Dashing through the snow
ON MONDAY MORNING, I MOPED. NOT BE cause I was still feeling sorry for myself-I'd gotten over that; I didn't need to depend on other people to make me happy-but because I felt terrible about what I'd done to Luscious. Instead of helping him, my investigative efforts had cost him his job.
I spent the afternoon reading Cassie's book on witchcraft. Although I'd never belonged to a church, I always felt I was a spiritual person, and her depiction of the Wiccan religion touched a spot deep inside me where something had always seemed to be lacking. I was determined to find out more.
On Tuesday morning, Greta called and guessed immediately that something was bothering me. “What's wrong, Tori? You sound like you've lost your best friend.”
“I made the mistake of weighing myself this morning,” I said. “It's ruined my whole day.”
Greta laughed. “Christmas is no time to worry about your diet. And speaking of not dieting, what are you planning to bring tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Tori, you haven't forgotten the Gochenauer family Christmas Eve celebration, have you?”
“Of course not!” I hadn't forgotten; it was just that Christmas Eve had snuck up on me. “What would you like me to bring?”
“A couple of pumpkin pies would be nice.”
I agreed, knowing the Farmers’ Market had extended its hours for the holiday. If I hurried I could get there before it closed at noon.
“And do bring your houseguest,” Greta said.
“She's gone.”
“I thought you two were going to have an old-fashioned Christmas.”
“We are-just not together.”
The silence on the other end of the line told me what Greta thought about Praxythea's sudden flight.
I found myself apologizing for Praxythea. “She's a busy woman…” I began.
“Aren't we all?” Greta said with a sniff.
She made a good point.
I practically flew to the market, arriving just as the last of the vendors was draping sheets over her display case. Luckily for me, she had a few pies left, and I bought them for half price, relieved I wouldn't have to learn to bake today.
“Bad storm's on the way,” the pie woman said. “Better stock up on bread and milk.”
I did as she suggested and was halfway home before I realized I never drank milk!
The storm had been pummeling the Carolinas for two days and was now affecting Lickin Creek. An icy wind cut right through my jacket as I left the market, and fine sleet burned my face. The roads would be “slippy” tonight, the term Lickin Creekers used to describe icy driving conditions.
Depending on which news station you listened to, the storm could blow out to sea, or it could overwhelm the valley. But they all described it as the “storm of the century,” and urged listeners to prepare for the worst.
I spent the afternoon readying the house for the coming storm. There was little I could do about the flapping shutters, the rotting front porch, or the slate shingles peeling off the roof. I did round up all the candles and flashlights I could find, and placed them and a box of matches on the kitchen table.
I brought in wood for the fireplace, and I filled the bathtubs with water, so I'd have drinking water and be able to flush toilets.
The radio station, now calling itself Storm Watch Central, broadcast a minute-by-minute description of the blizzard as it rushed up the Atlantic seaboard.
Feeling as if I were back on a Pacific island battening down for an oncoming typhoon, I locked all the doors, including the one in the basement, and placed rolled-up towels on the windowsills to cut down on drafts.
With the bread and milk I'd bought at the market, three bags of Tasty Tabby Treats in the pantry, and plenty of kitty litter, we were prepared for anything short of nuclear war.
Although the house creaked and groaned under each blast of wind, I felt fairly safe, reassured by the fact that the old mansion had survived many storms in its lifetime.
“… storm of the century,” the radio repeated.
Could this really be the worst storm in a hundred years? I wondered. Somehow, I felt that “Storm Watch Central” was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, but whatever might happen, I was ready for it.
Over the course of the afternoon, the phone rang a few times. One poor soul was trying to sell his quota of credit cards before closing up for the holiday. I wished him a merry Christmas and told him my credit rating would never allow me to have a Visa card.
Another caller was Murray Rosenbaum, actor/Italian waiter and my best friend and neighbor in New York. He was calling from Dayton where he was spending Hanuk-kah with his parents. He promised to send me a can of caramel popcorn from his father's factory and wished me a happy holiday.
After hanging up, I felt lonelier than ever. I missed Garnet, even though I was now sure our relationship was over. And I missed Alice-Ann. We'd always exchanged gifts and called each other on Christmas, even when we lived far apart. This year, in hopes of a reconciliation, I'd bought a small Amish quilt for her. It waited under the tree, but I'd had no word from her.
“… winds of up to eighty-five miles per hour,” the radio said.
I kept hoping Greta would call to say dinner was canceled, but the Gochenauers are a hardy clan, and Greta would hardly let a small thing like the “storm of the century” stop her from celebrating Christmas in her traditional way.
With the house battened down to the best of my ability, I settled on a couch, with the cats on my lap, to reread a favorite Christie mystery. Ethelind's library had a wonderful collection of mysteries by British authors. Not surprising, considering she was a flaming Anglophile.
“… small-craft advisory for the Potomac River and the Chesapeake Bay.” Storm Watch Central was right on top of the situation.
In the late afternoon, I reluctantly put the book down and went upstairs to dress, choosing what I hoped would be an appropriate outfit for Greta's dinner party. A long green velvet skirt and a white satin blouse, both with designer labels, and both from my favorite shop, a place in New York that sold “nearly new” or “previously owned” clothes for next to nothing.
I added three gold chains, studied myself in the mirror, then removed two. Greta was a flamboyant dresser, but the rest of Garnet's family was quite conservative, and I didn't want to look too “New Yorkish,” as one elderly aunt had suggested when she first met me.
It was too early to go, so I set the kitchen timer to let me know when it was time to leave and sat at the kitchen table to finish my book.
When the bell rang, I thought at first it was the timer. But the cats jumped down, leaving globs of hair on my green velvet skirt, and ran toward the front of the house. Sometimes they were a lot smarter than I-at least they recognized a doorbell when they heard it.
I made a futile attempt to brush off the cat hair as I followed Fred and Noel to the front door. Unlike New York, there was no peephole. Most people in Lickin Creek felt there was little reason to worry about who might be at their door. I thought for a moment about the two dead women, Oretta and Bernice, who probably had gone blithely about their business until the moment they were murdered. Most likely neither of them had a peephole.
The door was ripped out of my hand as I opened it. Along with a blast of snow that covered the carpet in the foyer came Mrs. Poffenberger with her baby in her arms.
“Come in! Quick,” I said, although she was already inside. I leaned against the door to shut out the howling gale.
“Can I take your coat?” I asked, wondering what on earth she was doing here.
She shook her head. “Can't stay. The kids is in the back of the truck.”
“Good grief.” I looked out the window and saw a whole bunch of snow-covered blanket-wrapped lumps in the open truck bed.
“That's not safe,” I said.
“I don't got no choice, miss. I thought a lot about what you said to me-about doing what's best for the kids-so I'm moving to West Virginia. My sister'll help out till I can get a job.”
I was surprised but tried not to show it. “What does your husband think of this?” I asked. I couldn't imagine him taking it calmly.
“He don't know nothing about it. I been sneaking things out a little at a time-diapers for the baby, the blankets. I ain't taking much-we don't got much. The furniture and TV is rented.”
“Aren't you afraid he's coming after you right now?” I glanced nervously at the door, fearing that the outraged Mr. Poffenberger might burst through it any minute.
She allowed herself a glimmer of a smile-the first I'd ever seen. “He ain't going nowhere. He done dressed up in a Santy Claus suit and got stuck in the chimney.”
“Chimney? You have a fireplace in a mobile home?”
“He was going to climb down the chimney of the barbecue grill in the backyard. He got stuck tight and fell asleep. Probably have to smash it apart to get him out.” This time she smiled broadly. “Funny what a man thinks is clever when he's drunk.”
“But the weather. It's snowing. He could freeze to death.”
She shook her head. “I throwed some blankets over top of him. He'll be warm enough till he comes to.”
The mental picture of a sleeping drunk in a Santa Claus suit stuck in a barbecue grill was funny in a grotesque sort of way, but I still was worried about his safety. What if he didn't “come to” in time? What if he was stuck there all night? The situation was potentially dangerous.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Poffenberger, but I'll have to call the police to get him out of there.”
Her face sagged. “Can you give me an hour's head start? Please, miss. You don't know what he'll do to me if he catches us.”
The abused woman and her children deserved a chance for a better life. I wanted to help, but all I could do was give them the gift of an hour's head start. I was sure Mr. Poffenberger could survive for one hour, even in the snow. “You've got it,” I said. “I hope everything works out for you.”
She shifted the baby onto her left shoulder and extended her hand. “Thanks, miss. You always done spoke nice to me. Like a schoolteacher. And you found Kevin. I couldn't go without saying good-bye.”
I took her hand, feeling extremely touched. Yes, I'd found Kevin, but my involvement with Mrs. Poffenberger had been minimal. Apparently, even that was more kindness than she'd experienced in a long time.
“Call me if you need anything,” I offered.
She nodded. Her eyes were misty, and I realized mine were, too.
“God bless you,” she said and was gone in a flurry of wind and snow.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered into the empty darkness. The only answer was an ominous creaking from the porch roof above me, and I pushed the door shut.
It was nearly time to leave for Greta's. I retrieved the pumpkin pies from the refrigerator, looked around the kitchen for something to carry them in, and spotted my bingo pie basket prize. Perfect! I could put the pies in it and give the basket to Greta as a Christmas gift.
I lifted Fred out of the basket, blew out the cat hair, and put the pies in. It was cleverly designed with a footed stand inside, so the pies could be stacked without being squished. With the addition of a red bow I took from the Christmas tree, the basket looked quite festive. I hoped Greta would like it.
Before I left, I gave the cats their early Christmas presents: two catnip mice. Fred was ecstatic. Noel pretended indifference, but after I said good-bye, I peeked through the kitchen window and saw her rolling happily on her back with her mouse clutched between two white paws.
The roads were a lot worse than “slippy,” they were downright dangerous. I passed several cars abandoned in snowdrifts, but Garnet's truck had both four-wheel drive and snow tires, and I drove safely, if slowly, to the outskirts of town where Greta's Fine Swine Farm was located.
The long driveway was already full of pickups and SUVs, so I had to park at the end near the road and hike through the ankle-deep snow. Halfway to the house, I was glad to spot a familiar car, Ginnie's Subaru. It was typical of Greta to invite someone whom she suspected would be lonely at Christmas. Greta was as genuinely concerned about people as she was about whales, dolphins, baby seals, rain forests, spotted owls, bald eagles, and brown trout.
At long last, I reached the large farmhouse. I paused for a moment in the snow to admire the Currier and Ives scene before me. The two-story farmhouse was like hundreds of others in Caven County: redbrick with tall, narrow windows trimmed with white wood, and second-floor balconies flanking the center section of the home. Each window held an electric candle topped with a small white flame, and the side-by-side front doors were decorated with large wreaths of real greens and pinecones.
When Greta and her late husband, Lucky Carbaugh, had purchased the farm from an Amish family, it hadn't even had electricity or running water. They'd spent years remodeling it into the comfortable home it was now.
I entered without knocking, as was the custom at Greta's house, and began to shed my coat and sloppy boots. The double living room was packed with people, and I didn't have the faintest idea who most of them were.
Nearly six feet tall, Greta towered over her short, stocky Gochenauer relatives. From her vantage point, she saw me and swept across the room to greet me. As she moved I heard bells, which meant she was wearing her favorite silver ankle bracelets from India. Tonight she wore a brilliant yellow caftan decorated with a blue, red, and green Indonesian batik print. Brass earrings from Pakistan dangled nearly to her shoulders. Several strands of multicolored agate beggar's beads from Taiwan hung around her neck. Her gray hair was twisted into a coil on top of her head with several lacquer chopsticks protruding from it. Good thing she's tall, I thought, or those things could put out someone's eye.
Comparing her to the rest of Garnet's solid, conservative Pennsylvania-Dutch family, I often wondered if she'd been adopted. She was probably the only person in Lickin Creek who could get away with dressing like that.
She seized me with an embrace that painfully mashed my face into her beggar's beads. “I'm so glad you're here at last,” she said, welcoming me and chastising me for being late in the same sentence. “Come on in. Everybody's dying to meet you.”
She suddenly spotted the pie basket and gasped. “For me? You are absolutely amazing, Tori. How did you know I collect Longaberger baskets?”
I smiled knowingly. Good for me-apparently I'd made the right gift choice, whatever a Longaberger basket was.
Greta propelled me through the room, introducing me right and left, and interrupting conversations that dealt with farm crops from alfalfa to zucchini. If I heard it once, I heard it a zillion times: “What do you hear from Garnet?”
Nothing, I wanted to scream. He doesn't write, he doesn't call. I have been dumped. You want to make something of it? But I smiled, murmured my nice-to-meet-yous, and somehow made it around the room without crying.
The walnut grandfather's clock in the corner chimed the hour. “May I borrow a phone?” I asked. “I have to make a call.”
Greta led me into the kitchen, where food covered every available inch of space. There was nothing like a Lickin Creek potluck supper to bring out the cooks’ best recipes. The good smells made my stomach growl as I dialed Hoop's Garage.
A breathless female voice answered, “Yeah?”
“Is this Hoop's?” I asked.
“Yeah. Look, Tori, I'm just getting ready to close down, so if you'uns need a tow, you'll have to wait.”
I silently cursed the New York accent that made my voice so instantly identifiable in Lickin Creek. “I need to talk to Luscious, please.”
“Is it an emergency?”
“Of course.”
“He's gone home. Wait a sec. I'll get his number.”
I heard her rummaging through a desk drawer. In a few moments she was back. I thanked her and dialed the number she'd given me.
Luscious's mother answered and said they were just getting ready to leave for church.
“I really have to speak to him, Mrs. Miller.”
She sighed, and soon Luscious was on the line.
I told him about Mr. Poffenberger trying to play Santa Claus in the barbecue grill.
“He's stuck… where?”
“You heard me. You'll have to get him out of there soon, Luscious, or he's liable to die from exposure.”
“Aw, Tori. My mom'll kill me if I miss church.”
I felt like a slimeball, but I said what I knew would get him moving. “Garnet would do it.”
“I'm leaving now.”
“Thanks, Luscious… and Merry Christmas.”
“You, too.”
I returned to the living room, where tables borrowed from the local fire hall were being brought in from the back porch. This required participation by everybody there. The men to carry them in, the women to wipe them off, and the children to cover them with tablecloths. When they were finished, we all admired the patchwork-quilt effect-every woman there, but me, had brought her favorite tablecloth from home and none of them matched.
Greta organized us into a line, and we filed into the kitchen through one door. There, we filled our Styro-foam plates from the mountains of food that covered the counters, then exited through the other door, where Great-aunt Gladys handed each of us silverware rolled up in a red paper napkin.
I was glad when Ginnie brought her plate over and took the chair next to me. “Thought it would be nice for both of us to sit with someone we know,” she whispered.
“Bless you,” I said. “I've met so many people I am totally confused. Am I wrong, or is everyone here named Zeke?”
“Only the ones who aren't named Gladys,” Ginnie said with a sly smile.
I unwrapped my plastic silverware and tasted the oyster stuffing. It was wonderful. Ginnie nudged me with her elbow, and I noticed that nobody else was eating.
“Grace,” Ginnie warned. “They're going to say grace.”
“Oops!” I put the fork down and hoped nobody had noticed my faux pas. I was too used to eating alone in front of a TV.
Great-uncle Zeke came by filling our jelly glasses with nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice. “Sorry about this,” he whispered to each person confidentially. “It's because of Greta and A.A.”
“No need to apologize,” I told him when he stopped at my place. I was glad that Greta was taking her involvement in A.A. seriously.
At last everyone was seated, and another Uncle Zeke said grace.
The food was turning cold, and I was aching to eat, but it was not yet time. Buchanan McCleary stood up and tapped on his water glass with a spoon to attract everyone's attention.
Several dozen Gochenauer and Carbaugh heads turned to stare at him.
Buchanan raised his jelly glass. “I propose a toast,” he said. “A toast to our hostess, my lovely bride-to-be, Greta Carbaugh.”
Greta blushed and looked up at him adoringly with dewy teenage eyes. The family members gasped, coughed, and even managed a few choked words of congratulations.
“It's going to be a June wedding,” Greta said, cheerfully ignoring the minor furor Buchanan's announcement had caused. “And you're all invited.” She reached for her glass, which wasn't there. “Uncle Zeke, you're drinking my juice,” she said with a smile.
“Oh! Sorry,” the old man on her left said. “I never remember, is mine the one on the right or the one on the left?”
“It doesn't matter,” Greta said, planting a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “At my wedding dinner, I'll see that you have two glasses of your very own.”
“Nothing like young love,” Ginnie said with an exaggerated sigh.
“They're young at heart.” With that gentle chastisement, I took another bite of my stuffing and found it no longer tasted as good as I first thought. While I didn't resent Greta's happiness, I was ashamed that my first thought had been, It should have been Garnet and I.
Ginnie innocently rubbed salt into my wounds by saying, “Maybe you and Garnet can make it a double wedding.”
I tried the turkey and found it tasteless. How could she be expected to know? The problem with always keeping your feelings to yourself is that nobody is there to help out when you really need it.
I fooled around with the food on my plate and listened to several of the uncles discuss the pros and cons of round hay bales as opposed to the old-fashioned square ones. “They can be dangerous,” one said, referring to the round ones. “Just last year, Farmer Stone got crushed by one. Ruined his tractor, too.”
“How much do they weigh?” I asked, thinking of the little square bales associated with hayrides.
“Fifteen hundred pounds, at least,” he told me.
“Sure, you gotta handle them with a little care, but they save money,” another uncle argued. “I can do it all myself-used to be I needed a crew to make square bales.”
“Ain't no big deal,” chimed in another. “Just keep the bales close to the ground, and you don't tip over.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see one of the aunts smiling at me. “I'll bet those men are boring you to death,” she said.
“Well…” I began.
“You just turn around and join us gals, Tori. We're talking about the Quilt Guild.”
The scintillating dinner conversation ended when the pies were brought in. The choices were endless: mincemeat, cheesecake, cherry, apple, and pumpkin. Greta put several small pieces of several different flavors on a plate and passed it down to me. I ate it all. Funny how I can lose my appetite for nutritional foods, but hand me dessert and there's no stopping me.
After several servings of pie, a few of the men began to groan and undo their belts. That seemed to be the signal for some of the children to clear the tables. Within fifteen or twenty minutes, the room was back to its predinner look, with the tables stacked up once more on the back porch.
“Everybody gather round the piano,” Greta ordered. “We're going to sing Christmas carols.” She passed among us, handing out mimeographed song sheets that looked like they'd been used for at least forty years.
An aunt whose hair bun was covered by a starched white net bonnet sat down at the piano and began to play “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” A few of the women began to sing, and soon the men joined in.
Something had been nagging at me since the start of dinner. I tried to focus on the song sheet before me, but somehow I couldn't concentrate. What was bothering me? I closed my eyes and tried to shut out everything that was causing sensory overload. And I remembered.