Friday, January 3rd

***

    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.”

Link to January 4th

Saturday, January 4th

***

    When Milk crashed early that morning, he left the light on in his room. He hated to admit it, but he was freaked.

    When he awoke late morning, he found he had no lights. The LED display on the clock was blank and the room was kind of cold. Of course if he had no electricity, the furnace wasn’t much good. The fan that pushed the heat throughout the build­ing used electricity to run. He peeked out the bedroom window. Snow had built up against the sill a quarter of the way up. He could barely make out the yellow re­volving lights of the salt spreader just now making its way down the street. His car had to be buried beneath one of the giant snow hills out where the curb was supposed to be.

    If his watch was right, he was about three hours late for work. He needed to call someone now, but when he lifted the receiver he found that the phone service was knocked out as well. He’d have to use his cell phone, but that he left in the back seat of the Nova. Forget it. He’d never make it that far without employing a snow shovel. He had enough of shovels for a long while. Maybe he’d clean instead. There were enough clothes laying around to keep him washing for a couple of days, and at least every dish he owned was in the sink. He burned something in a sauce pan so long ago, he couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe he’d scrub that out while he waited for the utilities to come on again. Hell, maybe he’d pitch it.

***

    Red left the carafe where he found it. He made his coffee in an old percolator, and burned it, because he didn’t want to spend anymore time in the kitchen than he had to. He spent most of the day wandering from one room to the other. Without electricity and with the limited amount of light coming through the window while the worst of the storm blocked out the sun, the entire house took on an eerie pink glow.

    There wasn’t a room he didn’t see her in. The bedroom had the pink sheets that they had argued over. She had painted the kitchen walls, cabi­nets, counter and fridge pink. In the living room he found pink throw pillows. He hated them. When she bought them, he threatened to burn them. She insisted she’d buy more if he did. He submitted to them, just as he submitted to the pink dishes, the pink curtains, drapes and cushioned toilet seat. She even bought him a pink recliner. Good God, how he hated pink.

***

    Evelyn took many trips to the front window throughout the day. With each inch of snow to fall, and each circuit of the snow plow, she wondered again. And she prayed. Where was her daughter? ‘Dear God, please keep her safe and bring her home.’

    Pam called her into the den to watch the noon news. The anchor showed a pic­ture of Willow, and a description of her and a Hispanic male the police wanted to talk to. Police Chief Guilarmo Ramos said in a telephone interview that the police would help organize searches once the snow situation was under control. “Again, Willow Pratt. Police are asking that anyone with information concerning her whereabouts please contact the Portland Police Department.”

   “Hispanic male?” Pam asked. Her youngest daughter actually looked hopeful.     “You think?”

   “I hope.” Evelyn tried to smile. “He’d have to treat her better than Red does.”

***

    Sophie watched the boys scoot their vehicles back and forth on the kitchen floor as she cut up green pepper. Mikey al­ways carried two Matchbox cars in the pocket of his jacket at all times. He said that his big brother, Donny, had given them to him before he died. He had them out now. Cory had his big, soft trucks that he had gotten for Christmas. The differ­ence in the size of the vehicles they played with was a bit disconcerting. But then size didn’t matter, brothers did. Mikey would beep at Cory and the little one would beep back.

She put Bill’s call on the speaker so she could continue to work while she spoke to him. “What are you making?” Bill asked over the phone.

     “Spaghetti. Are you going to make it home?”

    “Good question. If worse comes to worse, maybe I can bunk next store. I’m sure the fire department has an extra bunk.”

    “Let me know so I’m not worried.”

    “No problem. You have electricity?”

    “Yeah. Why?”

    “Half of Portland is out.”

    She watched as Cory tugged on his brother’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. Mikey turned to look at her. “So, has it been busy?” she asked.

    He sighed. “Yeah, we’ve got a situation here. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. How’s the kids?”

    “Good. Mikey is here.”

    The ten year old smiled. “Hi, Bill!”

    “Hey, Mikey. So, Sophie, how come?”

  “I guess his grandma went down to see Marie yesterday. Didn’t make it back.”

    “Probably stranded.”

    “Probably.”

    “So, Mikey,” he called. “Think of me when you eat my share of dinner.”

    “I’m making enough for all of us,” she corrected.

    “Ha! Have you seen that kid eat? New Year’s you should have made one ham for him and one ham for the rest of us. Right, Mikey? Am I right?”

    His voice was happy and that made Mikey and Cory both laugh. “He’s right.       You’re right,” Mikey called. “I’m a growing boy!”

    “Growing right out of your pants.”

    Cory tugged on Mikey’s sleeve again. “What is it, Cory?” Sophie asked.

    “He says he doesn’t like when you put mushrooms in your spaghetti,” Mikey responded.

    “So why can’t Cory tell me that?” She turned to the youngest.

    The boy shrugged and pointed to his brother. “I like Mikey.”

    “You tell her, Cory,” Bill called. “Hey, Sophie. I hate mushrooms, too.”

    “Goodbye, Guilarmo.”

    “Goodbye, Sophia.”

    The boys chuckled as she hung up. She wondered then why she couldn’t keep all three kids. They had always wanted a family, and if God wasn’t to provide one way, why not this way?

    She remembered her wedding. Her maid of honor was nine months along, and went into labor during the reception. They moved the party to Robbinson Memorial, where Sophie, Bill, his best man and the best man’s fiancé shared a bottle of Champaign and discussed parenthood. When the father arrived to say that he had a healthy baby boy, they opened another bottle. The best man’s fiancé and the new mother were sisters. 

    Sophie pushed aside the memory, and tried to concentrate on abolitionists and John Brown.

***

    About dusk Red crept into the kitchen again. The carafe looked different. He wondered if it could have moved. He dumped the contents down the drain, and very carefully set it in its place on the coffee maker. At the doorway, he turned quickly. He sighed knowing it didn’t move, nor could it.

    Still wrapped in his blanket, he made it into the living room. He could swear those damned throw pillows had rearranged themselves. Maybe not. He shook that off and tried to remain resolute. In that light, everything was distorted. He sat on the sofa and listened. Every creak, every groan, every branch scratching against the siding or roof had him thinking about wolves, coyotes, deer, beavers, raccoons and ground squirrels. He wondered if she didn’t conspire with every animal in the forest preserve. Right now she’d have them convinced that they should scratch their way through the siding or the doors. Damn. If only he hadn’t killed the last of the beer the night before.

***

    Without lights, without the TV, without beer, and without an escape, Milk had time to think. Red drove him out of his mind. His best friend. Huh! That man was as ditzy as any broad he had ever met. Always getting his ass in hock. If Milk wasn’t dragging him home after a night of too much drink, he was breaking up a fight between him and Willie. Or him and Beverly at Pinkies’. Or him and some­one else. Little bastard didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

   Milk’s marriage fell apart because of Red. For that matter any real relationship he ever had went to hell because of Red. Several women, including his ex-wife have given him the ultimatum, Red or her. He knew he’d be better off with her, safer, out of trouble, but picked Red instead. The fact was Milk didn’t want the re­sponsibility of being husband, boyfriend or father. It was a hell of a lot easier to go to work every day, drink his beer, smoke a little weed, and straighten out Red’s screw ups.  

    He met Red when they worked together at another shipping company. He drove and Red was the company mechanic. Almost instantly, they clicked. Red got his nickname because of the color of his hair. He laughed hysterically over Milk’s. Of all names, why Milk? Milk couldn’t answer that. It was just one of those stupid tags he wore as a child that stuck. 

    Red reminded Milk of Lyle, his little brother. Lyle was another f-up. He was eighteen when he totaled his mother’s Caddy. According to his mother, if Milk was doing what he was supposed to, watching out for his brother, keeping his brother straight, the kid would have never went out that night and gotten plastered. He would still be alive.

***

    Angela committed to one more night at the Ramada. She had no choice. Street plows and salt spreaders crept up and down the main thoroughfare all day long. Once they passed, though, blowing snow closed the street one more time. She called home hoping to hear from Mikey, but instead got a recording informing her that line was temporarily disconnected. She tried Milk’s and got the same record­ing. Some of her friends had phone service, and some didn’t. Those who did told her to make herself comfortable because they weren’t going anywhere.

***

    He was cold, shivering even. Willow picked the blanket off the floor and tucked it in around him. He thanked her and promptly fell asleep again.

    Then he woke up. He shivered again, and pulled the blanket up closer to his face. He was still on the sofa. The street light showed pinkly through his living room window. That was enough to send him off to bed.

Sunday,

January 5th

    It finally quit snowing and the wind was dying down. Officer Jack Morgan again followed the snow plow and the salt spreader. The conditions had changed dramatically  First Jack scraped the snow from the windows of the cars that remained in the ‘two inch zone,’ and slapped orange tow stickers on the back windows. He spent his time wondering about stunned vehicle owners and what they would say when a tow truck showed up and carted their vehicles off.

    Later that night his job became to direct traffic about the City trucks. This time several dump trucks and a back loader joined them as they removed as much of the snow as possible from the business district. The plows piled snow five feet and higher at the curb, making it impossible to get to storefront doors. When he waved a car around the back loader, he wondered what the driver thought of this opera­tion. Surely the City wouldn’t foot the bill to remove snow from every residential street. At least the residential neighborhoods had grass in front of the homes, and a place to pile snow.

    Once a dump truck loaded, he directed it first to Calumet Park where a mountain of snow grew very quickly. That was a small park on Miami, next store to Twin Sisters’ Coffee House. Once they filled it up, he sent trucks on to parking lots and to the vacant land lining the Canal.

    There was more snow here than he had ever seen in his entire life. More, he bet, than that notorious storm in 1967 when Chicago was buried in twenty two inches. From what he heard, the entire area was crippled for days. His wife was too young to remember 1967, but his in-laws remembered. His mother-in-law taught at a Catholic grammar school at the time. Teachers and students alike spent two nights sleeping in church pews. Jack’s father-in-law told him how Chicago Mayor Richard J. Daley didn’t bother to order the side streets plowed.     It just wasn’t done then. The man had taken a train home from work that evening, and walked from the station. He followed tire tracks in the street. Luckily Jack’s wife stayed with her baby sitter for at least one full night.

    Jack and his mother were still in Ireland at the time, awaiting their exit visas. They immigrated to America that summer. Jack was very young.

    As Jack looked about him, he wondered what they’d do when they had the Canal lined on both sides. Surely when it all melted, the Canal wouldn’t be able to han­dle the run off. Portland sat on high ground. Most of the surrounding area didn’t. He could imagine the flooding that would occur in towns and farm land downstream. God help northeastern Illinois if it snowed again before this had a chance to melt.

    With that thought, he decided to ask for another assignment. He spent too much time alone. Desperately, he needed another human being to talk to. 

    He missed that red wagon earlier. It was buried so deep in snow, he wasn’t sure which end was which. ‘Forget it,’ he told himself, not wishing to either raise the owner’s ire further, or dig the snow out of another car window. He turned back to his vehicle which again sat on Miami.

    Just in case, he strained up over his squad. No one wanted to believe him about the deer running the length of Miami the night before. Would it be there? To his amazement, it was. It rounded the same corner and raced right up past him. To­night though, it had something in its mouth. It looked like hot pink printer paper. Huh. Probably picked it out of someone’s garbage. Jack watched it as it gracefully sped along, and how it just as gracefully turned onto the Elm Street, again. That night, though, Elm had been plowed.

    He turned about to where he had last seen the trucks, hoping that someone would have seen it. Damn it anyway. Most of them were down the street at White Cas­tle’s having coffee, and here he was, worrying about a stupid station wagon. He really needed a new assignment. That and hot coffee.

***

    Sophie slipped out of her nice warm bed, heading to the bathroom. She did what she had to and began her trip back to bed. She heard something coming from the direction of the front room. Living with a cop all these years had made her too brash, she chided herself as she picked up a heavy candle stick. She raised it over her head and slipped into the room. Something or someone occupied Bill’s favor­ite chair. She connected the familiar shape with other nights, and flipped on the lights.

    He hadn’t even removed his uniform jacket. “Come on,” she ordered shaking her husband. “Wake up and come to bed.”

    He groaned and glanced at her. He rubbed his eyes first, then nodded at her and then at her candle stick. “You planning on using that on me?” he asked tiredly.

    “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve thought of it in twelve years.”

    He grunted.

    “You go out after work?” she asked nodding at the beer by his side.

    He shook his head. “Ain’t nothing open, Sophie, dear. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t.” He picked up his bottle and swirled it. He hadn’t drank much before falling asleep. He took one quick sip, and then allowed her to pull him up and lead him off towards the bedroom. “Damn, what a day.”

    “That bad?”

    “Did you see the news tonight?”

    “No, why?”

    They entered the first bedroom located just off the dining room. Bill slipped his jacket off, and began working on his belt. He wrapped his weapon and holster up in its belt and tucked it into a metal box he kept locked and on the upper shelf in his closet. “You know Willow Pratt?” he asked.

    “Pratt? Pratt?” She frowned as she thought. “I had a Pamela Pratt a few years back. Shawna, too. Sisters.”

    “Willow, too. Another sister, older one. Anyway,” he yawned between words as he pulled his white shirt from his pants, “Willow disappeared. Threatened her boy friend that if he didn’t marry her she’d find someone else.”

    “You think she did?”

    He shook his head. “Always a possibility. Haven’t spoken to the boy friend yet.”

    She dug a pair of pajamas out of his drawer. Didn’t do much good. Once his pants hit the ground, Bill crawled into bed wearing just his briefs and a T-shirt. He was out again before she could remind him about the kids.

***

    This time he found her at the foot of his bed. Those damned animals were chattering away at her side, looking his way and nodding. Damn, they looked hungry, too. She showed them a small statuette of a pink deer. And she smiled. She nodded at the dresser where she had her mirrored tray and another example of pink porcelain. This time it was a trinket box. She kept earrings in there. Her cheap earrings, because God only knows he’d never allow her to buy anything worth any money that she could lose. Not that she ever lost anything. Well, okay, she lost the one boot. But there were other things. She still had those pink birth­day statues that she got for each birthday. She still had the pink seashell neck­lace her father brought her from Florida when she was in high school. And she had earrings to match....

    Damn! No more! He shook himself awake, pulling himself out of bed and spin­ning about. “Stop it, Willie! Stop! Now! No more!” He jumped at the dresser. The deer statuette was there and so was the trinket box. That was it. It was all going. He ran to the kitchen, and dug in the cabinet under the sink. He had a roll of gar­bage bags somewhere.

    Once he had it, he returned to his room. He shook one open and held it as he be­gan tossing her shit in there. First her statuettes, and then her trinket box went. He made sure he smashed everything breakable. He pulled clothing from her drawers and even the sheets from his bed. He wouldn’t stop there either. Take the blankets and the drapes. Take the toilet seat and even those awful pillows. And the coffee maker! That would go too!

***

    Milk’s phone rang and startled the hell out of him. He was getting used to the quiet. When he picked it up, he found Angela Bankencrest at the other end. “You did check on Mikey, right?”

    “No, why would I?”

    “I left you two messages. I said for you to check on him. Where is he? I can’t get him at home.”

    “I have no idea where he is. Why isn’t he with you? And where are you?”

   “I’m at a hotel outside of Joliet. I got stranded here on the way back from seeing Marie. I said...”

    “I don’t care what you said. I didn’t get the damned messages. The electricity went out.”

    She paused. “Hopefully he’s with Tyler.”

    “You don’t know?”

    “No, I don’t know. I called you.”

    “I didn’t get the damned messages. You lost my kid!”

    “Oh, now turn it back on me. You should have answered your phone and we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

    Milk grunted and pulled the phone away from his face. He cradled it against his chest and tried very hard to get his anger under control. After a few deep breaths, he replaced the phone to his ear. “You know something, you old bat. It’s this stu­pid attitude of yours that drove Marie away from home to begin with. I should know better than allow you to take my kid. I should of kept him myself.”

    “Oh, yes. He could watch you and that buddy of yours, that Red jackass, get crocked every night you’re in town.” She paused as her words sunk in. Truly she had to be one of the bitterest women he had ever met. No wonder Marie was so angry. “Come pick me up,” she ordered. “I’m at the Ramada Inn just west of Joliet on I-80.”

    “I gotta do something first.” He hung up without saying goodbye. God only knows what happened to Mikey. Once he found the kid he’d blister his ass for getting the old bat so worked up.

***

    When Bill awoke on Sunday morning, he could smell bacon frying and pancakes cooking. He donned a fresh pair of jeans and went looking for his wife. He found her and hugged her, and she shoved a piece of coffee cake in his mouth. He curled his lip in disgust as she pulled away. It was one of those Scandinavian things made with cardamom. It wasn’t cinnamon and it wasn’t anise. It was gross. 

    “Did you stop last night, or not?” she asked as she retreated to the coffee maker.

    “I told you nothing was open last night.”

  “So, in other words you would have. You stop at Joe’s or something? Mark’s?”

    “Nope.”

    “Elliot’s?”

    “No, I worked late. Then I came home.”

  She turned back to him and studied him as she stirred his coffee. “You promise?”

    “I promise.”

   God help him, but he’d been warned. Women never forget. Prior to his promo­tion to this job, he served as lieutenant on second shift. By the time his shift ended, she had been in bed for hours. Out of loneliness more than anything else, he began frequenting Pinkies’. He gained weight, he spent money he could have used elsewhere, he made a fool out of himself more times than he cared to remember, and he nearly wrecked his marriage. She began divorce proceedings, and only put them aside when this promotion came through. “I’ll be home,” he told her, “Almost every night. No more Pinkies’, no more drunks.” It meant more than life itself to him to keep this together. He kept his word.

    He fell in love with her when they met way back in kindergarten. They made friends immediately, and stayed good friends right through high school and col­lege. Later, after Sophie had begun teaching and he had spent a few years on the police department, the pair hooked up at her brother’s wedding. They were older, their lives were stable, and neither was involved with anyone. Sophie said it best. At that time in their lives, the best and the brightest were already married. And here she was waiting for Mr. Right, and she wasn’t willing to settle for just any­one. If what it took to make it as a married couple was to establish a friendship, than maybe they had something to build on. She suggested it and he was willing. Without actually dating, they decided on a date and got married. It worked.

    They wanted children right from the beginning. It wasn’t to be. Sophie became pregnant twice, but miscarried both times. When the opportunity came up to be­come foster parents, they jumped at it. 

    They accepted several children on a temporary basis, but it was Tina and Cory that they formed their concept of family about. It was wrong, they told each other. Their mother would be released one day and claim them. Then what? They’d both be devastated.

    “Bill!” Mikey ran the length of the house, into the old kitchen. “You’re on TV!”

    “I am?”

    “They’re talking about Willie! You know Willie, right? You guys are on TV!”

    “You know Willow Pratt?” Bill asked with surprise.

    “Sure. She’s my Dad’s friend.”

   “Oh.” Of course. She was reportedly dating Mikey’s father’s best friend. Even her mother said that the police should talk to Milk Borenstein.

Sophie turned to the kitchen portable. While her back was turned, he handed Mikey his coffee cake. Mikey curled up his lip and set it on the table. She found the right station immediately, and with it, a photo of his face appeared alongside of a photo of Willow Pratt’s.

    “She looks just like her sisters,” Sophie commented. She glanced back at him, immediately focusing on the coffee cake. “Don’t waste that.”

    He scrunch up his nose. “Sophie, I hate cardamom.”

    “You do?”

    “Yes, I do.”

    “When did you plan to tell me?”

    “Every time you force me to eat that crap. You eat it.”

    She shrugged. “I don’t like it either. I always bought it because you liked it.”

***

    Karolyn Mathers watched the noon news. She was moved by the picture of the missing person. The young lady was certainly pretty. Sad what her parents must be going through. Karolyn was moved by the plea from the local po­lice chief. Moved enough, she assured herself, to make the journey into the south suburbs when they asked for search volunteers.

***

    Milk struggled down the unshoveled front walk and up onto the porch. It kind of surprised him that Red hadn’t shoveled. The bastard was cheap, but he wasn’t lazy. On the porch, Milk heard screaming coming from inside. He jerked opened the door, and hurried in.

    “You hear me, Willie! I don’t need this crap!” Red stood in the middle of the living room with a full bag in one hand and a pillow that he threatened the ceiling with. “No more pink! I hate pink! And no more dreams, Willie! I hate your dreams! And I hate your cute little animals! I don’t want to see them here. You got that, Willie! Don’t send them here!”

    “What the hell is your problem?” Milk shouted over the noise.

    “Huh?” Red turned quickly. He stood there in his greasy work pants and a  T-shirt. Mud streaked his pant legs and one cheek. Coagulated blood stained his ear and down his neck. His hands were gray where caked on mud had cracked off. He was just as filthy as he was when Milk left the other night. The bag he held was pink from the things inside reflecting through the white bag. Red shoved the pillow deep into the bag and reached for another. “No more pink,” he hissed at Milk. “No more. I told you. I hate pink!”

***

    Angela made a couple of phone calls, and then checked out. She used her Visa to pay for the room. She moved into the lobby where she waited. And waited. And waited. When the counter help changed shifts, a porter asked her if he could help. “No, thank you. I’m waiting for my ride.” She checked her watch. ‘Damnit, but he should have been here.’

***

    Bill got the snow blower out right after breakfast. He cleared the apron in front of the garage, and then the sidewalk leading from the garage to the front of the house, along the front walk, and up to the steps. Sophie swept the big brick porch.

    There was more snow than he ever remembered. This morning, the weather lady reported that eighteen inches fell all together. In 1967, twenty two inches fell. Bill couldn’t remember 1967. Only that every year in the middle of January some old timer came on TV and reminisced about how deep it was or how he had been stranded somewhere.

    Looking up the street, he witnessed something that probably began in ‘67. Neighbors were lugging their kitchen chairs, lawn chairs and folding chairs to the front of their houses, and setting them up to move into the street to hold their parking places once they moved their vehicles. It was illegal, but try and stop them. Most of them looked Bill’s way, growled, but continued on. He thanked God his garage opened onto the Big Oak Drive, was big enough to hold two cars, and accessible. No chairs for him.

***

   If Milk could have gotten his hands on a tranquilizer, a dart gun, or something sharp and deadly, he’d use it. Red was so worked up, Milk was terrified. After tearing out all that was hers in the house, the bastard fought his way through snow drifts out to the garage. He began shoving things on top of the work bench, or throwing them out the open door and into the snow.

    “That’s it!” Red cursed. “This bitch is staying down. I’m not giving her half a chance of digging herself out of her hole. Not her, not her wolf friends, or deer, or squirrels, or anyone else. She’s staying put!” Red found a number of bags and a wheelbarrow.

    “You can’t do that yet,” Milk insisted. “It’s too wet.”

   Red didn’t respond. He dumped a bag of sand and one of cement into the wheel­barrow. Milk gave in and grabbed a couple of buckets from a snow bank. He returned to the house for water. He traveled back and forth several times before Red had mixed enough cement mix, sand and water in the wheel barrow to begin the process. Red mixed, Milk toted water back and forth, Red poured and Milk smoothed. They cemented the feet of the workbench right into the floor. In the midst of all this activity, Milk wondered if the dummy knew the correct proportions of sand to cement mix to water. When they finished, Red pranced about in the doorway, pointing at the floor and spinning back at the snow. “That’s it. That’s one bitch out of my life forever. No more. No more pink! She can’t rag on me for anything.”

   Milk glanced over his shoulder. The next store neighbor strolled down his shoveled walk to his garage. The guy was probably enjoying the hell out of Red’s little display. Milk curled up as he remembered. “Oh, crap. F-ing Angela.”

    By the time she crawled in his car, she her complexion was so red, that her bleached blonde hair looked white. She didn’t speak right away and that was fine with him. But then when he entered I-80 again, she opened up. “Well, I found him. The kid has more sense than his father.”

    “Where is he?”

    “Ramos’s. When the lights went out and it got cold, he went over there. They had lights and heat.”

    “Ramos?” Milk turned about, staring at her in horror. “My kid is with that prick?”

    “That prick and his wife fed him and kept him warm while you were doing God knows what.”

    “Believe me,” Milk cried as he tried to focus on the road and her at the same time, “God knows what I’ve been up to. None of your f-ing business. As far as my kid goes, I don’t want him around those people.” He leaned towards her. A horn dragged his attention back to the road. He swerved back into his lane just in time to avoid hitting that car.

   “Hump.” She set her shoulders and scowled. “They’re decent law abiding people. They’re only crime is that they aren’t white.”

    “No, they’re not.” Milk turned hard on Angela. “I don’t need Mikey hanging around with people like that. And I don’t want him around those other two crumb snatcher grandkids of yours. He can stay with his own kind.”

    “That’s not what you said when Marie was home and watching all three. As long as there’s someone to pick up after you. That’s all you need. Another mama...”

*

    Angela entered the great brick porch and knocked on Ramos’s front door. It didn’t have a screen. That didn’t make any sense. The door should have a screen door. She caught a glance of someone peeking out the drapes in the window just to her side. A moment later Tina and Cory together answered the door.

   As much as the woman wanted to pretend, she had to admit that Tina’s features were very much like Marie’s. She was a pretty child. She had a tiny, square face, and thin nose and small lips. Angela was really kind of amazed that the kid didn’t look blacker.

    Cory was a darker copy of Donny, Marie’s eldest. Donny was a sweet child. What happened to him should never happen to any child. He had to be forced, that was all. No child with as much sweetness in him as Donny had would willingly lend himself to such a plot.

    Angela reached out at first to touch Cory, but then retreated. “I’m here to pick up Mikey,” she said sternly.

    Tina ran off. “Mikey! Grandma is here!”

    Cory crossed his arms and watched Angela. ‘What an odd child,’ she thought.

   A few minutes passed without anyone inviting her in. Mikey came then. He paused just inside the entrance hall, and hugged a blonde woman. “Bye, Bill,” he called into the living room.

    “Hey, Mikey, take it easy. Behave yourself,” a man responded.

    “I will.”

  Tina rushed to him and hugged him. Cory latched onto the boy when he entered the entrance hall. “I love Mikey! Don’t go!”

    “Hey, Dude, I love you, too. I’ll be back. Right, Grandma?” Mikey smiled at her.

    “Hurry up. Your father is waiting.”

  Instantly the joy disappeared from his face. His shoulders slumped, and Marie’s angry scowl appeared. He pushed his little brother aside, and stepped out onto the porch.

    “I hate you, Grandma!” Cory called. “I hate when Mikey sad!”

    “Cory!” the blonde woman corrected. “You apologize now.”

    The boy crossed his arms again. “Sorry.”

   The woman pulled the little one aside, and smiled at Angela. She closed the door then.

*

    The porch blocked the wind, stopping it from entering the house through the front door. It was still cold, and that cold radiated in. Sophie was concerned about her little one catching pneumonia, but more than that was his behavior. “I’m really surprised you said that,” she commented. “You hate Grandma? Is that what a good boy tells someone?”

    The boy nodded. “Gramma a bitch.” He set his mouth and walked away, leaving Sophia stunned.

*

    Mikey crawled into his father’s car and sat in the back seat. The old man didn’t say a thing. He stared out the front window and grunted when Grandma closed the passenger side door. When they arrived at Grandma’s house, Dad shut the car off and came in. That could mean anything. But when Dad took his belt off, Mikey knew he was in for the worst. 

Link to January 6th