Baby It's Cold Outside

by Susan May Warren

  “Alex told me once that I looked beautiful with grease on my face.”

  “I’m sure Alex was right. But Alex isn’t here, is he?”

  Violet made a face. “I’m talking about him too much, aren’t I?”

  Dottie nodded.

  “It’s just that Jake is so easy to talk to. There’s something about him that makes me feel like I know him. And, it’s so strange—I actually had this crazy hope that someday Alex and I would dance together. I might have even told him that, once. And, I invited him to the Frost ball this year.” She shook her head then frowned. “You don’t think Alex told Jake about that, do you?”

  “What kind of man would Alex be if he told Jake your secrets?” Dottie shook her head. “I’m sure it’s simply providence.” She took Violet’s hand, and Violet saw something in her eyes—distant, yet familiar.

  A younger version of Dottie, back when the storyteller believed in happy endings. “What was it that you told me? That Christmas hadn’t given up on me? Maybe it hasn’t given up on any of us.” She squeezed Violet’s hand. “Give me that broom. And go find some candles. It’s getting dark outside.”

  * * * * *

  The nostalgia of the candlelit parlor had gone straight to Gordy’s head, as if some other hazy past that he hadn’t lived crept forward to lasso him, drag him back to a snowy winter night. In that past, Nelson was curled up against him, Dottie crocheting on the sofa. The fire crackled in the hearth, and outside the blizzard tremored the house.

  Sometimes when Gordy sat at his house, watching Dottie’s light, he dreamed of this image—Nelson between them, a silence that felt comforting and not at all stiff.

  Gordy’s leg had long ago fallen asleep where Arnie braced his head on it. The boy had finally stopped shivering, and now a fine line of sweat glistened on his brow. They’d shut off the doors to the rest of the house, and the room had cooked to a toasty warm. He’d have to stay awake and tend the fire. Now, Jake sat near it, poking the blaze.

  Poor guy had too many lies piling up against him to sit still, frustration playing over his face.

  If he’d been Jake, Gordy would have found a soft mound of hay in the barn to wait out the storm.

  Arnie shuddered in his sleep, as if he might be dreaming.

  “He had a rough day,” Dottie said, looking up from her crocheting.

  “I still can’t believe he found the barn in that storm.”

  “His mother must be frantic.”

  He ran his hand over the boy’s hair. “I heard him mumbling in his sleep. I think he said something about Flash Gordon.”

  Dottie shook her head, gave a chuckle.

  “You’re thinking about Jack Armstrong, All American Boy, aren’t you?”

  She met his eyes, an enigmatic look on her face. Yes, Dottie, I knew him too. Finally, she nodded. “Nelson would sing the theme song when he did his chores.”

  “Didn’t he send away for wings?”

  “Oh, those were from Captain Hawks Sky Patrol. For three box tops from Post Bran Flakes, he could earn gold wings. He dog-eared the pilot’s manual.”

  “Didn’t he get a model airplane kit too?”

  “Yes. Thirteen more box tops for the balsa wood model kit of a Pan American Airways China Clipper. It’s all he ate for an entire summer—bran flakes.”

  “He had quite the imagination. I’d find him over at my house, hiding out from bandits or German soldiers or some other villains.”

  “It was those shows—The FBI in Peace and War, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Fibber McGee and Molly—they put adventure into his head.”

  He gave her a look. “Dottie. Hardly. You put adventure into his head. You filled his life with stories—not just from books, but the ones you told him about his grandfather. And even your travels. And, he was the son of the woman who couldn’t wait to leave Frost and see the world.”

  She stilled, drew in a breath. “Are you saying his desire to go to war is my fault?”

  Oh no, he hadn’t meant it as an insult, or even to tear open old wounds. He kept his voice calm despite the panic that wanted to choke him. “No, of course not.”

  “I’m not the one who taught him how to shoot, or let him listen to those bloodthirsty Joe Lewis fights—”

  “Dottie, please, that’s not what I meant.”

  Her jaw tightened, and she looked away from him, back to her crocheting. She might stab herself if she didn’t slow down.

  Gordy watched the fire flickering, the silence turning to fingers that clawed into his chest and squeezed. Jake glanced at him from the corner of his eyes.

  Certainly Dottie would have to forgive him sometime, right?

  On his lap, Arnie sighed then rolled over. Probably Gordy should restock the woodbin for the night.

  He glanced at Dottie again. She wouldn’t look at him.

  “I just meant that it takes a hero to raise one,” he finally said. Then he got up, setting Arnie on the sofa. “C’mon, Jake. We need to fetch more wood.”

  Jake followed him out to the back room. Without the heat from the house, ice filmed the inside of the windows, snow seeping under the sill of the door. The little room shook with the fury of the wind.

  They’d used most of the stack he’d hauled in this morning, and they wouldn’t survive on what remained.

  “Bundle up,” he said, tossing Jake a muffler. Jake wound it around his head, grabbed an old hat from the shelf. Gordy recognized it as Nelson’s wool work hat but didn’t say anything.

  Pulling on a pair of gloves and his boots, he glanced at Jake. “Stay right behind me.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  Gordy held up a hand, as if in surrender. “I don’t want to blow away either. Besides, it’s dark out there.”

  Although, when he wrenched open the door, the force of the wind nearly careened him back into Jake. “There are exactly twenty-four steps to the barn!” he hollered as he pulled up his collar and dove out into the blizzard.

  The night soaked into his eyes, the snow burning them, the wind stealing his breath. He fought for each step, calculating the distance. Why hadn’t he run a guide wire to her house from the barn? He should have. Now, with the wrong steps, they could veer wide of the barn, end up in a field, frozen stiff.

  The wind chapped his skin, piled snow into his collar. Gordy couldn’t tell if it was still snowing or just blowing. At any rate, the wrath of the wind stirred up the drifts, like waves against the house, the barn. They might have to dig their way out in the morning.

  He could barely make out Jake when he glanced behind him. Good thing the man ran smack into him when they reached the barn.

  Gordy opened the door and made to reach for the light when he remembered the electricity had gone out. Jake shuffled in behind him, breathing funny, as Gordy went in search of a lantern. He knew this barn nearly as well as his own, and found it in the utility room. Taking off his glove, he searched for the little box of matches and lit one.

  The fire illuminated the lantern, and he lit the wick then turned it up.

  Jake was standing by the doorway, doing his funny breathing.

  “You okay?”

  He shook his head and pulled out one of those asthma cigarettes, his hands shaking as he stuck it between his lips, fumbling in his pockets.

  Gordy handed him the matches.

  Jake lit it, leaning against the door, eyes closed, drawing the smoke in.

  Gordy took the lantern, went over to check on Ollie. The farm horse seemed to be surviving the storm, although his water had a sheen of ice over it. Gordy chipped it out then added grain to the feeder.

  Jake had come up to join him, folding his arms over the top of the stall door.

  “Better?”

  “I used to have a horse. My father bought it for me, thought it would be good for me to learn to ride. An Arabian—beautiful animal. I was about nine years old.”

  Gordy threw a blanket over the horse, buckling it under its girth.

  “He threw
me and I broke my arm, and my mother made him sell it.”

  “That’s part of learning to ride.”

  “I know. But my mother was overprotective after my brother died. No one could blame her.”

  Gordy backed out of the stall, closed the door.

  Jake followed him to the woodpile.

  “I saw the scar. Is that from the war?”

  “Yeah. I picked up some shrapnel and then my lung collapsed. It only made things worse when I picked up pneumonia. I lay there in the hospital, unable to breathe, feeling as if a horse lay on my chest, day after day, listening to the moaning around me. It dug into my soul. Now, I stand near a draft, it nearly takes me out for a week. These seem to help keep my lungs clear.”

  “They ship you home?”

  “Not for that.” He threw down the cigarette, ground it into the soil of the barn. “No, I came home because…I lost myself out there.” He stared at the crushed cigarette.

  Gordy read his face, saw in it something he’d always worried about for Nelson. That the boy would return broken in his head, his heart. In his spirit. “Battle fatigue is nothing to be ashamed of. I saw it happen to the best of soldiers.” He began to load Jake up with logs.

  “You served?”

  “The great war, just one year. I didn’t see any action, but I knew some of the guys in town who did. They came back different.”

  There was a cord of long-burning oak on the bottom, and he wriggled some logs out.

  “I was ashamed of myself.” Jake grunted as Gordy added another log.

  “Your friend Alex didn’t seem to be ashamed of you, or why would he pretend to be you?”

  “I’m sure he left out that part.”

  “But you really don’t know how much Alex told her.”

  “How’s it going to sound? My telling her that everything Alex told her was really about me? That he wasn’t a hero. If I were her, I wouldn’t know who to believe.”

  “Then don’t tell her anything.” Gordy loaded the last of the logs in his arm. He’d need one hand free for the lantern. They’d have to come back for another load. “The way the storm is blowing out there, we just may be trapped here another day. The way I figure it, you have a day to show her who you really are. Forget about Alex. Be Jake.”

  “I thought you said I needed to tell her the truth?”

  “That is the truth. Don’t tell her, show her. She’ll figure out the real you.”

  Jake shook his head. “What if I haven’t figured out who the real me is yet?”

  Gordy stared at him. Then he grabbed the lantern and kicked open the door. “One step at a time. Stay behind me and don’t lose sight of the light.”

  * * * * *

  When last we checked in with our intrepid interplanetary hero, Flash Gordon, internationally renowned American athlete, he was on his way to rescue his beautiful sweetheart Dale Arden when he and his cohort, scientist Dr. Zarkov, crashed on the planet Mongo. Fleeing the terrible Emperor Ming the Merciless, he met up with Thun, Prince of the Lionmen, who joined the band of rescuers to journey through the terrible icy land of Frigia. With the winds thrashing him, he managed to find the snow cave and hide inside while the terrible ice bear of Frigia stalked him. Unknowingly, he’d stumbled into the lair of the hated ice-queen, Fria, who took him captive.

  Enduring excruciating torture at the hands of the Hawkmen, Flash resisted their attempts to break him, to surrender the location of his companions.

  Now, he lay, resting in the dungeons of Fria, the lava fires of the mountain of Blizzaro raging deep within. Caught within his bounds, he dreamed of Dale, and his Doctor Zarkov.

  They’d pushed Arnie’s cold feet into ice water, and a thousand knives serrated his flesh. He hated the whimpers that emerged from him, and the way he’d cried into the big man’s chest.

  Flash, I am here to save you!

  Hark, it was the voice of Princess Aura, drifting down some vast corridor. Deeply in love with Flash, the Princess vowed to keep him in her clutches.

  Suddenly, Prince Thun appeared, working at his bonds.

  Flash, art thou all right?

  Flash is thrilled to see his Lionman friend. I am wounded, but must find my beloved Dale. Hurry.

  You are almost freed, Flash. Let me untie thy bonds.

  Flash pushes himself to his feet, despite his wounds, feeling new strength.

  In his mind, Arnie saw himself springing away from the hands that held him, venturing back out into the cold. Run!

  Thun turns around at the sound of soldiers’ feet. Hark, I hear Queen Fria’s guard. Run, Flash! You must run.

  Flash sprints down the corridors of the great halls, but each leads to an icy dead end. Turning, he faces his captors, the soldiers of Queen Fria. The smaller one, with the ice-blue eyes, chases him, and despite Flash’s mighty strength, captures him first, around the chest. He thrashes in his grip, and the soldier is aided by the wide hairy man of the ice-bear tribe. He captures his legs with a terrible laugh.

  “I have him, O Queen!”

  Flash closes his eyes against the image of the wicked Queen Fria, her icy hair like serpents around her head.

  No, no you will not take me!

  Arnie shifted in the arms of his captor, letting the fire in the hearth heat him. His lungs burned, and his stomach roared, but fatigue kept him from complaining. They lead Flash away, back to the dungeons, but he will never quit searching for his beloved Dale.

  And yet, he cannot resist their powers as they feed him the queen’s elixir of great slumber.

  “Arnie, how about some more soup?”

  Arms lifted him upright, and he allowed the heat to find his belly, soothe it.

  He’d sleep a little, and then, when they weren’t watching, he’d sneak away and escape.

  What is happening in the icy chambers of Queen Fria, buried five thousand feet below Planet Mongo’s icy crust? Will he awaken to rescue his beloved Dale? What exciting experiences await our friends? Stay tuned for the continuation of the Amazing Interplanetary Adventures of Flash Gordon!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Saturday, December 24

  The way I figure it, you have a day to show her who you really are. Forget about Alex. Be Jake.

  The words rumbled around in Jake’s head all night, shifting with the wind. He finally told Gordy that he’d tend the fire. It didn’t do either of them any good to sit and brood in front of the crackling frames while the blizzard voiced the howl inside him.

  Jake had finally fallen asleep in front of the hearth, as he might have as a child. When he awoke, the flames had settled in a bed of glaring coals. The morning streamed in the windows, lighter, although the wind still buffeted the panes, rattling them as if trying to break in.

  Jake stirred the coals with the poker then added the last of the logs. Be Jake.

  He could murder Alex for writing all those pieces of his life to Violet, but in truth, wouldn’t he have made up a life for himself, if he could? Replace all the dark places with something bold and heroic? Alex had grown up sleeping on a cot in his mother’s tiny room in the Ramseys’ attic. He’d had no father, a legacy of poverty. He’d been the servant.

  No, Jake didn’t blame him for wanting to be the owner’s son.

  He’d bet, however, that Alex never mentioned the asthma that sidelined Jake most of his childhood.

  Stop worrying about the guy you aren’t, and be the guy you are. Gordy’s words edged into his mind.

  The man should hardly be giving out romance advice when it had taken him twenty-seven years to tell the woman across the street that he loved her.

  Yesterday had felt downright agonizing, watching Dottie and Gordy long for more. Poor Gordy—he just didn’t know how to woo her.

  Or maybe…maybe the farmer had been doing it for years. It didn’t go unnoticed with Jake that Gordy seemed to know Dottie’s house and her barn better than she did. And, from the way they talked, he’d spent as much time with Nelson as she did.

  Dottie
and Gordy shared him, each clinging in their own way to him. And now, with his absence, they just didn’t know how to bridge the gulf.

  Maybe, despite his own failures, Gordy had a point.

  Perhaps, today, he’d simply be Jake. Without a past. Without a future.

  Just, Jake. And if he could woo Violet just a little, she might forgive him for his lies.

  He heard banging in the kitchen and looked up. Dottie, probably, because she’d vacated the velvet sofa. Gordy had made a bed on the floor, near the radio, making another bed close by for Arnie. Violet had curled up on the chaise lounge.

  A chill brushed the air. They needed a hotter fire to leverage warmth back into the room.

  Perhaps he should stop worrying about being anyone—himself or Alex—and just focus on surviving. He got up to fetch more wood.

  As he entered the kitchen, an acrid odor tinged the air. It smelled of burning sugar, reminded him of Svetlana’s old-fashioned homemade candy. Maybe Dottie—

  No. Violet stood at the stove, stirring a sugary syrup that foamed up around the pan and spilled onto the stovetop. He reached around her, turned down the heat.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “I found a jar of peaches and some dried apples. I thought I’d heat them up, make a compote.” She glanced up at him. “You made breakfast yesterday. I thought it was my turn.”

  Oh, she was pretty. Those violet-gray eyes, that dark chocolate hair. She’d left it down again today, and he resisted the urge to push it back from her face. Instead he placed his hand over hers, stirring. “You want to keep the heat on low because sugar boils quickly. I think I saw some dried cranberries too.”

  But he didn’t let go, just kept stirring. She could fit perfectly into his arms if she only took one step closer. Or perhaps he should just tuck his arm around her.

  And then what? Kiss her? He could imagine that she might taste of coffee, her cup half full on the counter. She might kiss him back too, molding herself into his embrace. He’d lose himself in the smell of her….