today.” In the rearview mirror, a long black car idled in the road at the end of the driveway. That’s not Abby’s jeep. Walter shut off the engine. He hopped out of the truck and walked toward the car.

A balding man peered out the open window.

“Something I can help you with?”

“You the owner?” The man pointed at the cabin.

Walter cleared his throat. He thought about the cash he’d saved for the property taxes he and Darrell split each year. It was all the Fosters had ever asked from him for using the cabin. “Just the tenant.”

“It’s a real nice piece of property. Made an offer on it. Hoping to close on the place in a month.”

Walter’s brows knitted together. “I didn’t know it was on the market.”

A simper formed on the man’s face as he lit a cigarette. “Everything is for sale . . . for the right price.” He nodded and drove away; the car disappeared
Down the tree-lined road.

Walter’s heart sunk in his chest. This is why Abby wants to see me. He turned and ran past his truck, down the path toward the cabin.

Since his house burned, the musty old cabin had been his home. Abby had let him, knowing he’d needed a place to stay. But that was a year ago. Can I blame her for wanting to sell? The cabin had been in her family for years, but she wasn’t a hunter. With Darrell gone, Abby could probably use the money. A lump formed in his throat as he imagined Darrell’s things gone from the cabin, replaced by stranger’s things. Walter shuffled across the floor toward Darrell’s bandana; the soft red fabric slid frome the hook. He wrapped it around his neck and tied it. He touched the tawny suede cowboy hat, and lowered it to his chest. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, hoping for a trace scent of the friend who’d been like a brother to him. Only the musty smell of the cabin remained. Walter placed the hat on his head and reached for his rifle. By the time Abby shows up, I’ll already be gone. He took long strides across the cabin and flung open the door.

“Oh, hi.” Abby, with her sandy hair framing her gentle eyes and a smile, stood just outside the door.

Walter gasped. “Abby. You startled me.”

Her arms hugged a cornhusk basket. “I was just about to knock.” Her gaze lowered to the rifle in Walter’s hand. “You look surprised to see me. Didn’t you get my message?”

Walter ran his fingertips down his dark mustache. “Yeah, I was going to clean my gun,” he lied and set the rifle behind the door.

Abby brushed past Walter and slid the basket onto the table. “It’s dark in here.” She picked up the matchbox, struck a match, and lit the ivory taper candle in the center of the table. “That’s better.”

Walter shifted his feet, and looked back at the open door.

“So, how’ve you been?” Abby threw her arms around Walter’s shoulders in a quick embrace. “I brought you some leftovers from dinner last night.” She pointed to a dish in the basket with brown-edged slices and a drumstick bulging under plastic wrap. “Turkey and all the trimmings.” Her blue eyes fell to the floor. “It was a lot of food—for just D.J. and I.”

I’m sorry. The words didn’t come out.

Abby shook her head and forced a smile. “And look at this.” She lifted a large bowl out of the basket and pulled back the pliable lid to expose its dark red contents.

“Cranberry sauce?”

Abby nodded. “I found a recipe online. I know how you New Englanders feel about your cranberries—Turkey without cranberries is like Thanksgiving without turkey!”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

She frowned. “What’s with you Walt?”

Walter said nothing.

“ You won’t come around. You hide up here and nobody hears from you. Walter, it’s been a year now—“ She set the bowl down on the table and pushed back the basket.

He headed out the door.

Abby followed him outside. “Walter, please wait. I need to talk to you.”

Walter stopped and turned around. “I already know.”

“You do?”

“Look, I don’t blame you.”

“Oh.” Abby sighed. “I’ve been feeling bad about it, but money has been tight this year with . . . without Darrell. I didn’t want to ask you—“

“You don’t have to. I know you’re selling and I have to leave.”

“Selling?”

“The buyer came by earlier. He told me about his purchase offer and how he was hoping to close before Christmas.”

Abby raised her brows and put her hand on her hip. “Yeah, he was hoping. That arrogant--” She shook her head. “Walt, I didn’t accept his offer!”

“You didn’t?” Walt’s voice fell flat.

“No amount of money is worth giving up this place—the cabin my Daddy loved and Darrell loved, the cabin my son will one day love . . . the cabin you love.”

Walter stared for a moment. “Then why did you want to talk to me?”

Abby’s cheeks turned scarlet. “I received the tax bill in October; it’s due by January 1st.”

Walter turned toward the layered logs of the cabin’s outer wall. From deep inside, a low, guttural laugh erupted; he couldn’t control it.

“What’s so funny?”

Walter turned around to face Abby; a smile etched on his face that hadn’t found its way there in a long time. “I’m just so thankful.”

“You’re thankful for taxes?”

Walter laughed. “As odd as it sounds, Yes, Abby, I am more than happy to pay the tax bill on the cabin.” He embraced her, “Thank you for not selling.”

She pulled away, her wide eyes staring past him.

“What’s wrong?” Walter spun around in the direction of her stare.

Through the cabin window, golden flames glowed and flickered inside the cabin.

“Ah, no!” Walter moved with speed he didn’t know he could muster. The hat flew off his head. He ran inside and found the yellow blaze reaching for the beams above the table. The taper candle now laid flat against the flame-engulfed basket. Walter swallowed hard and glanced around the smoke-filled room; his eyes fell on the kitchenette counter and the silver basin. Oh, God. There’s still no water. Walter folded his hands and lowered his forehead to them. Tell me what to do.

Mid the smoke, Walter saw Darrell’s grinning face—the same face he wore last Thanksgiving when Walter had forgotten his cranberry sauce. Such a stupid time to think of the cranberries.
“Ah’right.” Darrell’s voice was genuine and rich in Walter’s mind. The cranberries! He grabbed Abby’s bowl of cranberries and dumped them on the bright fire; it fizzled away beneath the thick sauce.

From Walter’s fingertips, the bowl dropped to the floor, and he exhaled as his thundering heart began to calm. He turned to the sound of low sobs in the doorway.

“It was the candle I lit . . . wasn’t it?” With the cowboy hat clenched in her hand, Abby’s knees buckled to the floor.

Walter went to her and put his arm around her, letting her bury her tear-streaked face in his chest. “It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

Abby kept crying.

“Hey, chin up—your cranberry sauce saved the cabin.” Walter added in his best imitation of Darrell’s accent, “Ah’right?” He took the hat from her lap and placed it on her head.

She laughed through her tears. “I miss him so much.”

“I know.” Walter patted her back and whispered, “Me too.”

They sat quietly as the cool, clean air blew in through the open door. Walter thought about time—how healing it was, how precious it was, how thankful he was for the time he’d had with Darrell.

* * *

word Count: 2000
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