The vibrant, hopeful Jake of this morning had returned, although he still appeared peaked around the gills. He’d scared her when Gordy dragged him in from the barn, set him at the table looking gray and barely able to take a breath.
So much so that Dottie had even lifted a prayer to heaven, in case the Almighty might be looking down upon them. In fact, if she weren’t a Lutheran, but one of those Episcopalians, she might even believe He’d sent one of His angels down to hover among them.
There hummed a sort of Christmas cheer under the layer of chill, warming her from the inside out. A stirring of Christmas past into the Christmas present, Violet dressing the tree with ornaments, and Arnie cranking the Victrola, dragging out her Christmas records. Gene Autry’s “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” played, and before that, Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.”
You know Dasher, and Dancer, and Prancer, and Vixen…
Arnie had reconstructed his train set around the tree, atop the tree skirt, and Gordy had even found the carved crèche up in the attic, setting it up on the sewing table, the sheep in dire jeopardy as the train came over the mountain to plow them over.
She let the memory of Nelson sprawled on the floor as she prepared Christmas Eve dinner tiptoe into her memory like syrup, warm and sweet through her. He’d keep sneaking into the kitchen to stick his chubby finger into a chocolate bowl or lick the whipped cream off the spoon.
Nelson!
She swatted at his hand in her memory, chased him out of the kitchen, but lingered there, watching him go over to the tree, take off the ornaments, and play with them on the sofa.
Perhaps no, it didn’t hurt to remember him, to allow him in to resurrect the sweet memories, to share them with her Storm House family.
Dottie had even dug out a Hormel foods promotional leaflet and found a canned ham recipe that might actually pass for Christmas dinner. She’d filled her Christmas mold with slices of processed ham then used the rest of her baking powder and flour to make biscuits, which she also filled with pieces of ham. She’d bake it, then make a cream sauce of the hardened chunk of cheese in the fridge and a jar of tomatoes.
At least it would be colorful.
And edible, which she couldn’t exactly say for Jake’s concoction. “And you’re just going to boil the can until it’s…tender?”
He laughed. “No. I’m making caramel. The sugar will cook and turn thick. Then I’ll pour it over the crackers. It’ll melt in your mouth.”
“I’ve never met a man so good at cooking, Jake.”
He glanced over his shoulder and she couldn’t read his expression. “The hidden talents of a boy who spent his formative years inside.”
Oh, Jake
. She wanted to press her hand on his shoulder. Or turn him and give him a motherly hug.
She softened her voice. “I remember when Nelson was about five years old, he got the German measles. I had to darken his room so the light wouldn’t destroy his eyesight, and he lay there in the darkness, his fever raging, for three days. I was beside myself. I couldn’t help my son. He was crying and miserable.
“So, I did the only thing I could. I told him stories. One after another as I fought to keep his fever down. Years later, he told me that he remembered every one of them, although I had no idea what I said. I just remembered praying, and hoping God would help me keep my son alive.”
Jake didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge her, just kept crumbling the crackers.
“Have you considered that God made you exactly the way He wanted you to be? You’re tenderhearted and kind. And maybe being ill as a child helped make you that way.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“Jake, I haven’t been in church for a few years, I admit it, but once upon a time I was a God-fearing woman. And I remember my Bible. It specifically says that God doesn’t expect us to be strong without Him. That we’re supposed to need Him, and there’s no disgrace in that. In fact, weakness just might be the mark of a man of God. Don’t call yourself weak because of the things you can’t do. Call yourself weak when you don’t let God take over, do His work in your life.”
His shoulders lifted and fell on a deep breath.
“That’s the point of Christmas, isn’t it? Our weakness, His strength? Him coming to our rescue?”
He picked up the can. Glanced over his shoulder. Met her eyes.
They stood there a moment, her own words resonating back at her. Where had they come from?
Our weakness, His strength. Him coming to our rescue?
Even breaking through the cold barriers of her heart, no matter how much it hurt?
Indeed, God had thawed her heart so much so that she could feel every nuance, every thread of heat emanating through the house. In her spirit.
No, Christmas hadn’t given up on her after all.
Jake drew in a long breath. “I’m so sorry about Nelson, Dottie.”
His words didn’t hurt, didn’t pinch. She took them in, tasting their sweetness. “Thank you, Jake. You and he would have gotten along. I just wish I could have gotten one last letter from Nelson. Other women received one from their sons after their deaths—I thought Nelson would have written me one too. Maybe it was lost in battle, but I would have certainly liked to hear his voice, one last time.”
Jake leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I know what it would have said.”
She frowned.
“It would have said, ‘Thanks, Mom.’”
She turned away, her eyes stinging.
“Want to see a Russian miracle?”
He opened the can with an opener. The creamy milk had turned brown and thick, into caramel. He poured it over the bowl of crackers and stirred it with a spoon.
The smell, tangy and buttery, filled the kitchen. In it she could taste the sweetness of the coming Christmas Eve. They would share dinner. Tell a Christmas story.
The thought caught her breath. Tell a Christmas story. But yes…she’d tell a Christmas story to Arnie.
Maybe he’d even climb on her lap.
She looked past Jake, out the window. It seemed the wind had begun to die, the storm clearing. She saw sky peeking through the snow covering the window.
No. After everything, God couldn’t abate the storm before Christmas Eve.
She wrapped her arms around herself, stifling a shiver as Gordy tromped through the kitchen, little Arnie on his tail.
“We’re going outside to stoke up the coal furnace. Time for heat in this house.”
Dottie watched them disappear into the mudroom. Funny, until a moment ago, she thought the house felt warm enough.
* * * * *
Gordy just wanted a speck of Jake’s Dapper Dan’s magic. An ounce, an inkling, just let some of it chip off Jake and onto Gordy.
Then, maybe he’d figure out how to take Dottie in his arms and propose. In the kitchen, or the parlor, under the sparkling lights, with “White Christmas” playing on the Victrola.
Dottie, I love you.
He could figure out that much. Beyond that, words escaped him.
Jake made it look too easy.
Jake merely stood there while Violet did the kissing.
It made a guy want to give up. But Gordy wasn’t going to let the night go by without asking Dottie. With the storm clearing overhead, he was running out of time.
The wind still wound his scarf around his face, bit at his skin. He’d made Arnie bundle up in an old pair of Nelson’s coveralls, still hanging in the back room, not to mention his own wool jacket, hat, and mittens.
“Where’s the coal chute, Mr. Lindholm?”
He paced it out from the house and handed Arnie a shovel. “Start digging.”
Arnie dove in with gusto, the energy of being cooped inside for two days spilling out in a flurry of snow.
Gordy’s back still ached, a low, persistent burn. He couldn’t wait until he could sit by the fire, put his feet up, share the evening with Dottie at home.
At home. Only, this wasn’t his home. And if he didn’t figure out a way to ask her soon, as soon as the storm lifted, he’d be forced to go home.
Back to their separate lives, the magic of Storm House vanished.
Arnie unearthed the handle on the cellar door. “Found it!”
“Good job—now let’s cut out the rest of the door.”
If they could get inside, they could hand-fill the coal furnace and start the electricity. And next spring Gordy would talk Dottie into cutting a passageway through the kitchen directly to the stoker in case next winter they ended up trapped in another Christmas Eve blizzard.
Not that he’d argue with God for the providence of this one. Gordy hadn’t exactly been praying his way through this weekend, but if he had been paying attention, he’d thank the Almighty for His mysterious ways.
For knowing the unspoken longings in his heart.
For Dottie’s forgiveness. Oh sure, she hadn’t exactly said the words, but the way she smiled at him, warmth in her eyes as she rearranged the lights on the tree, or hung stockings by the fireplace, or even dusted around the crèche he’d retrieved, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye…he could convince himself that she’d forgiven him.
Arnie climbed off the cellar door, and Gordy used the edge of his shovel to pry it open. The smell of coal drifted out of the recesses. He climbed down the steps, Arnie behind him.
“Arnie, grab the clinker out before we fill it up.”
Arnie opened the coal furnace, took a poker, and dislodged the donut-shaped clinker. He let it fall on the floor.
“We’ll carry it out behind the barn after we get the stove going. C’mere and help me shovel coal into the furnace.”
Arnie was a good little worker, digging into the pile, transferring the chunks of coal to the furnace. Gordy shoved the paper he’d brought from the mudroom into the center, lit it with a match, waiting for it to catch onto the coal. Even without electricity, the heat would rise into the house. It would be toasty warm by tonight’s Christmas Eve celebration.
Arnie hiked up the clinker on the pole. “I’ll go dump this behind the barn.”
“You’re a good boy, Arnie,” Gordy said as they climbed out of the cellar. “I’ll bet your daddy is real proud of you.” He’d have to return in an hour to load in more coal.
“My daddy is in heaven,” Arnie said.
Oh. Gordy’s heart gave a little lurch. He’d forgotten. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Arnie lifted a shoulder, trudging out ahead of him as he closed the cellar door.
Gordy caught up to him. “You must have been pretty young when your daddy went off to war.”
“I don’t remember him, except for the pictures. Mama misses him, though. She cries sometimes.”
“I’m sorry for your mama,” Gordy said. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.” His own words found him, settled inside.
It’s hard to lose someone you love.
Indeed.
Arnie carried the clinker behind the barn, dropped it. Then he stared up at Gordy. “Mama tells me stories, and I say that I remember him, but…” He had big eyes, and they seemed to glisten as he looked up at Gordy. “I want to be a hero like him when I grow up.”
Gordy cupped the little boy’s chin. “I have no doubt you will be.”
Again, Arnie lifted a shoulder. He shuffled past Gordy, toward the house.
Gordy stood there, barely able to make out his porch light in the gloomy day. It seemed to twinkle through the dusk, as if beckoning.
“Arnie, you go on into the house. I’ll be in presently.”
“Where you going?”
He could get home and back in twenty minutes, probably.
And then he’d really have a proper proposal.
“I’m going to find some magic and give it to Dottie so we can finally be happy.”
Arnie grinned up at him like he knew exactly what Gordy meant.
Turning up his collar, Gordy headed down the drive, past the remnant of Nelson’s tree, the crushed Plymouth, hiking through the snow as he hit the road. His feet crashed through the drifts, up to his hips in places, and he worked up a sweat, his back on fire by the time he reached the marsh. Here, the snow seemed more pliable, and he tromped his way through, crushing the brittle grasses.
The front porch protected his doorway, but he still had to head out to the barn for a shovel, kicking his way to the door, then wedging it open and sliding through. He checked in on Harriet, fed her, checked her milk bag.
He shouldn’t have panicked. Indeed, the milker would probably have to be retired to the slaughterhouse soon. He ran his hand over her back. “Sorry, old girl.”
He picked up a shovel, dug his way to his door, then shoved it open.
The chill from the long-dead fire embedded the house. He longed to hear Barnabas’s bark, greeting him.
C’mere, old boy.
The memory of Nelson walked in behind Gordy, crouching beside the stone hearth, waggling the dog’s ears.
Gordy let the memory warm him as he tromped through the house to his bedroom. He pulled open his top dresser drawer and pulled out a rectangular box, shoving it into the pocket of his flannel shirt. Then, he went to his parents’ room.
He hadn’t disturbed it since his mother’s passing, almost ten years ago. Not that superstition stopped him; he simply hadn’t had a reason. Or time.
He found her ring in the top bureau drawer where he’d put it after her burial. A simple band of white gold with two small diamonds, side by side. His father gave it to her on their twentieth wedding anniversary.
Dottie could wear this ring.
He folded it in a sock then shoved the ring into his pants pocket.
In the kitchen, he found a burlap bag and raided his pantry. A tin of cookies, potatoes, another canned ham, some peppermints, and in his icebox he found a crate of oranges. He added five to the bag, relishing the idea of the smiles on the faces of his Storm House family.
Family. He’d begun to think of them all as family. Jake and Violet, his children, Arnie his grandchild.
Dottie, his wife.
The sun had begun to sink into the horizon as he exited his house, pulling the door tight behind him. A shimmering ball of haze, the sunset spilled out cranberry and marmalade along the horizon. The wind found his nose, burned it, whistled in his ears. Already his toes felt thick, his legs numb, but he’d make it across the marsh, back to Dottie’s warm house.