A Kiss in Winter

by Susan Crandall

  As if conjured by his thoughts, Caroline appeared as she stepped away from the crowd at the sidelines of the field. And against his will, that sense of promise fluttered back to life in his chest. She turned the long lens of her camera toward the crowd. He held the fleeting thought that fate would step in and her viewfinder would automatically be drawn to him. She would see him and smile.

  Foolishness.

  For a couple of days after his confession, he’d been aware of every car that went down his road, jumped each time the telephone rang. But Caroline hadn’t returned with an understanding and sympathetic smile on her face. She hadn’t called to reopen the door that she’d slammed shut when she’d left.

  Impossible as it seemed, he missed her. In the few hours they’d shared, she’d brightened his day, lightened his spirit, educated him with her intelligent understanding of agriculture.

  And, as shitty of a psychiatrist as he was, he recognized what he’d done to himself. He’d seen a promise of more and he’d deliberately set out a roadblock to see if she’d climb over it.

  Caroline had been smart enough to see the flashers and turn around and go the other way.

  Just as well—for her.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched her work, unable to extinguish that last unrealistic glimmer of hope that maybe someday she’d approach that roadblock again and drive right through it.

  Debra Larsen disliked bridge, but loved the evenings with her friends. So when Janice had mentioned that her cousin would like to join a bridge group, Debra had jumped on the chance to make a change. They’d been playing together since Mick was in diapers and she didn’t want to quit. Janice’s cousin would take her place; Debra would continue as their “mascot.” She even offered to host every time. It turned out to be the best of both worlds; keeping the friends, losing the frustration of playing a game that required more attention than she was willing to give.

  Tonight, she sat with her feet curled under her in an easy chair, lost in her own thoughts as the rest of the group played the last hand of the evening.

  Gnawing on her thumbnail, she chased her mind in endless circles. No matter how she sliced or diced it—prodded or pleaded, employed reverse psychology or rational argument—Charles would cut out his own tongue before he made the first step toward reconciliation with Mick. She knew it was eating at him, although he’d never admit it, even under torture. He tossed and turned in his sleep and there was a new edge to his cantankerousness, as if it had been sharpened by his frustration until it slashed all those around him like a razor on a whip. Judging by the tuck beneath his belt in the back of his pants, he’d lost weight.

  She heard his footsteps upstairs. Sounded like pacing. She pictured him up in his study, his hair on end where he’d run his hands through it, his face growing older by the minute. Family unrest had a way of wearing a person down to the marrow of their bones—she could attest to that firsthand.

  “Right, Deb?”

  “Um, what? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.”

  “Marcy said we need to introduce her niece to Mick,” Janice said. “You’re way behind the rest of us on the grandchild count, and you have the most children.”

  It was a topic that came up often in this group.

  Debra supposed it did look odd to the rest of the world—those who did not understand the Larsen discipline and drive—that out of three daughters and one son between the ages of forty-six and thirty-two she had only one grandchild. Sometimes she even had the horrible thought that Johanna had only had little Charlie as a sort of experiment in order to couple her pediatric knowledge with a little practical experience. Charles applauded the girls’ good sense for not “muddying up their careers with babies.” When he’d said it, Debra had been stunned speechless.

  She did love the stubborn, unbendable man—he was devoted to healing, accepting patients who would never in this lifetime be able to pay; he gave generously of his time to the community; she knew he loved her beyond reason—but dear God, sometimes she wondered how she’d made it forty-seven years without murdering him.

  She realized she wasn’t listening again.

  “… didn’t mean to offend—”

  “Don’t be silly!” Debra said. “I wasn’t offended… just woolgathering. Too much wine.” She tilted her empty glass and watched the ruby drop in the bottom swirl, spreading itself thin.

  “Speaking of which,” Marcy said, “we need to finish these off.” She picked up the bottles and began topping off everyone’s glasses.

  They always had wine at bridge—one bottle of red, one of white, with more of them drinking white. Debra had opened a second bottle of each tonight.

  Marcy poured the last of the red into Debra’s glass, nearly filling it. I’ve been drinking way too much. She’d taken to hiding the empty wine bottles in the trash instead of putting them in the recycling bin where Charles could easily count them when he took it out to the curb on Wednesday mornings.

  After Marcy set down the empty bottle, she lifted her wineglass. “To more grandbabies for Debra!”

  They all raised their glasses. Debra nearly drained hers in one gulp.

  With one minute left in the first half, the Millers, who were favored to win, were down seventeen to seven. The marching band, a mass of maroon uniforms topped by a ripple of gold plumes, crowded between the floats at the south end of the field, waiting to perform.

  Homecoming had the same halftime routine every year. First, the band would perform. Then the ten- and twenty-five-year football alumni would be carted around the track in convertibles. (Once she’d explained to Kent that there would be no photos of the alumni for the newspaper if she rode with him, he’d immediately seen that she did have a responsibility to her work.) Next the floats would be moved onto the field and the awards given.

  She looked at the game clock. The blazing field lights offered less illumination beyond the goalposts, but she saw a couple of kids getting inside the junior float, which sat directly below the scoreboard. The juniors had pulled out all the stops with a giant mechanized boot that ran on cables and pulleys, kicking a cougar in a Springdale uniform over a goalpost. Caroline was putting her money on the juniors placing higher than the sophomores this year.

  She reloaded the camera and advanced the film.

  The buzzer sounded to end the half.

  The crowd behind her cheered as the Millers headed for the locker room.

  Caroline turned toward the south end of the field and lifted her camera to her eye, ready to capture the halftime show from start to finish.

  A bang like a car backfiring made her click off an unintended shot. Through the viewfinder, she saw a shower of sparks, as if a firework had exploded behind the scoreboard. Only Redbud Mill didn’t do fireworks at football games.

  The instant she realized something was amiss, she continued to shoot several pictures, concentrating on the scoreboard and the students underneath.

  The kids under the board scattered, gold plumes bobbing in every direction.

  Then the scoreboard swayed, one end dropping dramatically lower than the other.

  Caroline dropped her camera, letting the strap catch it, and sprinted toward the floats. Her toes were numb from cold, making every step a feat of balance. Her dangling camera thumped against her side.

  She ran toward the damage, against the flow of kids running the other way. Broken glass from the lightbulbs crackled beneath her feet after she passed beneath the goalposts. With all of the chaos, she still couldn’t see the junior float. Had those two kids gotten out?

  A girl wearing a band uniform and shocked expression ran right into her. Caroline stumbled sideways a step, but regained her balance.

  The girl’s hat fell off and her knees gave out; she collapsed to a sitting position on the ground at Caroline’s feet. A dark, wet spot was rapidly growing on the gold epaulette on the uniform’s right shoulder.

  A three-inch-long splinter of wood with the circumference of a first
-grade pencil was sticking out the side of her neck. Caroline knelt beside her.

  The girl was making a mewling sound, her eyes dazed. In her left hand, she clutched a clarinet. With her right, she started to claw at the wood lodged in her neck.

  Caroline stopped her by firmly grasping her right hand. Then she grasped the girl’s chin to hold her head still.

  “It’s okay,” Caroline said, sounding surprisingly calm, considering her insides felt like a paint shaker.

  The girl struggled, attempting to get to her feet.

  “Don’t try to get up. Help’s coming,” Caroline said, looking desperately for that help. She was surrounded by a churning mass of panic; shouts of pain, of fear and confusion, a hundred voices calling a hundred different names.

  “Stop!” she called out as other band students fled. She didn’t want to let go of the girl’s head; with that wood sticking in her neck, movement couldn’t be a good thing.

  “Stop! Help!” she yelled again. Feet pounded past; no one stopped.

  The girl started to shake.

  “What’s your name?” Caroline asked.

  “S-S-Stacey.”

  “All right, Stacey, look at me.”

  The shaking got worse.

  “Stacey!” Caroline squeezed the girl’s cheeks a little tighter. “I want you to look at me.” Please don’t pass out.

  Slowly, the girl turned her eyes toward Caroline.

  “That’s good. I’m Caroline. I’m going to stay with you until help gets here.”

  The dark patch grew steadily larger. Should she try to remove the splinter? What if that made it bleed worse? Maybe pressure below the wound? What if that cut off too much blood to the brain? God, why didn’t I pay more attention in health class?

  Her desperate gaze raked the crowd. She prayed for the girl’s parents, a paramedic, a coach, a teacher… anyone.

  Then she saw him. Mick Larsen, blond hair flying, was sprinting directly toward her. She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  As he dropped to his knees, he put a hand on Caroline’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Just her.”

  He put his hands over the girl’s cheeks. “Now you move and support her head from behind.”

  Caroline crawled behind the girl. Then she placed her hands on the girl’s temples. Once she was in place, Mick moved his hands and inspected the wound.

  Caroline said, “Her name’s Stacey.”

  He murmured something to the girl as he inspected her neck. Caroline couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence and tone were reassuring.

  Straightening onto his haunches, Mick ripped off his jacket, then peeled off the sweatshirt underneath. He placed it just below the wound.

  Caroline started to shift her grip to hold the sweatshirt in place. He stopped her with a shake of his head. “Stacey. I want you to hold this right here, slight pressure, not too much.”

  Stacey’s shaky hand held the shirt.

  Mick looked at Caroline. “Paramedics are on their way. Try to keep her head still. And don’t under any circumstances try to take that splinter out.”

  She nodded once. “Okay.”

  Mick wrapped his jacket around the girl’s shoulders, leaving him in just a T-shirt. He quickly scanned around, then started to move away. “I’ll see if anyone else—”

  “Wait!” Caroline shouted.

  He stopped.

  “There were a couple of kids inside the float with the boot—under the scoreboard.” God, what if the sparks set the float on fire?

  He nodded and disappeared into the panicked crowd.

  About thirty seconds later, Stacey’s father and brother arrived. Caroline instructed them as Mick had her. “Paramedics are on their way. Have your son go and make sure they come to Stacey first.”

  Stacey’s father nodded and the brother took off toward the stadium entrance.

  Sirens began to sound in the distance.

  Caroline stood and looked to see if there were any other wounded kids who were alone and needed help. She saw a couple of deputy sheriffs hurrying onto the field, but no one who looked like they were desperate for help.

  As she headed toward the junior float, a tall man wearing a hoodie sweatshirt over a baseball cap bumped her shoulder hard enough that she spun around. He kept walking without a word. Caroline watched him for a moment, thinking perhaps he was hurt and dazed. He walked briskly, without faltering. When he was about fifteen feet away, he turned and looked at her over his shoulder. The bill of the cap cast his face in shadow from the brilliant glow of the field lights, but she could swear he smiled.

  A peculiar sense of dread slithered over her skin.

  Immediately, she dismissed her unfounded reaction. Perhaps it hadn’t been a smile at all, but a trick of shadow and light. She hurried on toward the float.

  The fallen edge of the scoreboard had hit the boot and smashed in the upper half, which included the entry hatch. Mick was ripping off chicken wire with his bare hands.

  At least, she thought as she moved to help him, the electrical sparks from the scoreboard had stopped falling.

  A girl’s panicked voice cried from inside the float, “Get me out! I want out!” A grasping hand protruded through the hole Mick had created.

  “Almost there,” Mick said calmly. “You’re okay. Just be another second.” To Caroline he said, “Can you pull back on that side without cutting yourself?”

  Testing her grasp on the edge of the opening, she said, “Yeah.”

  She pulled and Mick used two hands, prying the opening large enough that the girl slithered through, face wet with tears, gasping as if she’d been suffocating. It looked as if the float were giving birth to a full-grown teenager.

  Mick lifted the girl and set her on the ground.

  “Blake’s still in there,” the girl said breathlessly. “His leg’s caught on something.”

  Mick stuck his head inside, then leaned back out and looked up at the scoreboard. “I don’t think we can pull the float out from under without the chance of that thing falling completely. I’m gonna have to make this hole bigger so I can get in there.”

  Caroline looked at his hands, already cut and bloody from pulling at the chicken wire. She grabbed his wrist as he was reaching to enlarge the hole. “Stop. I can get through there.” She yanked off her camera and her coat, then started to climb onto the flatbed.

  His hand clutched her shoulder. “It’ll only take—”

  She looked at him. “Even if you get in there, how much room do you think you’ll have to maneuver?”

  “She’s right,” a voice came from behind Mick. It was Greg, the assistant coach.

  Mick looked at the scoreboard again. “If that shifts—”

  “We can’t have that boy still inside,” Caroline finished for him and ducked her head inside the hole Mick had created in the crushed boot.

  Mick pulled her back out so quickly, she ended up in his arms. “No.” He set her down behind him and began pulling on the wire again.

  Caroline stepped beside Mick and yelled, “Blake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it your leg or your pants that’s caught?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you wiggle your leg?”

  “A little.”

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “No. Just stuck.”

  “Try to work your shoes off and wiggle out of your pants,” Caroline said.

  “Okay,” the boy said. “What happened out there?”

  Mick had stopped yanking chicken wire and was looking at Caroline with admiration. “Let’s get you out and you can see for yourself.”

  Caroline shrugged and said, “Sometimes men forget to do the simplest thing first.”

  When the kid shimmied out of the hole in his boxer shorts, he had several scratches. The worst was a shallow gash on his calf that probably wouldn’t even need stitches.

  Once it was clear they both could walk, Greg guided
Blake and the girl off toward the school building. He called over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t hang around there. That thing could still fall.”

  Most everyone had moved a safe distance away. Panic had given over to edgy excitement. Police and the fire department were arriving in quantity. Students stood in nervous knots, pointing at the scoreboard or comparing superficial wounds.

  Mick picked up Caroline’s coat and put it around her shoulders. Then he grabbed the camera and handed it to her.

  As she took it, she looked pointedly at his bloody hands.

  “Sorry.” He wiped them on the legs of his jeans. “I’ll pay to have the coat cleaned.”

  “That wasn’t what was going through my mind.” She slung her camera around her neck and reached out, taking his hands in hers. “You need a little doctoring, Doctor.”

  He looked down at her, an odd expression on his face. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Something in his eyes made her breath stop short and her chest ache. For a long moment, there was nothing but her and Mick, his hands cradled in hers. It was as if the whirl of activity around them created an eddy in the fabric of reality.

  She felt herself being sucked in, much in the same way she had when he’d baited her with his partial confession. If she let go of her conviction to protect both of them from a doomed relationship, she’d be pulled down through the vortex, helpless to save herself from heartbreak.

  It was totally foreign to her, this emotional abyss that threatened her control; it was terrifying and alluring at the same time. There was an intoxicating edge that carved away Caroline’s rational thought, that set fire to the laundry list of reasons to stay away from Mick Larsen.

  She stared into the depths of his blue eyes and lifted one foot toward stepping into the vortex—

  The scoreboard creaked and shifted.

  Mick jerked her away from danger, taking several steps backward. When they stopped moving, the emotion in his eyes was again shuttered. He removed his hands from her and said, “You should probably take a picture of that.”