Heart-strong (7 page)

Jim was thrilled. Rachel wanted to know if he was near this
street, he thought. Although he wasn’t, he wanted to respond and typed in “NN”
for “not now.”

Totally confused, Rachel could only come up with “new nuts”
for the meaning of Jim’s response. She bristled and entered, “URPN” for a
derogatory “you are a pain.”

“You are pretty nice” was Jim’s reading. Ah, he was mending
fences with Rachel. He texted back: URN2.

You are near too?
Becoming more confused by the second,
Rachel wrote back “NIM,” to indicate she didn’t understand Jim’s message.

In his lexicon, this meant “no internal message.” Now he was
confused. Jim: “WYM”

Finally, a phrase both understood. “What do you mean?” “WYM”
flashed back and forth several times, adding question marks and exclamation
points at each rebound.

Jim broke the deadlock with another phrase whose
interpretation was fairly consistent: SAT. FRS?

Rachel read it and melted. “Sorry. Are we friends?” Jim did
want to mend fences. She couldn’t resist the appeal and replied “FRS” Yes, they
were friends.

* * *

The whims of nature play havoc with Denver weather at least
once every year or two. This January was time for the strangest mixture of snow
and sleet that had ever hit the metropolitan area. Huge dark storm clouds
collided with a day of balmy, sunny weather to release thunderstorms, then a
cold front, a frigid wave of wind moved in to freeze the rain into ice,
followed by clouds so heavy with the white stuff that they swept tops of
buildings. The city thought it was prepared, but who can be ready for two feet
of snow on top of sheets of ice? Residents were instructed to stay where they
were, an unnecessary command. After eighteen hours of snowfall, the flakes
began to taper off the next morning.

“We’re lucky we didn’t even try to get out of the building,”
Rachel said. She was busy creating makeshift insulation for the windows—extra
bedding clothespinned to curtain rods. “I called work, and someone had changed
the phone message to tell callers the office was closed. So no worries there.”

“At the school, too,” called Sharon from the kitchen, where
she was brewing an enormous pot of lentil and vegetable soup so potent it would
fill everyone’s nutrition needs for several weeks. As school secretary, she was
the one who had to record the message. “I hope all the students are okay.”

Rachel looked down from her vantage point on a wobbly ladder
at Scott in front of the television. He was trying to watch cartoons, but the
connections to every station were bad, and pictures and sound flickered off and
on. Looked like Mother Nature was cooperating with mother Rachel, who limited
access to television. She wouldn’t have to play the bad guy today.

The hours were easy to fill. The three built an indoor tent
with sheets draped over chairs, then crawled around to play spies. A vicious
game of Monopoly ended with Sharon as champion. By noon, all were ready for a
meal.

“Lunch is ready,” she called. But as Rachel and Scott headed
for the dining table, the lights in the apartment flickered, dimmed, and went
out. Everyone halted mid-action, waiting for the power to resume. It didn’t.

“Time for the candles,” said Rachel, suppressing a surge of
panic. Was the heat somehow related to electricity? Would the thermostat stop
functioning, leaving them chilled to the bone? And what about the water pipes?
Would they freeze, then break? Rachel chattered with the lightheartedness of a
drunken sailor to deflect any anxiety Scott might feel.

Balancing a variety of tapers from holidays past—red, green,
brown, orange—she placed them in key spots around the room. “The one thing they
never tell you about having candles on hand for blackouts. If you’re in the
dark, how do find your candles?” she was joking when a knock came at the door.

“Probably the old lady down the hall,” said Sharon. “She’s
alone and may not have candles. Or just wants company.”

Rachel scooted to the door, candle in hand. She opened it to
find Jim shaking snow from his hat and jacket. Dumbfounded, she failed to think
of one reason for his presence and simply stood open-mouthed until a globule of
liquid wax dropped on her hand and made her gasp.

“May I come in?” Jim asked, now stripping off his gloves and
unwinding a muffler that must have been at least ten feet long from around his
neck. “It’s bitter cold outside. I’m already frozen just from walking the one
block from my place.”

She stepped away, shielding the flame from any waver of air,
and let him in.

“I started worrying about you and Scott in this storm. And
Sharon, too, of course,” he said. “I know it’s tapering off, but the radio’s
going on and on about stocking supplies and what to do in an emergency. I know
you don’t have family close by, and I thought you might need help. That’s what
friends do for friends. Looks like I was right, too. Your power’s out.”

The breath came and went in Rachel’s lungs faster and faster
as her irritation built. How dare he assume she needed help! After hemming and
hawing in the grocery store with another woman with whom he was quite obviously
on intimate terms. Was Rachel any less capable than that woman, Donna, who
exuded confidence and competence? But as she was ready to explode with a tirade
of objections and accusations, Sharon showed up at her side, giving her a small
poke in the ribs.

“Why, how nice, Jim. We are having some problems,” said
Sharon. “The electricity went out about twenty minutes ago. So we need help
consuming the enormous pot of lentil soup I just made.”

Sharon’s poke reminded Rachel of the advice from several
nights ago.
When you show you want him
and need him, he may give himself and you a chance.

Rachel took a deep breath and started slowly. “I’m surprised
to see you here.” She struggled mightily not to add to that statement with a
rude comment about
other friends
or
demands on your time.
“But grateful.
Yes, I was just worrying if the lack of power means the furnace will stop
working. Do you know?”

Jim frowned. “No, I don’t know. Sounds reasonable. But I’m
sure the city will make getting the juice back on a top priority, so let’s not
be concerned yet. More important, do you have food and water? Emergency lights?
Lots of blankets and sweaters?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. But thanks for asking.”

Sharon broke in, hospitable as a discount store greeter.
“Why not stay and have lunch with us? It’s certainly more comfortable than
braving the cold again.” She led the way into the dining room.

Jim surveyed the table that boasted homemade soup, crackers,
butter, inelegant and obviously homemade stoneware, and a bowl of fruit. The
flicker of warm yellow candlelight on the faces of Rachel, Scott and Sharon
created a stark contrast to sleet and snow outside the window. “Sure thing.
Thanks.”

Scott was a perfect host, badgering Jim with questions about
professional soccer teams as well as lecturing him on the nutritional value of
lentil and veggie soup, which he’d clearly absorbed from Rachel and Sharon, and
pointing out the earth-toned stoneware, created by his mother. He eased the
slight tension that existed between Rachel and Jim, and by the end of lunch,
everyone was relaxed, smiling and chatting. Sharon stepped to the window and
pushed back the blankets, revealing mounds of snow that covered the yards,
sidewalks and streets, obscured the parked vehicles, and bent tree limbs nearly
to the ground.

“Boy, we’re buried,” she said. She sounded thrilled, not
distressed.

Hands linked behind his head, Jim asked, “How’s the snow
shoveling for the building? Although the scene is so pristine and beautiful, I
almost hate to ruin it. It would make a wonderful painting—all white and
blurry.”

“Kind of nice to be isolated like this. Nature-bound,” said
Rachel.

Jim nodded in agreement. “Practicalities must be addressed,
though. Safety. Do they do a good job with the sidewalks?”

“Afraid not,” said Rachel. “The manager doesn’t live on
site, and with this weather, he may not even be able to make it here.”

Jim straightened. “Can you get to the shovels?”

“Sure. They’re in the closet under the stairs.”

“What do you say, pal?” Jim turned to Scott. “Shall we give
the manager and your family a hand? And work off some of the calories from
lunch?”

With this suggestion, all four wound up outside, although
they spent more time tossing snowballs and running and screaming from one
another than shoveling the white stuff. As dark descended and the quartet
returned to the dark apartment, they quieted. Sharon flicked on a handy
flashlight and began lighting a few candles.

“Looks like the power’s still off,” said Jim.

“Yes, and so’s the heat,” Rachel said. “Brrr. We should
leave our coats on.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Jim said slowly. “You really should
get out of here and spend the night somewhere with a functioning furnace. Why
don’t we all head over to my place? I have electricity, at least I did when I
left, and we can heat up some frozen pizzas for dinner. As for beds, it’s a
little primitive, but I have several air mattresses you can use.”

“We couldn’t possibly—” Rachel began.

Sharon dug an elbow in Rachel’s ribs. “That’s a great idea,’
she said. “Good that you’re only—what?—a block away? Thanks for the offer.
We’ll go pack some necessities.”

As the sisters headed toward their bedrooms, Rachel hissed
at Sharon. “What’s the idea?”

“You’re right—he’s a great guy. I’m giving you two an
opportunity to be together more.”

Lugging only one backpack or tote each, the three Kinseys
joined Jim for a short but extremely difficult walk to his place. So deep and
wet was the snow that it formed enormous pads around their boots, forcing them
to pull up and push down as if traversing wet cement. The block took
twenty-five minutes to cover.

They reached the entry to his apartment house and paused
between the iron railings on the top level of the stoop to brush snow off their
heads, shoulders and boots.

“I still have juice,” said Jim, pointing up toward the porch
light that turned their surroundings into a glistening spectacle of snow and
ice.

“Juice?” called Scott from the sidewalk where he still was
decimating snowbanks by lying down and making snow angels. “I could use some.
Or better yet, hot chocolate.”

“Hey-ya, kid.” A slurred voice came from a bulky figure
lumbering from side to side on the walkway. “Ya need help?”

Jim’s stiffening body warned Rachel that the individual was
neither a familiar figure nor one who might be of assistance. She immediately
called, “No, thanks. He’s fine. We’re fine.”

The figure bent over Scott and proffered a mittened hand.
“Here ya go. Upsa-daisy.” Without waiting for Scott to respond, he grabbed Scott’s
arm and hauled up. Scott popped out of his burrow and flew across the sidewalk
to land in the bushes by the stoop.

“Now just a minute!” said Rachel as she scurried down the
stairs to her son’s side. “I told you he didn’t need help.”

The figure turned toward Rachel, and she stepped back in an
anxious yet protective mode. She now saw the individual topped over six feet
and carried hefty poundage in proportion to his height. His layers of clothing
added to his bulk, but strangely his coat was unbuttoned all the way down,
exposing throat and chest to frigid air. Evidently he was impervious to the
weather, protected, as it seemed, by fumes of alcohol that swirled around him.

“Lady, I
said
I’d
hep, hep, helllp him, and I will. Get the hell away from us.”

Rachel screwed up her courage. “I’m his mother, and I say he
doesn’t need or want your help.”

“Ain’t this a blizzard?” the man asked, swaying back and
forth, like an upside-down pendulum. “Ain’t we all neighbors?”

“Now just a minute,” Jim called as he galumphed down the
stairs, flapping scarf nearly tripping him. “The lady said she doesn’t need
your help. Just be on your way.”

“I inshist,” responded the man. “I absolute-ally inshist.”

Jim plowed to a stop next to Rachel. “And I insist you move
it. Go home or back to the bar or wherever. Just not here.” He crossed his arms
over his chest, making himself look even more muscular than he really was, and
assumed that expression donned by men down the centuries when they were
protecting their territory, whether geographic or familial. Unfortunately the
interloper mimicked the stance, albeit with a distinct tilt.

Fearing an eruption of violence in which Jim would be the
loser, for the stranger clearly would feel no pain from whacks and punches in
his inebriated state, Rachel threw a look of appeal toward her sister. Sharon
burst into song—a loud and off-key rendition of “Let It Snow”—as she slid down
the stairs and between the stranger and Jim. Her instincts were good. The
stranger joined in, slinging an arm around Sharon’s shoulder. Then Rachel
merged her voice, then Scott scrambled out of the bushes to sing, and finally
Jim loosened up enough to drone a phrase or two. The blizzard was losing its
blast, and snowflakes few but steady glittered and swirled in the air around
the impromptu choir.

As the group repeated the chorus for the third time, Sharon
removed the man’s arm from her shoulder and converted the motion to a
handshake. “Thanks so much for your help,” she said. “We’re all fine, thanks to
you. Now you hurry on to a warm place.” She gave his arm a pat along with a
slight push to start him off. “Goodbye,” she said when he began to move.

“Goodbye,” “So long,” “Thanks,” “Good luck,” came from the
rest of the group. The man turned around to wave, the hugest smile lighting up
his face, before he trudged off.