Stitch In Snow

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘I’m only preserving the fiction you started . . .’

  ‘I’ll get you later.’

  ‘I wish you would,’ I said in my archest social manner and nearly yipped out loud as he pinched my knee.

  The waiter materialized, deposited bread and butter, asked which airlines and hovered with marked impatience for our orders. With just a glance at me, Dan ordered us two steaks, medium rare, baked potatoes and salads. The waiter collected the menus in one snatch and disappeared. Forever, I was beginning to think just as he finally served our long delayed luncheons.

  Dan had been abstracted in the long interval between ordering and receiving. The noise and confusion in the restaurant were worse than the service, making conversation difficult. After the first three attempts to involve Dan in light conversation failed, I left him to his private reflections. His business phone calls had obviously given him problems. Fortunately the steaks were very good but with one accord, we cleared out as soon as we’d finished. I’d had my fill, certainly, of bits and snatches of other people’s disgruntlements.

  ‘Say, I bought that jacket, Jenny, and since you’re equipped, let’s christen ’em. Anything to leave this tower of bitching Babel.’ His voice was tense as he led me toward the elevators. ‘D’you have any warm pants with you?’

  ‘Pants and ski underwear.’

  ‘That’s great.’ He smiled as he spoke but retreated to his private thoughts as the elevator schwushed us up to the ninth floor.

  I was admiring myself in the mirror when he tapped on the connecting doors. I fumbled, remembered I’d locked it, undid the catch and opened it to gasp in startlement. The apparition in the black, green and white ski mask fortunately spoke in Dan’s voice. He dangled another ski mask from his hand.

  ‘You’ll need this. It’s goddamned cold outside. And these,’ and he offered me thick insulated mittens as well.

  I had trouble fitting the eyeholes and nose place until he gave the knitted helmet an expert twitch.

  ‘Jaysus, it does nothing for me, does it?’ I said to my circus self.

  ‘Think of the frostbite it’ll prevent and stuff your vanity.’

  He was irked, but not with me, so I felt it wiser to ignore his mood. We left through the side entrance rather than traverse the packed lobby. The wind lashed at us, glad of new victims and, despite my face mask, I involuntarily closed my eyes against the bite of the cold and spun snow.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ I asked in a bellow over the wind.

  ‘Walk!’ And he indicated a general direction past the snow-covered mounds of parked cars.

  In the murky distance you could just make out the brighter lights of the airport buildings and the straight lines of sodium lighting. I heard the muted groan of a snowplow but it took me a long while to locate the slowly moving monster.

  Dan tapped my shoulder and motioned left. I plodded beside him. Out of my mind, to be sure, but why not? It was sort of wild and eerie to be the only ones out in the blizzard.

  I’ve no idea how long we walked; certainly we made no records for either speed or distance. The hotel sign got small and dim. I got tired so I flopped down in the snow and made an angel while Dan watched. He hauled me up and carted me away so we could admire the unmarred angel form. Then we tried to build a fort but the snow was powdery and didn’t pack well. I was disappointed. Dan was, too. My face guard kept slipping and I’d end up with a mouthful of wet wool as I struggled after him. It was rather too cold to open your mouth to talk but it was my legs which gave out first. The ski underwear and the jacket lived up to the manufacturer’s claims. I was, if anything, too warm between the insulation and the exercise. I sure wasn’t used to walking in snow, or having to drag my feet through drifts and plunging to get out of them. I was dropping further and further behind Dan and then I just slid down a drift and let the snow hold me up.

  ‘Dan. Dan! DAAAAAANNN.’

  I thought he’d just keep on walking and I got a little twinge of fear. The hotel sign was a long blur away. How could he be that thoughtless?

  ‘DAAAAAN!’

  To my intense gratification, his figure stopped, turned this and that way and then swung around.

  ‘Hey, I’m here. Over here!’ I was waving my arms to little effect so I crawled out of the drift, wigwagging more furiously until he spotted me.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ he demanded angrily, hoisting me to my feet. ‘You could get lost.’

  ‘No, just tired.’

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘We’ve been slogging for hours.’

  ‘Nonsense . . . it’s only . . . God, you’re right. It’s nearly five. Goddamn, Jenny, I’m sorry. I’ve no right to snap at you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ I said rather equitably because we were now heading back towards the hotel. ‘But you’ve got something on your mind and I’m the only available goat.’

  ‘You’re not a goat.’

  ‘Something’s got yours.’ I let my inflection remain up, in case he wanted to talk.

  He brushed the snow from me and threw an arm around my shoulders as I staggered a little.

  ‘I’ve done all the talking I can, Jenny, but you’ve done a lot to help me.’

  The mouth slit in his face mask was filled with teeth, a truly horrific sight. ‘Let’s not talk of problems, Jenny. Let’s just . . . walk, huh?’

  I shrugged acquiescence and he squeezed my shoulder appreciatively. The wet rim of my mask was beginning to chafe my lips so we didn’t do any more talking, but a lot of grunting, as we slogged through the snow. The heat of the foyer only emphasized how cold it had been outside. I felt numb on the surface. I snatched off the chafing face mask and unzipped my jacket to let the warmth penetrate.

  ‘Dan, I want to make an appointment for my hair,’ I said, pointing to the beauty salon sign.

  ‘Find me in the bar. I’ll order hot toddies. We’ll need them.’

  So we parted. My thighs were muscleless as I made my way down the steps to the salon level. Wow, was I out of condition! Would I last to the toddy, I wondered, grinning at my frailties. Not that I would have changed one moment of the past few days.

  Unexpectedly the beauty salon was crowded: indoor types, I guessed. The girl who took my appointment for noon the next day kept glancing at the snow I was dripping on the modern design carpeting. Well, I expect she wouldn’t be the only one to think me mad for romping in the snow like a child.

  When I got to the bar, I saw Dan talking to a big man, a grossly big man who had some inches over Dan’s six feet and was much broader in beam, chest and waist. He wore a stetson, pushed back on his head and a sheepskin jacket, high wellingtons. He was also the type of hearty back-thumping loud-laughing oaf that I detest and he was going through those motions with Dan. I did not wish to be exposed to that sort of character so, instead of approaching Dan, I edged round until I could catch his eye and signal him that I’d go on upstairs and leave him to his friend.

  This man made Dan wary: he stood there with hooded eyes, his shoulders angled forward as if to protect . . . his back, probably, because Old Hearty gave him a clomp across the shoulders that made him wince and rock on his feet. Dan caught sight of me then and with a quick shake of his head and a jerk, indicated that I should go upstairs.

  Relieved, I made my way out of the crowded bar. The calves of my legs were aching by the time I got to my room so that I decided to take a bath, as hot as the water would come out of the taps. I soaked and soaked. I’d used muscles today, in the spirit of the exercise, that hadn’t been called on for years. I couldn’t recall the last bad blizzard we’d had while I was still in Massachusetts.

  It was rather nice to be alone, too. I told myself that as an insurance buffer. I tried to mean it. Furthermore, I would not sit around in my room waiting for Dan to shake free of old Hearty. I’d noticed a snack-bar/coffee shop place by the side entrance. I wasn’t hungry for a big meal or the frustration of bad service.

  The coffee shop was not
well patronized and the waitress absently rattled off the numerous items they could no longer supply from the menu. I was quite pleased to settle for thick bean soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I also ordered some roast beef and ham sandwiches to take back to my room.

  And who was waiting for the elevator when I got there but Dan. With old Hearty beating him soundly about the head and ears in farewell.

  ‘You could always bring the young lady with you, Jerry,’ he said. ‘Fran and I wouldn’t mind a bit.’

  ‘I know your parties of old, Fred, but if there’s any chance the weather’ll clear, I’ve got to leave tomorrow. Take it easy on the way home, will you? Thanks again for the drinks.’

  Dan was so eager to get on the elevator he damned near ran down the people getting off.

  ‘You better take it easy, too, Jerry!’ said Fred with a boisterous guffaw. ‘You better slow down! You’ll live longer that way.’

  I moved into the car, ignoring Dan who was ignoring me. We could both hear the hearty chuckle as the heavy door shut. Dan winced, relaxing as the elevator whisked the two of us up to the ninth floor.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have refused the invitation, Jen. He doesn’t live that far away. Came over in his Land Rover. His wife’s a good person and it would have been nicer for you than dossing about in this hotel.’

  ‘Me?’ I’d been thinking he was only explaining why he hadn’t gone with Hearty.

  ‘You’re the only lady I know here. Of course, I’d’ve brought you with me.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d’ve gone, Dan. His old hearty-har-har type of host is the lowest on my list. He’s a loud-mouth, back-thumping, hard-nosed bigot and if he’d done the shoulder-slapping bit with me, he’d’ve got a frostbitten hand.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have slapped your shoulder . . .’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t’ve. He’d’ve slipped an arm about my waist as soon as possible and done the squeeze bit, inching his hand up higher and higher till he squeezed something that’d get him a slap in the face or an elbow in that beer gut of his. He’s just the sort that gets you away from the other guests, alone in a room and tries to slobber you with kisses.’

  I was wound up and didn’t stop until I jammed the key into my doorlock. Dan had gone from amazed to surprised amusement to outright laughter.

  ‘I don’t think you like Fred,’ he said, completely straight-faced, as he unlocked his door.

  ‘You might indeed suspect that. Though I’ve never really met the man and I could be wrong.’ I had entered my room, closed the hall door, and opened our connecting doors as I spoke so that Dan lost nothing of my comments.

  ‘You aren’t,’ he said, leaning against the door jamb. ‘He’s an underhanded, snide-cracking, double-dealing fool because he isn’t subtle enough to keep from being caught out. Used to be a sheriff till he got caught taking a bribe.’ Dan brushed fingers through his hair as if to rid himself of old Hearty. ‘I need a drink. A peaceful drink. Join me?’ He reached for the bottle, splashing bourbon in the two glasses. ‘Damn! You didn’t get your hot toddy!’

  I laid my hand on his arm, reassuringly, and our eyes met. His were angry, an anger that was reflected in the set of his mouth and jaw: a deep anger, not just concerned with having to put up with the society of an unwelcome character. He was disturbed and uncertain.

  ‘The least of my worries. I had lovely hot soup in the coffee shop. I’m not much of a drinker, though I’ll certainly join you and it’s my turn to get the ice.’

  He was nursing his drink in the chair by the window when I got back. I put ice and soda in mine, added them to his and sat down in the other chair. He wasn’t brooding: he was thinking, hard and deep and his ruminations were no longer uncertain. I felt he had made some decision in that short time I’d been out of the room.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about it tonight,’ he said with a long sigh. ‘Or do you approve of avoiding issues?’

  ‘Depends on the issue, I think. Would an impartial second opinion help? I’m not prying.’

  ‘I know,’ and he gripped my hand tightly for a moment. ‘Your very good health, Jenny!’

  Which is a tactful way to change a subject. So I raised my glass and drank his good health. He was evidently determined to put his problem firmly out of his mind because now he stretched out his long legs and settled himself, turning with a slight smile to ask if I’d recovered from the hike.

  ‘After a hot bath to unknot those muscles I didn’t remember having, yes. Between swimming the Hellespont and rediscovering Little America, I’ve racked up a rare quota of exercise for a snow-bound soul. But I needed it.’

  ‘No exercise in podium-pounding?’

  ‘Just stamina.’

  ‘Tell me, do you enjoy that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, in smaller doses. This is the first time I’d had an extended tour.’

  ‘How many engagements?’

  ‘Twenty-five. I’ve done twelve. I’ve got Portland, four in San Francisco plus Easter off, then Los Angeles, Houston. Dallas and Tulsa.’

  ‘So far so good. You appear relatively unscathed.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I said with considerable feeling. ‘I was a bit scathed when I got on that plane in Milwaukee.’

  ‘Isn’t that why you knit? The ravelled sleeve of care? What’s that a quote from?’

  I groaned. ‘Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act II. Scene 2, but you’ve used it in the wrong context.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘The rewards of a literary education.’

  He clicked his tongue at my haughty tone. ‘Lo, the poor engineer!’ As emphasis to his self-deprecation, the snow slashed at the window. He sat upright, glancing at his watch. ‘The news! May I?’ He was already turning on the TV set.

  We got the tail end of the 7:00 news, including the weather analysis which was bad. The country was blanketed in snow down to the Texas panhandle with Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama fighting the lowest temperatures in years. Satellite observation indicated that clearer weather was slowly moving eastward from the Pacific and we could expect the storm to blow itself out within the next thirty-six hours.

  ‘Great!’ Dan brought his hands down hard on his knees. I wasn’t sure if he was being facetious or pleased. His expression gave me no clue. His actions did. He poured himself another hefty drink with only an excuse of a splash of soda.

  The announcer began extolling the praises of the feature film.

  ‘Gunga Din!’

  Dan regarded me with surprise. ‘You want to see it?’

  ‘I haven’t seen it in years, but I met Douglas Fairbanks once in London and he’s such a charming man. He must be in his sixties but he’s got charisma or . . . I guess you’d call it . . . a very cultured animal magnetism because he couldn’t have been nicer. My agent knew him and he came over to our table . . . we were lunching in London at a marvelous place in Jermyn Street . . . What’s the matter?’

  ‘I was just watching the way your face lights up. No, don’t close down. It’s a relief to see someone unafraid of showing enthusiasm.’

  ‘Even about another man?’

  ‘He’s some man. My idol as a boy!’ Dan’s expression was brighter, too. ‘Swashbuckling derring-do,’ and he cut an intricate swath in the air with imaginary sword.

  ‘Well, he’s every bit as glamourous as he was cast. And not stuffy or unpleasant. He told us he’d been in New York recently and a cabby had recognized him. Only . . .’

  ‘Only what . . .?’

  ‘The cabby said, “I saw your son on TV last night in the Corsican Brothers . . .”’

  ‘Good God . . .’ Dan roared with laughter.

  ‘And the cabby said, “the kid’s doing great.” So Mr. Fairbanks replied that, yes, he thought the boy had a good future.’

  Dan chuckled over that encounter as the credits for Gunga Din rolled past the Indian border.

  ‘D’you mind?’ he asked, indicating he intended to stretch out on the bed to watch the mov
ie. I didn’t mind. ‘Then bring your knitting and join me. Best seat in the house.’

  My father used to say that you had to see a man drunk to judge his character accurately. I prefer men driven to drink who don’t feel obliged to test their capacity in the crisis. The old film was a godsend because Dan got so involved in it, as did I, with assorted reminiscences of our childhoods, that he was just taking the last of his double jolt when Cary Grant, slung over the shoulder of Victor McLaughlin, was hauled off to the jail, brandishing a bottle of Scotch.

  ‘Can I freshen your drink, Jenny?’ Dan asked during the next commercial.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  Surreptitiously I watched him splash reasonable amounts. Whatever had been riding him before seemed to have eased.

  ‘How’s the knitting going?’

  I spread it out for him and he smoothed down the pattern but his eyes were on my face. He bent forward and kissed me gently.

  ‘You’ve a soothing effect, Jenny, and I’m grateful.’ He settled against the headboard as the last commercial ended and the screen faded into the movie again.

  In the end, when the face of Sam Jaffe came up over the final battle scene and the sonorous lines of the poem, ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din . . .’ faded into the final credits, I had a lump in my throat and a suspicious wetness in my eyes which I hastily brushed away.

  ‘Don’t, Jenny. It’s an honest response.’

  ‘I know, but . . . habit, I suppose. Tim, my son, used to get very upset when he saw me crying.’

  ‘Did he have many occasions? You don’t strike me as a weepy sort.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Raymond, my husband, died of cancer of the lungs. Slowly. We knew it was hopeless. The doctor kept telling me that tears are nature’s escape valve but Timmy was only five, a bit young to understand tears were therapeutic . . .’

  ‘“The gentle rain, that droppeth . . .” No, that’s wrong, too, isn’t it.’

  I used his malapropism as an excuse to laugh off the imminent tears of memories. ‘Indeed it is. That’s Portia talking about mercy, not weeping jags . . .’