***
Ruth Ellen
stood by Kirby’s squad as Bill walked about it. The hood and front quarter
panel were dented, and the front head light had been knocked out. Damn it. If
he could pick that stool out of the street and toss it at Rennault’s vehicle he
would. As soon as the budget director heard about the repairs needed, Bill
would get an ear full. This penny ante crap was chewing up his budget month
after month.
***
Second
shift had just came on, and had formed up at roll call. Sergeant Reynolds, an
African American in his mid thirties, stood straight and tall, and with wide
shoulders. Bill promoted him to this position not because of his experience,
but because of his potential. He was smart where Callaghan was a smart ass.
Bill popped in at roll call. “Chief,” Reynolds nodded. “Can we help you with
anything?”
Bill shook
his head, and then found a seat in the rear of the room. Reynolds stepped
aside, allowing Callaghan his place at the front of the room. “Okay,” Callaghan
began, “This just in. Missing person. The name is Willow Pratt. Twenty five
years old, blonde hair, green eyes, five six or seven, thin. Maybe one hundred
and thirty, thirty five. Has a scar on her cheek. Tattoos across her back. Pink
roses, at her waist and again between her shoulder blades. I have pictures.
Take a look and keep an eye out.” He nodded at Reynolds and stepped aside.
“Okay,”
Reynolds said, taking over again. “You know what that means. Boca. This is your
headache. Coordinate with first shift.” The detective, dressed in jeans and a
sweatshirt leaned forward in his seat. Felix Boca was maybe thirty, Hispanic,
and stood six, one. He had a bad complexion once, and tended to swipe at the
scaring left behind.
Reynolds
glanced back at Callaghan. “You have names? Addresses? Phone numbers?”
Callaghan passed Reynolds a clip board, and Reynolds passed it on. “I want to
hear from you tonight. Before your coffee. Before you pee. And definitely before
your dinner break. Suppose to have a hell of a storm tonight.”
***
Red needed
a beer before he could commit himself to removing Willie from the trunk. Once
she was out, Milk parked the Nova on Simon Street, just south of the alley
entrance. When he returned he was surprised that Red had her unwrapped, was
bent over her body, and intent on her face. He looked nearly on the verge of
tears. Milk shook that off, and took off with the Corvette. Knowing Red, he was
feeling sorry for himself, possibly blaming Willie for this. God help it, he’d
never accept responsibility for it.
When Milk
returned, he took a good look at Willie. The bullet took out one side of her
head, including an ear. Unfortunately it wasn’t the one with that horrible
scar. That was Red’s fault, too. Once during an argument about why she bought
pink sheets for the bedroom, he pushed her from behind. She fell and ripped
that cheek open on the bed frame. Of course that was her fault. She had no
business spending good money on sheets at all, let alone pink ones. And God
help him if he’d buy a head board or foot board for the bed. It amazed Milk at
the time that the bastard bothered buying a bed frame at all. A mattress on the
floor would have suited Red fine.
It’s the
other damage that unsettled Milk’s stomach. Like a wolf or coyote had gotten to
her. Something had chewed on the one good ear, and her hand, too, had been
chewed down to the bones. That pink sweater that Milk had to coerce Red into
buying her was covered in dead leaves, burrs, fur and sticky blood. Her pink,
nylon coat had huge rips and wear spots that weren’t there before. She wore a
pink, faux suede boot with a two inch heel and laces in front on one foot. On
the other, she wore a thin pink sock. Whatever it was that chewed on her had to
be big enough and strong enough to drag her. When Milk finally found her, she
was a good distance from where he saw her fall.
Milk put
the plastic back where it was and began pulling up boards. It took Red another
few minutes before disentangling himself from her. At last he grabbed shovels
he had stacked in the corner of the garage. They were old and rusty. Just like
everything else in and out of the house; if Willie didn’t buy it, his parents
left it to him when they passed.
***
Felix Boca
stopped at Pinkies first. The bar inhabited an old house in the middle of the
block on Miami. The main bar room was dark, and Beverly Pinkston had to step
away from the bar in order to see the photo he showed her. “Willie Pratt,” she
said returning it to Boca. She was an attractive woman in her mid forties. She
had honey brown hair that she wore in a short and puffy style. When she spoke,
she lifted her chin and looked at the person through the bottom half of her
bifocals.
“When was
the last time you saw her?”
“New Year’s
Eve.”
“She work
that night?”
“Yeah.”
“What time
did she leave?”
Beverly
shrugged. “Before midnight.”
“Alone?”
“Didn’t
notice.”
“Who did
she talk to? You did notice that, right?”
“Hump.”
Beverly glanced at him suspiciously. Then she pulled two beers from the
refrigerator beneath the bar and popped the caps off. “I know she talked to Red
Stubs. Probably that Laurie chick.”
“Anyone
else?”
“Milk was
here. She’s always talking to him.”
“Last name?”
Beverly
shook her head. “Don’t require last names to buy beer, or wine.”
“You ever
check identification?”
"Not when
the guy is as gray and decrepit as Milk is.”
Boca
frowned. It was easier at times to suck on lemons and not flinch than to talk
to some people. “Her mother said that her boyfriend claimed that she went off
with someone else. She gave him an ultimatum. Marry me or else. Is that something
she would have done?”
Beverly
shook her head as she made change for a ten. “Anyone tell you what she’s like?”
“No.”
“Stubborn.
Unbelievably stubborn. And slow. Would she take off without calling? No. I
fired her three times. She’s still working here because no matter what I said
to her, she showed up to work the next day. She was here everyday on time. I
doubt she ever missed a day of work. Hard to find loyalty like that.” Beverly
reached for a bar rag and wiped the counter. She dropped beer bottles and dirty
glasses into bus trays as she went. “Try to explain something to her, and she
understands it, it’s one thing. Tell her the law says you got to wash your
hands before cooking. That’s fine. But I still have to remind her every
evening. Tell her she’s making too much food or not enough. Forget it. Tell her
to cut back because it’s a slow night. And you might as well save your breath.
God help you if she could cut less potatoes or zap fewer Buffalo wings. She can’t
compensate. She can cook. She can sing. She can’t count. Can’t make the
connection that less people means less food. Tell her that slug of a boyfriend
of hers is slime, and she’s telling you you’re jealous.”
“Don’t like
her boyfriend?”
“Hump.” She
picked up the nozzle of a beverage dispenser and pressed buttons. When she
finished mixing her drink and passing it on, she returned to him. “That Red
dude is slime. She’s dating him because she thinks he’s smart. He’s dating her
because she’s slow. Pull the wool over her eyes. Order her around like a ....”
She glanced about at her customers as she let the last sentence hang. “He takes
advantage of her. That’s all. Uses her for sex. For money. You name it. She
has it, he uses it up.”
Boca passed
Willow’s picture about. The lighting situation made that somewhat difficult.
Someone had tacked up multi-colored Christmas lights about the molding three
quarters the way up the wall. There were several small incandescent fixtures
pointing at the beverage dispensers and the coolers behind the bar, but not
much else. Felix found himself directing people to the corner where a lit juke
box sat. Most of the regulars recognized her. “Did anyone see her leave on New
Year’s Eve? If so with who?”
Most of the
patrons said they saw her that night. She and most of the girls danced to music
played on the juke box. Willie sang if she knew the song. She hummed if she
didn’t. Patrons played songs that they knew she knew just so she would sing. Apparently, she had a lot of friends. Most of them, though, didn’t see her or
Red leave. Didn’t know if they left separately or together, or even if someone
else was involved.
“Yeah, I
saw her leave,” Rita Whit said. “Her and Red got in this huge fight. She called
him lazy and he called her a tramp. She said that she found someone, and even
pointed him out. This beaner. Middle aged guy. Used to see him around a lot.
Nice build, nice looking, too. Not tall, not short. Has blue eyes. New Year’s
Eve was the first time he was in in a long time.”
“By beaner,
you mean what?”
“You know?
Beaner. Mexican. Grossed Red out totally. You know the kind. Hates it when you
see two people together that ain’t the same. You know. A white girl and a coon
or a beaner.”
‘Yep,’ he
told himself. Talking to some people was harder than sucking on lemons.
Next, Felix
Boca drove to Robert ‘Red’ Stubs’ home. He pulled up in front of the house on
Fort Dearborn Trail and glanced about. This was where the fabled island ended.
Once upon a time Portland was rumored to have been an island in the middle of
Lake Michigan. Whether it was or not, he wasn’t really sure, only that the main
part of town sat on a plateau. The rest of town was built on a slope or on flood
plain. And here, he parked on a slant. The house sat below the level of the
street. The yard behind it, fell away into a steep slope.
These were
tiny, frame houses, with porches that were only wide enough for one person.
Boca knocked on the outer door of the second house from the corner. No one
answered. He peeked in the windows and didn’t see light. He glanced about
outside. There were vehicles parked in front of other homes, and even about the
corner, but not one indicated that it belonged to this particular house. Felix
walked about the house, and glanced back to see if there was a garage, and if
it was lit. He saw what might have been a roof at the bottom of the hill. He
didn’t see any lights though. The temperature was dropping quickly and a fine
powder was beginning to fall. Felix decided he’d slip on the wet and broken
walkway if he tried to make his way down to that garage. He marked in his notes
that no one was home when he arrived, and turned about.
His next
stop was at Laurie Peltz’s house. She was a little thing, with brown hair, and
absolutely huge, round brown eyes. Felix smiled at her and she laughed back at
him. She was cute. Definitely, cute. As he spoke to her, he made a conscious
effort to hide his acne scars behind one hand. He was forever conscious of the
scaring. “I’m here about your friend, Willow Pratt.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
“Any idea
where she’s at?”
“No.” She
shook her head.
“When was
the last time you saw her?”
“New Year’s
Eve.” She spoke, telling him about friends, giving him some names, but not
knowing many last names or phone numbers. “I wouldn’t go there except for
Willow. And she just goes there because of Red. And she works there, too. That’s
the only reasons.”
“This Red.
He says that she went off with someone else. Is that possible?”
She shook
her head. “You know what? I could see it. But then I can’t. I mean she’d be
pissed at him. She wants this wedding. But she loves him. She wouldn’t just
walk away from him like that.”
“Do you
think it’s possible that he could have hurt her? Done something to her?”
“Who? Red?
Of course not. He loves her, too.”
“Let me ask
you about someone else. Did you notice anyone paying particular attention to
her? A Hispanic guy maybe?”
“Sure,” she
smiled. “Everybody loves Willie.”
Talking to
some people, Felix decided, could be compared to eating Lemon Heads. Sweet. And
tasty.
***
Snow was
falling by the time the tow truck arrived. Someone called the local Salvation
Army about sending another van. The best they could do, though, was to send a
car, which transported the group three by three to the closest gas station.
Angela went last. By that time her feet were painfully cold, and she cursed
herself soundly for not buying a cell phone.
The closest
public phone sat on the corner of the gas station property. By the time she
arrived there, the wind was ferocious, and the snow pounded her like rocks at a
public stoning. She tried to call Milk, but he still didn’t answer. “Just check
on Mikey,” she ordered the message machine before hanging up. She tried to call
friends. No one was willing to take a chance on snowy roads. She made a mental
note to find new friends. Then she crossed the street to the Ramada Inn.
***
Boca
knocked on Milk Borenstein’s apartment door, and having received no answer, he
knocked on a neighbor’s door. “Saw him yesterday,” a woman with a basket of
laundry on her hip said. “He’s a truck driver. Away for a good while. Unless he
goes to the Canadian border again.”
“You know
for sure he’s on the road?”
“Said
something yesterday about Michigan. Detroit I think. Goes up to the Canadian
border a lot. A place called Susan Marie’s.”
Boca
checked in. Sergeant Reynolds had replaced Sergeant Callaghan’s name plate with
his, and placed a family photo on the desk. Boca passed his notes across the
desk and sat on the edge. Reynolds read. “Anyone else know anything about this
beaner?” Reynolds asked.
“Excuse me,”
Boca asked, his hand automatically finding the worst of the scars on his chin.
Beaner, his ass, Felix thought. His grandfather had come from Mexico years
before. Three generations later, he thought his people had made a place for
themselves without having to hear nasty names.
“Not my
words. Hers. Anyone else see him there?”
“I have one
witness. She said she saw him early in the evening. Didn’t notice him leave.”
Reynolds
looked over the notes in his hand. “That’s it then? Average height, Hispanic,
blue eyes? Not many blue eyed Hispanics I know of.”
Boca
shrugged. “I come from a long line of brown eyed Hispanics. The only blue eyed Hispanic I ever met is the Chief. Something tells me he isn't full blooded."
Reynolds
thought for a moment and then made up his mind. “Talk to the Rennault sisters,”
he said. “See if they know anything about this guy.”
Once
settled in an interrogation cell, Boca opened a line of questioning. “When was
the last time either of you ladies saw Willow Pratt?”
“New Year’s
Eve,” Bonnie remarked. Either reported that Willow attended work regularly and
hadn’t missed a day that either could recall. She was always early, had the
place open, coffee made, and soup brewing by the time either sister arrived at
work. “Stubborn?” Bonnie asked. “Did Beverly say stubborn? Dumb thing to say.”
She folded her arms and glanced away.
“Stubborn,”
Florence agreed. “Very stubborn. Could I see her going off with someone other
than Red? Yes and no. She give him ultimatum, and carry it through, yes. She
leave without telling anyone? No. She would tell all of us where she would be.
Red first. Just to get even with him for not marrying her.”
“Think
about this,” Reynolds began. “Is there someone you know of to pay unusual
attention to Willow while she worked?”
Bonnie
nodded. “Everyone pays attention. We turn up the radio in the morning and
Willow sings as she works. When she brings out rolls or sandwiches, people clap
for her.”
“She has a
beautiful voice,” Florence agreed. “Like on ‘American Idol.’ She could sing and
everyone else would lose to her. She is that good.”
“Anyone in
particular? Think about it?”
Bonnie tapped
her top lip. “Yes. There is one.”
“A man?”
She nodded.
“Thirty five or forty. Too old for her. But so is Red. Too old for her.”
“What about
this man?”
Florence
and Bonnie both looked to Boca. “Oscar,” Florence began. “He sells pipe at
hardware store down the street.”
“Hardware
store employee?”
“No. He’s a
salesman. He sells pipe. He comes in once or twice a week for coffee or soup.
He likes her, but she won’t pay any attention to him. She says that she will
stay true to Red.”
“Describe
him,” Boca said.
“Mexican.
Like you.”
“Tall?”
“No. My
height.”
“You’re
what? Five eight, five nine?”
Florence
nodded again. “Five, nine.”
“Think
about this. What color are his eyes?”
Both women
shook their heads. “No,” Florence began. “No. Never noticed.”
Bonnie
shook her head. “No. I never pay attention.”
*
Twenty
minutes later, Ben Rennault came to bail his sisters out. “I am the silent
partner,” he explained to Sergeant Reynolds. “I bail them out when they work together.
Nothing else. Never bother with them unless they’re apart.”
“Smart
move,” Reynolds commented. “P-ticket,” he went on to explain. “That means we
hold court here. Disturbing the peace. The fact that an officer was injured
while trying to break up the argument is going to be overlooked. This time.
Next time the district attorney will want a piece of this.”
“Thank you,”
Rennault said. “Again.”
Saturday,
January 4th
It took
quite a while. The floor was muddy in spots, oily in others, and hard packed further down. They dug a hole two feet
deep by six feet square. Once they had her in place, they realized it wasn’t
enough. Her knees, although leaning off to the left, topped the hole. Red
returned to the house for the last two bottles of beer. After a break they pulled
her out, removed her pink quilted coat, and dug deeper. Two o’clock had passed
before they had her tucked in and the dirt repacked.
At that
point, Milk wanted to take a shower and fall into his own bed. He was bone
tired, muddy, and due to take off for Sault Ste. Marie again in the morning.
The pair stepped out into the yard and was surprised to find several inches of
fresh snow.
***
She
stood there with no coat on, missing one boot, and the snow falling about her.
The side of her head and both ears were missing, her hair was matted and
bloody, and her clothing was ripped and snagged. She smiled, just like she always
did. Like she knew what Red was thinking, and how nervous this dream made him.
Like she was enjoying his discomfort. As much as he expected that she would
open her mouth and rag on him like she usually did, she didn’t. She just
watched.
Overhead,
were the fireworks. The ones she liked so well, the silver that turned to gold
and fell into red, white and blue stars, were all about them, glimmering
through the snowflakes. The trees moved in the breeze. Wolves, coyotes, deer,
raccoons, beavers and ground squirrels sat behind her, watching him. One coyote
reached up to her and licked her bony, skinless fingers.
He
couldn’t hear a thing. Not the snow falling, not the tree branches moving in
the breeze and scratching against each other, not the fireworks overhead, and
certainly not the animals grunting, growling, howling or chattering.
She
stepped up to him, reaching out to him with her bony hand. She grabbed his ear
and tugged. He tried to back away from her. She tugged harder. And harder
again. He fought her, swinging at her, swinging about, and trying to run. But
she was still there, holding onto him, forcing him to stay. She tugged and he
struggled. The ear snapped off! He flew backwards. He caught his breath as an
explosion of pain ripped through his head. He clutched the side of his head as
she attached his ear to her head. Sound exploded about him.
He sat up
in bed, holding his ear with one hand. Beneath the other hand, his heart
pounded against his rib cage. The noise continued. And his ear hurt. Pulling
his hand from his ear, he saw wet fingers. He reached out to the bedside lamp
and flipped it on. His fingers were bloody and muddy. He noticed an open drawer
in the night stand, and a few drops of blood there as well. He must have
clipped his ear on the corner of the drawer in his sleep. As for the noise, it
was the radio buzzing and time to get up.
He made up
his mind. By the time Milk made it back from Sault Ste. Marie, he’d have the
garage cleaned out and the cement ready to go.
***
Between
127th and the Cal Sag Canal, Miami runs one way, heading south. Restaurants,
gift, antique, and miscellaneous shops line Miami. Running parallel to Miami is
Fort Dearborn Trail, which heads north. The split at the southern end of the
route takes place on the bridge spanning the Cal Sag. It continues on, over the
top of 135th Street, before leveling off. New Year’s Eve pyrotechnics set up
their charges on the last stretch of bridge before the land rose up to meet it.
Robbinson Memorial Hospital and several clinics line both sides of Fort
Dearborn. Homes lined the east side of Fort Dearborn north of 127th Street.
Snowflakes
continued to fall, sometimes heavy, sometimes not. Residents stayed home,
abandoning the streets to the snow plows with their spinning yellow lights.
Right behind the plows came the salt spreaders. Officer Jack Morgan, lanky,
tall, with dark brown hair, mustache and ice blue eyes, was assigned to follow
the plow and spreader that traversed both sides of Miami and Fort Dearborn.
They finished the stretch of either street north of 127th and then south of the
Cal Sag first. When they hit the Uptown area, they did the east side of Miami,
turned about and did the east side of Fort Dearborn. On the second circuit,
they picked up the west side of either street.
When
Officer Morgan came upon a vehicle parked in a restricted area in spite of the ‘two
or more inches of snow’ ordinance, he ticketed it. On tomorrow’s shift, if
those same vehicles hadn’t been moved, he’d tag them for tow.
That woman
who owned Pinkies parked her old red wagon on 133rd, next to the laundry. He’d
ticket it again, and she’d complain, just like she always did. She owned a
business. Did the City fathers intend for her to move to another town? This
wouldn’t happen in Renfro, or Water’s Edge, or even Chicago. Why here? They
keep this crap up and she would move. Pack up her business and take it
somewhere where she’d be appreciated.
Officer
Morgan argued it all out in his head as he removed his gloves to write. When he
finished, he knocked the snow from the windshield and tucked the ticket under
her wiper. Then he returned to his squad, which was parked on Miami. He just
happened to glance up the street at just the right moment. From behind a bank
of freshly plowed snow, a deer turned the corner at 135th Street onto Miami. It
stayed in the tracks of the snow plows, coming quickly, almost right towards
him. He could only stare. Without as much as a blink in his direction, it
trotted past him. It suddenly turned down Elm, leaping over a low wall of snow,
and heading back towards Robbinson Memorial Hospital. Jack kept right on
staring.
***
Every
morning Red turned on the TV just to keep him company. By that time Willie
should have been at work, probably sitting on her ass and sipping her coffee
like she had all the time in the world. God help her if she had a real job.
The weather
lady said seven inches on the ground and more on the way. Red glanced out the
window but saw little. When he opened the door, he knew if he went to work, he’d
get stuck there. It was deep. He closed the door and went back to bed. Screw
this.
***
Bill rolled
out of bed when the radio alarm sounded. Sophie groaned and sat up. The radio
news reported that a good eight inches of snow fell throughout the night. She
pulled aside a drape and peeked at the street running alongside of their home. “Good
God!”
“Huh?”
“You can’t
be serious?” she demanded, turning big eyes his way. “Call in!”
He actually
enjoyed that. “What? You think the city should call a snow day?”
“Why not?
Have someone come along and lock every door, not let anyone out.”
“Who gets
to lock the doors? The cops?”
She dropped
the drape and crawled back into bed. “Go out, Guilarmo. Freeze your ass off.
Just don’t call home looking for the electric blanket. I’m using it.”
Bill
chuckled at that. Sophie wasn’t much good in the morning or in the cold. The
doorbell rang at that point. He grabbed the pants he had laid out to wear day
and tugged them on as he tip toed through the dining room into the living room.
In the entrance hall, he flipped on an outside light.
He zipped
and buckled up before peeking out the window onto the big brick porch. A public
works laborer in a bright orange vest waved at him. “Chief,” the man said when
Bill opened the door, “Got you a ride if you’re interested.” He pointed at the
street where a street plow with bright, spinning yellow lights waited.
“Give me a
few minutes.”
***
She
smiled at him as she picked up the full coffee pot using the one bony hand. She
turned towards him. He hated when she smiled like that. One ear was missing
and there was a huge dent in her head. Still, she smiled. Her shoulders sloped
at an odd angle because she still hadn’t put the other boot on. Still, she
continued to smile. No matter how badly he shit on her, she smiled. She made
him coffee, she cooked his meals, she served him his beer, hell she even bought
it most of the time. She always smiled.
And
she smiled now as she waited for him to get himself an empty cup. He hated to
take his eyes off of her. The moment it took to grab a cup out of the cabinet
might be that moment when she’d latch onto another of his body parts. Or maybe
she planned to dump that pot on him.
“Willie,
I don’t want coffee. Not now,” he said as he covered his family jewels with one
hand.
She
continued to smile as she set the pot on the pink counter next to the pink
coffee maker. He groaned, wanting to say something about how she was going to
mar the counter because of the hot pot, but then didn’t. She was waiting. And
smiling.
He
backed away.
And shook
himself awake.
***
“Willow
Pratt,” Pat Callaghan began at the morning roll call. “Missing as of New Year’s
Eve. Four days now. I have pictures, I have details. I want a real detective
working on this shift. I’ll settle for Tim Ryan though. Coordinate with Boca on
second, and don’t screw it up. I want everyone to take a good look at her
before taking off this morning.
“Okay, keep
in mind that we have eight inches on the ground already. Expect another ten.
High winds, dropping temperatures. You have to be aware of the weather and the
affects it can have on stranded motorists or pedestrians. Anyone dumb enough to
go out today will probably run into problems. Just remember, you leave someone
stranded in a snow bank, it could cost them a few toes or worse. Another thing.
Parking. The ‘two inch’ ordinance is in effect. That means that when the snow
is two inches or higher, residents are required to move parked vehicles from
areas that are marked. Those areas include one side of every street. I don’t
care where they put their cars. It’s not my headache. It’s not your headache
unless it’s your car parked on the wrong side of the street. Issuing tickets
are your headache, though. After today, anything still left in restricted areas
gets hit with a tow sticker. And God help the person if that vehicle is still
there when the tow truck arrives. Because then it’s too late.”
***
By nine AM,
every newspaper in the area and every television station had been emailed
details of Willow Pratt’s disappearance along with her picture. Bill began his
morning with telephone interviews. “We’re looking for a Hispanic male, average
height, five eight or nine, blue eyes, goes by the name of Oscar. We want to
talk to him. Nothing more. As soon as the snow is under control, we’ll organize
search parties.” He repeated the information over and over again. It was the best
anyone could do considering the condition of the streets.
***
When Evelyn
arose, she avoided the window at all costs. Channel Nine news said ten inches
on the ground and another eight on it’s way. Inevitably, she had to look. What
a horrible site. Snowflakes the size of marbles pelted the streets, the trees,
cars and buildings. The wind blew so badly that snow that had already hit the
ground was again airborne, this time hitting those same obstacles and building
up against them. Snow had built up on one side of the green light pole in front
of her house, and heavy on that same side of her car. She could feel the cold penetrating the
glass. It would be a while before the City plows would make it to this part of
town. She closed the drapes and stepped away. God help Willow if she was out in
this.
***
He
found himself out in the garage with shovel in hand and sweat running down his
cheeks. Willie walked in the side door and handed him a beer. A chill ran down
his back as his fingers brushed the naked bones in her hand.
When she saw herself in the hole in the floor,
she sat down next to it. Those animals, the ones from the first dream, the
deer, the coyote, the beavers and ground squirrels joined her. They all sat
there, chattering and barking at each other. Willie listened to them, nodded,
but didn’t speak. They seemed to understand each other. Remembering the first
dream, Red reached for his ear and found a hole in the side of his head. Willie
smiled up at him. Again with the smile. She pushed her hair out of her face and
tucked it behind his ear.
That was
it, Red was up for the day. He wouldn’t risk another dream. He pulled out of
bed and wrapped himself in a pink blanket. He made his way into the kitchen and
flipped on the overhead light. It flashed and went out.
‘Damn,’ he
thought, thinking about having to change a bulb. He found a package of sixty
watt bulbs in the cabinet above the stove. He set his blanket aside momentarily
while he crawled up on a chair and began to loosen the nuts holding the lamp
cover on. Once he had it changed, the cover back on and bolted down, he
reclaimed his blanket. It was beginning to get chilly.
When he
flipped on the wall switch nothing happened. He tried the dining room, and
still nothing. The storm must have knocked the power out. At least he had the
gas stove. He could still make a pot of coffee. He found the old percolator he
kept for instances just like this, and crossed the kitchen to fill it with
water and coffee grounds. Along the way he found the glass carafe that went
with the coffee maker she had painted pink. It was full and warm to touch, and
it sat on the counter between the sink and the maker, just where she left it
in his dream. And damn if she didn’t burn the paint on the counter when she set
it there.
***
Tina wanted
to go outside and play in the snow. She wanted to build a snowman. Why couldn’t
she? It couldn’t be as bad as Sophie said it was. Over and over again, she
complained, wearing on Sophie’s nerves. “Tina, you keep this up and you’ll
spend the rest of the day sitting on your bed in your room,” She finally
warned. The last thing she wanted to do was to carry through with a threat.
Last time Tina sat at the end of her bed and cried at the top of her lungs
until Bill got home later in the evening.
When he did
make it home, Bill told Tina that she wouldn’t be welcomed in the living room
or to participate with the rest of the family if she didn’t rectify her behavior.
It must have sunk in. Both kids settled in front of the window and watched. A
plow made its way down their street, but very soon after the snow reclaimed
it. It wasn’t long before the street was impassable again. Tina couldn’t get
over how quiet it all became. “It’s creepy,” she said.
Sophie
retired to the kitchen and a stack of breakfast dishes. School was due to begin
on Monday and she needed to concentrate on that. Her seventh graders would
begin a unit on the Civil War, and she wanted time to plan her classes. Dishes
provided a few moments to think.
She had
soap suds elbow high and a warm wet spot right below her breasts, and just the
pans left to wash. Tina called her. “Hey, Sophie! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”
She dropped
her dish rag and ran into the front room. Tina stood, pointing at something
just outside. A dark haired speck of a child trampled through the snow. “Look!
It’s Mikey!”
She met the
boy on the porch. “What the heck are you doing out now?” she demanded.
“Well?”
Face red and lips brittle, and hair nearly white with a build up of snow, the
boy trembled. He turned squinty eyes up at her. “Grandma didn’t come home last
night. And the lights went out. I didn’t want to stay there by myself.”
“Here.
Stamp your feet,” she ordered. “Brush some of this snow off.” As the boy
complied, she took him in from top to bottom, settling finally on his gym
shoes. “Where are your boots?”
“I....” He
looked away. “Tina got boots?”
“Inside,”
she ordered. “God only knows if I can find something that fits you. Get your
wet things off and you in the tub.”
Mikey shed
his clothes in favor of one of Bill’s robes. She washed the boy’s clothing as
he bathed in nice warm water. As the clothes dried, she made him instant
oatmeal. And then, just for the fun of it, all three kids helped her roll out
cookie dough.
Later she
dug out long slabs of knitted material that she had made. There were three -
three feet by one foot slabs each of red, green, white and variegated. Each
were made of the same thick yarn.
“Sophie’s
making Bill an African for his birthday,” Tina chirped at her older brother.
“Afghan,”
Sophia corrected. “I want to lay these out on the floor and start tying them
together. You guys can help me decide what panels should go where.” Once they
had laid what they could on the floor, she whistled. She had enough for three
big blankets. “Wow.”
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