By midmorning the snow had arrived, drifting down in big, soft flakes that hugged the lawn, the streets and the rhododendron bushes in front of the house. His new neighbor would probably be getting out of school early.
“Walking in the snow in that boot will be awful,” Carol whispered.
“She’ll get a ride,” Stanley said.
What if she doesn’t?
“Oh, for crying out loud,” he muttered and looked up the number for the school.
Early dismissal at noon. He left a message for her at the school office that he’d be coming to get her and the kid. Come noon he was waiting for them.
The kid spotted him first and raced up, slipping and sliding as he went, his backpack bouncing. He yanked open the rear door and jumped onto the back seat. “It’s snowing!”
“Yeah, it is,” Stanley agreed, not feeling the same enthusiasm.
“My teacher said we should all go home and make a snowman. I want to make a snowman. Will you help me?”
“There’s not enough snow for one,” Stanley said. If this kept up it wouldn’t be long until there was, but he kept that information to himself.
“When there is?” Brock persisted.
“I got stuff to do,” Stanley informed him. He had to finish his book.
He checked his rearview mirror to see how the kid was taking this. He’d fallen back against the seat and was looking like Stanley had announced the end of the world. Too bad. Stanley wasn’t going to freeze his ass off making a stupid snowman. Bad enough that he’d be out shoveling the white stuff the next morning.
Lexie had reached them now and settled into the front next to Stanley. “Oh, my gosh, you are a lifesaver. My friend offered to drive us home, but since she doesn’t like driving in the snow, I was planning to walk to save her the extra distance.”
“In that thing?” Stanley said, motioning to her booted foot. “You don’t want to do that.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Thank you.”
“No problem,” he said. Just a pain in the butt.
Happily, she didn’t ask about Carol, and the conversation on the way back was mainly between her and the kid, who was still carrying on about making a snowman.
“I think we’ll need a little more snow on the ground, Brockie. Let’s wait till tomorrow. Will it stay?” she asked Stanley.
“Probably for a day or two. It never lasts long.”
Although it would be fine with him if it did. He was stocked up on food, and he could hole up with his book and his TV cop shows. The world would settle under a blanket of quiet, and nobody would bug him. Well, once he had the walkways shoveled.
That evening, on his way to the kitchen to heat up some canned clam chowder, he glanced out the dining-room window and saw Lexie Bell’s Christmas lights reflecting onto the snowy roof. He had to admit, there was something about holiday lights on a quiet winter’s night that lulled you into thinking all was well with the world. Carol would have been at the window, enjoying the sight.
Carol. A familiar sadness fell over him, and suddenly the sight wasn’t enjoyable. He heated up the chowder, then ate it right from the pan as he watched the news on TV. Things were never well in the world, and snow and colored lights couldn’t change that.
“You can still make things well in your world,” Carol whispered as he fell deeper into sleep later that night. Yeah, that was Carol. The glass was always half-full.
But for Stanley the glass had broken the day she died.
Early the next morning he groaned as he walked out with his snow shovel, Dog watching from the safety of the garage. There had to be six inches of the stuff. By the time he got done with his neighbors he wouldn’t have any energy left for his own front walk.
So what? He didn’t need to shovel his. He wasn’t expecting company, and he sure wasn’t going anywhere.
Anyway, two front walks were enough. “I’ll probably have a heart attack,” he grumbled.
Although maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Then he could die and be with Carol.
Oh, boy, she’d be pissed if she heard him say that. Best not to even think it.
I should move to a condominium, he thought. Or the Caribbean. No snow-shoveling needed there.
Mrs. Gimble came to her front door as he was moving the last shovelful of the stuff from her walk. She wore slacks and a blouse with a cardigan that she was pulling across her chest for warmth.
“Stanley, you are a dear,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” he told her. “I need the exercise.” According to Carol, anyway.
“I won’t need the walk cleared for myself, of course,” she said. “I’m not poking my nose out the door until this stuff is all gone.”
A good idea. Mrs. Gimble was now a little stick of a woman. If she slipped and fell, those twig legs of hers would snap like dry kindling.
“Of course, my Meals on Wheels lady will appreciate being able to get to the door. That is, if you wouldn’t mind shoveling the front steps while you’re at it.”
Like he had a choice? “Sure,” he said and got to it. There weren’t that many stairs, anyway.
With Mrs. Gimble taken care of he turned his attention to the pest on the other side. He’d get her taken care of, then he could go in and... What did he have to do today? Work a sudoku puzzle, check his investments online. Try and find something on the sports channel, eat a solitary lunch. His usual routine.
He frowned. Carol and her lecture about life being like a savings account—she of all people should know how little he cared about what he had in savings now that she was gone. He had no purpose, no life. No one needed him.
Dog was waiting by the garage door and wagged her tail and barked as he trudged past, on his way to take care of House Number Two. Well, okay. Someone needed him. At least for a little while.
* * *
Lexie was relieved that school was canceled. She sure hadn’t wanted to walk to work, but the idea of riding with Shannon had made her anxious. The thought of Shannon even driving herself anywhere was not a good one, and Lexie was glad they could both stay safe at home. Shannon had made it safely to her place the day before but confessed to having almost collided with another sliding car before she safely slipped into her own driveway. She’d laughed about the adventure, but it had sounded hair-raising to Lexie.
Getting to enjoy the pretty, white stuff here in her neighborhood was a treat, though. A snow day will be fun, she thought, as she took a picture to text to her cousins in California. She and Brock could bake cookies, and he could try his hand at making that snowman he’d been talking about ever since he’d seen the first flakes.
She only wished she could show him how. This was his first year with snow, and she hated that she couldn’t get out and enjoy it with him. She’d bought boots for both of them, but while his would fit great, hers would be useless.
“Breakfast,” she called as she set Brock’s bowl of oatmeal on the kitchen eating bar.
“Grandpa Stanley’s outside,” he cried as he raced over from the living-room window. He climbed onto a bar stool. “Can I go outside and help him?”
“May I go outside and help him?”
“May I?”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s shoveling.”
Shoveling. Lexie hurried to the window and looked out. Sure enough, there was Mr. Mann, working away, removing snow from their front walk. He was too old for that sort of thing. He’d have a heart attack.
She clomped out onto the front porch. “Mr. Mann, what are you doing?” she called.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he called back, irritated.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“If I don’t, who’s going to?”
Not her. Not only was she on the injured list, she also hadn’t thought to buy
a snow shovel. Stupid.
“I’ll get it done,” she called. Surely she could find someone to hire. “Please don’t go to all that trouble.”
He kept shoveling. “Too late now. I’m half-through.”
Brock was back. “I’m done with breakfast. Can I... May I go out and help Grandpa Stanley now?”
“I don’t think he needs any help, Brockie.” She wasn’t sure he’d appreciate the company, either.
“Then, I’ll watch.”
“You can watch, but don’t bother him,” Lexie said. “Okay?”
Brock nodded eagerly.
“All right, then, let’s get you dressed.”
Brock ran for the stairs with a whoop, and Lexie followed, her gait uneven and clunky. Stupid boot. Stupid ankle.
At least she wasn’t in a cast, she reminded herself. It could be worse. Things could always be worse.
Brock rushed through getting dressed and could barely stand still long enough for his toothbrush to finish its allotted two-minute brushing time. At last he was ready to go, racing down the stairs.
He danced from one foot to the other as she got him into his coat and hat and boots and tied on his muffler. He took his mittens and ran out the door and down the steps hollering, “Hi, Grandpa Stanley.”
Mr. Mann didn’t say anything, just acknowledged his presence with a nod and kept shoveling. Brock was going to drive him nuts.
“Brockie, see if you can make a snowman,” she called from the front door. That would give him something to do besides bother their neighbor.
“Okay,” Brock called back cheerfully and informed Mr. Mann, “I’m going to make a snowman.”
Mr. Mann grunted something. It might have been Good. Or he might have been swearing under his breath.
It was obvious he wasn’t wild about children. Happily, Brock was oblivious. He bounded into the middle of the yard, scooped up a handful of snow and sent it flying skyward. Then he knelt down and began pushing it around, a little human bulldozer.
Lexie had never made a snowman. Her parents had been warm-weather people, beach lovers. It hadn’t occurred to them to take her someplace where there was snow, and it hadn’t occurred to her to ask. She’d been happy enough with the beach, with weekends and vacations spent at her aunt and uncle’s place in Santa Monica, hanging with her cousins, enjoying bodysurfing and bonfires and boys. Now that she was in the Northwest, though, she intended to learn how to cross-country ski. And make snowmen.
With her son happily playing in the snow, Lexie retreated back inside where it was warm. She’d watch from the window.
She took a picture of him, texted it to her mom and then settled on the couch where she could keep an eye on her son and started checking out craft ideas online. Oooh, she could make bottle-brush trees. How cute would those be sitting on her counter? And how cute was this reindeer treat jar? She could make it with Brock. All she’d need would be pipe cleaners, googly eyes and pom-poms.
She looked out the window to make sure he was still safe in the front yard and not bothering Mr. Mann. All was well out there. She returned her attention to her cell phone. Tea-light snowmen. How adorable!
* * *
The kid was jabbering away. Stanley tuned him out. Thank God he was almost done with the front walk. He was sweating like a gym rat on a treadmill. As soon as he got back in the house he was going to grab some coffee and his book and not move. Well, after he made sure Dog did her thing.
Dog. Why hadn’t anybody called him about the animal?
He gave his shovel one final push and dumped the load of snow on the lawn. Okay, mission accomplished.
As he turned to walk back to his house the Bell kid appeared in his line of vision. He’d plopped down in the snow in front of a small mound and was crying. Oh, good grief. What was the kid’s problem?
Stanley walked over to where the boy sat. “What’s wrong?”
“My snowman,” the boy wailed.
“That’s a snowman, huh?”
“I can’t make him right.”
There was an understatement. “Don’t you know how to make a snowman?” Everyone knew how to make a snowman, for crying out loud.
The kid looked up at him, his mouth trembling, tears leaking out of his eyes, and shook his head.
“Did you ever make a snowman?”
Another shake of the head. “We never had snow where I lived.” The words came out as a whimper.
Stanley remembered crying over a snowman once, too. He’d been a little older than this kid. His dad had gotten another job, and they’d moved to a new house in a new neighborhood that came complete with a neighborhood bully. The kid had knocked Stanley’s snowman down and stomped it to death. It had been a crushing blow to see his work of art reduced to nothing but broken mounds and a carrot.
His old man came home from work at his new job and, after hearing about what had happened, had gone out with Stanley and helped him build a bigger, better one. He’d also given Stanley a few pointers in the manly art of boxing that served him well the next time the bully came around.
Who was showing this boy how to build snowmen and take on bullies?
Stanley laid his shovel aside. “Here, kid. You’re going about it all wrong. You got to start with a ball and then roll it and make it bigger. Look.”
He demonstrated. Hmm. Bending over wasn’t quite so easy when you’d grown a gut.
He stood up. “Now, you keep rolling that around until it gets real big. That’ll be his bottom.”
“Okay,” Brock said eagerly.
The eagerness didn’t last, and kid was ready to quit way too soon.
“No, no. You gotta make his snow butt bigger,” Stanley said.
“Snow butt,” the boy repeated and burst into giggles.
Rolling such a big snow butt turned out to be a challenge, so Stanley helped him.
“Okay, there you go,” he said when they were done. “Now we make his middle.”
So it was back to rolling another ball of snow around the yard and then picking up some snow from Stanley’s yard because it was fresh and untrammeled and why not.
“My mommy doesn’t know how to make snowmen,” Brock confided.
“I guess we’ll have to teach her,” Stanley said. “My dad taught me how to make snowmen.”
“I wish I had a daddy,” Brock confided. “Mommy says that sometimes things don’t work out with daddies.”
Not even an ex in the picture. Good grief, this younger generation, Stanley thought, forgetting he grew up in the era of drugs, sex and rock and roll.
“My mommy teaches kindergarten,” Brock went on. “I’m not in kindergarten now. I’m in first grade. My classroom is next to Mommy’s. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Beeber. She has white hair like you.”
“That means she’s wise,” Stanley said.
Brock considered this and nodded. “She’s very smart. Like you.”
Smart. Stanley smiled.
“Okay, this is big enough for his middle,” he decided. “Let’s put it on and see how he looks.”
“Wow!” cried Brock as Stanley settled the second ball on the snowman. “Our snowman is really big.”
“Yep. Nobody’s gonna knock this guy over,” Stanley said. “Now we just have to make his head.”
Brock was dancing up and down by the time they settled the head in place.
“Arms,” Stanley said and made his way over to the maple tree, the boy by his side. He broke off a couple of small branches. “These should work.”
They did indeed. Old Frosty was coming to life.
“He needs a face,” Stanley said, stepping back to admire their handiwork.
“How will we do that?”
“Well, you can use a carrot for his nose.”
As if on cue, the kid’s mom came out on the front porch.
“Mommy, we need a carrot,” Brock cried, running up to her.
“And a scarf,” Stanley called. “And you got any prunes?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Prunes?”
Of course, the young had no need of prunes. “Never mind. I’ll get some,” he said and hurried back to his house.
Dog was dancing at the kitchen door when he went in, happy to see him. “You want to come see the snowman?” he asked the dog.
The bark and the tail wag looked like a yes.
Stanley grabbed a box of prunes. “Okay, come on, then.”
Back outside they went, the dog bounding along, leaping as high as possible in an effort to clear the snow. Brock was already waiting, carrot and scarf in hand, his mom watching from the porch huddled inside a coat.
“So, we put the nose in the middle of the face,” Stanley said, lifting the boy up so he could have the honors. “Then the eyes. Here you go.”
Two prunes served as eyes, and six more made a smile. They wrapped the scarf around the snowman’s neck, and that was that.
Lexie already had her phone poised. “Let me get a picture.”
So Stanley and Brock stood by the snowman. Brock caught hold of Stanley’s hand. Nobody had held his hand since Carol had died. It felt strangely comforting.
“That’s perfect,” she said happily.
Brock beamed up at Stanley. “Thank you, Grandpa.”
“You did good,” Stanley said and left it at that. “Now, get inside before you turn into a Popsicle.”
“I can’t turn into a Popsicle,” Brock said with a giggle. “I’m a boy.”
“And I’m an old man, and this cold is getting into my bones.”
Stanley picked up his shovel, called Dog to come and walked back across the yards to his garage. He didn’t realize it until he’d put away the shovel and gotten back inside the house: he was smiling.
He reined it in. He’d probably live to regret his good deed. Now the kid would really be a pest.
Sure enough, that afternoon his doorbell began ringing. Incessantly. And there was the kid again, this time with a plate of cookies cut in the shape of trees, frosted with green frosting and smothered in sprinkles.
A Little Christmas Spirit Page 12