Free Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman

cider jugs, two in each hand. She looks surprised to see someone on her property, but she puts her cider jugs on the ground and comes toward Andras, as if to show him she is unafraid.
    “Are you lost?” she asks.
    “I don’t think so,” Andras says.
    “Do you need help?” she asks.
    “I hope not,” Andras says.
    “Did you come for a reason?” she asks.
    “I was just walking,” Andras says.
    “Oh, all right, then. I’m pleased to meet you,” she tells him. “My name is Una Darmstadt-Cooper.”
    “Oh,” Andras says. He has heard of her from Cecil. She is aphotographer and writer of children’s nature books. In fact Cecil once gave some of her books to Renée and Alex. “My name is Andras Melish,” he says.
    “Summer people,” she says.
    “Yes.” His eyes glance over her worn cabin. “Do you live here all year?”
    “Of course I do.” She seems amused by his reaction. “Are you thinking it’s strange?”
    “No, I was just thinking it must be difficult.”
    “Do you mean the winters? Oh, no. Winter is my favorite time. In the city the winters are all the same. Up here they are magnificent. Like the wrath of God.”
    “I suppose you get used to them,” Andras says. “Were you born here?”
    “No. Born and bred in New York City. But I left in 1938. I escaped with my life.”
    “Did you,” Andras says.
    Una explains, “There was the pollution, and the overpopulation. And then there was the war. I was against that. The artists were just starting to leave in those days. They had their colonies, and their little enclaves. But that was not for me. When I left, I left for good. I don’t go to the city, I don’t talk to the city.”
    “No telephone?”
    “Oh, not at all. If it’s for my books, my publishers, you know—they leave word for me at Kendall Falls Library.”
    She picks up her jugs of springwater and carries them to the door of her house.
    “May I help you get those inside?” Andras asks.
    “Oh, no, you’d better get back home,” Una says. “Better hurry. It’s going to rain.”
    Andras makes his way back to Mohican Road. The sky does look threatening, and he walks quickly. The old woman’s roof must leak when it rains. And the cabin must be miserable in the snow. How does she manage in the winter? She can’t depend on wood alone to heat the place.
    Raindrops pepper Mohican Road’s gray asphalt. Andras can’t imagine that Una is as independent as she seems. Someone mustcome by to care for her in winter. Some relative, perhaps, comes by with food or helps her with her heat. She must buy fuel in Kingston.
    A honking car startles Andras and he looks up to see Rabbi Lamkin’s battered station wagon. Pesach Lamkin and his wife, Beyla, are ferrying a load of their own children, and their children’s friends.
    “You want a ride home?” Pesach calls out.
    “It’s going to pour,” Beyla says, unrolling her window.
    Andras hesitates, but he knows that Beyla is right. He’ll get soaked if he keeps walking.
    He squeezes into the backseat, and just manages to shut the door. The children are packed in the car, two perched illegally in front between Pesach and Beyla, three in back, and at least three curled up in the very back of the wagon.
    Andras sits with his arms drawn in at his sides. Noisy with children’s voices, the crowded car is a shock after the still forest. The car is filled with crumbs and potato chips, stuffed with toys. Still, Andras is grateful that the Lamkins stopped. As soon as they are on their way the rain comes down, pounding, streaming over the windshield.
    “Slower, Pesach,” Beyla warns, and then to Andras, “I hope on the Fourth it doesn’t rain like this. You’re coming on the Fourth?”
    “What’s on the Fourth?” Andras asks.
    “Opening day.”
    “Oh, of course.” The Fourth of July is opening day for the Lamkins’ day camp.
    “We’re having a treasure hunt,” Beyla says, “and prizes. Food, great food from New York. Tug-of-war,