A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  “Hello there, young fella,” the man said, twisting the hat in his hand. “I’m looking for Patrick Gribbon.”

  Bobby ducked behind the door. He’d been told not to talk to strangers, and he’d get a thrashing for sure if Daddy knew he’d opened the door.

  “Are you Bobby?” The tall man stepped forward into the doorway. “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly, the tips of his fingertips curling around the edge of the door. “I’m your grandfather.”

  Bobby’s mouth opened. He had a grandfather?

  He took a step back. The grownups on Sesame Street were always warning him not to let strangers in the house, but this man was a grandfather.

  Bobby squinted, trying to see him better.

  The man came in, closed the door, then bent down and placed his hands on his knees. “You must be what, almost seven years old now?” His voice sounded thick.

  Uncertain, Bobby nodded.

  “And you have a sister?”

  Bobby pointed toward the living room. “In there.”

  “Will you take me to her?” The man’s wide hand reached for his, and Bobby hesitated only a minute before taking it. A grandfather! He smiled as a feeling of happiness bubbled up in his chest. Grandparents were nice; they told stories, they took kids to the zoo, and when kids went to their house, they always got Werther’s Originals.

  He glanced at the pockets of the man’s jeans to see if he could spot a telltale candy bulge. Nothing there, but that was okay. The girl in the commercial didn’t get candy from her grandparents until she went to their house.

  Brittany looked away from the TV, then her mouth dropped open at the sight of a Stranger holding Bobby’s hand.

  “Hello there, young lady,” the grandfather said, nodding. “You must be Brittany.”

  Britt glanced at Bobby.

  “He’s my grandfather,” Bobby explained.

  “I’m her grandfather, too.” Still holding Bobby’s hand, the tall man knelt on the rug, lowering himself to Brittany’s eye level. “Are you okay, honey?”

  Britt glanced at Bobby again, who nodded. Slowly, she mimicked his nod, then put her thumb into her mouth.

  The man said nothing, but his free hand reached out and gently lifted Britt’s elbow. Bobby tilted his head, watching as the man’s big thumb gently traced the bruises on his sister’s arm. The grandfather didn’t say anything for a moment but made strange noises in his throat.

  “Listen.” The grandfather turned to Bobby. “I want you and your sister to go into your rooms and pick out your favorite thing. Then put on your jackets, hats, anything you have that’s warm. We’re going to take a little trip in my boat.”

  Bobby blinked. “Are we going to your house?”

  The grandfather nodded. “What a bright boy you are. Yes, we’re going to take my boat, and you’re going to live with me until your father gets the help he needs. You don’t have to worry about your dad, because I’m going to write a note and tell him you’re with me.”

  He dropped Bobby’s hand. “Okay? You two get ready while I look for paper and a pen.”

  Without speaking, Bobby led his sister into the tiny bedroom they shared. Brittany paused by the mattress on the floor.

  “Who is he?” she whispered, her eyes as shiny as an empty pie pan.

  Bobby reached for his jacket. “He’s our grandfather.”

  “What if we don’t want to go?”

  “It’ll be nice, I promise.” Bobby picked up Britt’s dusty pink sweater from the closet floor. “Grandfathers have candy, remember? Werther’s Originals. And they take kids to McDonald’s and to the zoo.”

  Brittany took her sweater, but from the expression on her face Bobby didn’t think he’d convinced her. Still, she’d go. She always did whatever he told her to.

  They slipped on their shoes, then Bobby helped his sister with her sweater buttons. And that’s when he heard it— a slam. The grandfather was still in the living room, but he had just pounded the wall.

  Bobby froze, his heart jumping in his chest. None of the grandfathers on TV pounded on the walls. His heart did another jump when he heard another strange sound.

  None of the TV grandfathers cried, either.

  He peeked through the bedroom doorway. Now the grandfather was sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face. His shoulders were hunched like Daddy’s when he came home with bad news.

  Bobby was about to pull back and hide, but then the grandfather lifted his head and caught Bobby’s eye.

  “Are you ready, then?” he asked, his voice rough. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, then clasped his hands. “What favorite thing are you bringing, Bob?”

  Nobody called him Bob. The name sounded different and grown up. Maybe that was a special thing for grandfathers. “Bob,” Bobby whispered, tasting the sound. He liked it.

  The grandfather stood. “What’s your favorite toy?”

  Bobby’s gaze darted toward the dusty volumes on the corner bookshelves. The books had been in the apartment when they moved in, and the landlady said they were fit for nothing but the trash. Still, Bobby liked them.

  He pointed toward the shelves. “I want to take a book.”

  The grandfather peered toward the dusty volumes. “You want to take an encyclopedia?”

  Bobby nodded.

  “’Tis an awfully big book, don’t you think?”

  Bobby lifted his chin. “I read them.”

  “All right, then.” Something like a smile flitted in and out of the grandfather’s speckled gray beard. “Pick your favorite.”

  And so Bobby had plucked the A volume from the shelf—the one with see-through pictures of human anatomy—while his sister emerged from the bedroom carrying Miranda, the nearly bald doll she slept with every night. Miranda had been in a Christmas basket some church people once brought to one of their other apartments, one a little like this one but bigger and cleaner . . .

  Now Bobby looked around his grandfather’s lighthouse. The space inside wasn’t much bigger than the last apartment they’d shared with Daddy, but it was clean and tidy and warm, especially when the grandfather stoked the woodstove. There’d been no Werther’s Originals in his house, but twice a week the grandfather brought them fresh milk, good food, and molasses cookies from the bakery. He also brought them books, so Bobby had new things to read.

  And the lighthouse part was pretty cool, Bobby had to admit. The light was automatic, the grandfather had explained, but he still had to keep the lantern glass clean and the generator tuned up. When dark fell over the island, the generator automatically clanked on and started humming, then the brilliant light at the top of the tower began to circle, sending a steady creaking sound spiraling down to those below. And though most of the light beamed out toward the ocean, some of it leaked down into the tower, so the grandfather’s house was never completely dark, even in the deepest night.

  Britt walked over to the grandfather’s narrow rope bed and stretched out on the blanket. Propping her head on her hands, she looked at Bobby. “Do you think we’ll ever go back to see Daddy? Or will we live here forever?”

  Bobby dropped to his beanbag chair and propped his chin in his hands. The grandfather was an odd man, not at all like Daddy and not like the TV grandfathers, either. But he didn’t hit and he didn’t yell and he never, ever came home stinking of anything worse than fish.

  “I don’t know, Britt.” He watched the people on the TV, a pair of weathermen who were talking about Portland. “The grandfather said we’d stay until Daddy gets help.”

  “Who’s helping Daddy?” Her voice trembled. “Who’s taking care of him?”

  Bobby blinked as he considered the question. He’d spent all his life taking care of his father and sister. Until now, he’d never realized that maybe Daddy couldn’t get help because there was no one to clean up his messes and help him to bed . . .

  “Daddy will have to take care of himself,” he finally answered, keeping his eyes on the
TV.

  The answer seemed to satisfy Brittany, who sighed and hugged her doll. But Bobby couldn’t forget the question— what if their daddy couldn’t get help?

  The weather hauses had arrived at Mooseleuk’s.

  Elezar Smith’s smile widened as he held up one of the charming weather houses from Germany’s Black Forest. The weather predictors were a favorite with island visitors. When dry weather was expected, the frau came out-of-doors; when ill weather threatened, die frau retreated and der mann of the house came out.

  “Vernie?” The store clerk bent over the counter to peer up the winding staircase where the mercantile’s living quarters were located: three undersized rooms, a small bath with a shower, sink, and commode, and a kitchenette last remodeled a hundred years ago and in dire need of renovation.

  “What is that woman up to now?” Elezar leaned farther on the counter, trying to see up the stairs. Vernie Bidderman, proprietor of Mooseleuk Mercantile, had not been herself for days. She seemed thoughtful and distant, though Elezar couldn’t discover a reason for her preoccupation.

  When no answer came, Elezar reached for a box of colorful cross-stitched Christmas samplers portraying Saint Nicholas. He frowned as he read: “Saint Nicholas, the bishop of Myra in Asia Minor during the fourth century, was renowned for his generosity and his fondness for children. Dressed in his red-and-white bishop’s regalia, he delivered gifts of fruits, nuts, and small toys to children not on December 25, but on December 6.”

  Rolling his eyes, Elezar reached for a utility knife and slid the blade along the edge of a box of women’s chamois nightshirts. The evolution of Saint Nicholas into Santa Claus never failed to amaze him. These earthly folks had bizarre imaginations.

  He glanced up the stairs a third time. If Vernie didn’t come down soon, he’d have to go up after her. Boxes of merchandise cluttered the floor, all needing to be unpacked and shelved. He was willing to serve, but he didn’t have a clue how she wanted to arrange the newly arrived stock.

  He pulled a nightshirt from the box, held it against his chest for a moment, then grinned and set it aside. The other angels would laugh if they saw him holding up a lady’s nightshirt, but they’d have to admit the soft beige fabric set off his cocoa colored skin.

  In her bedroom overhead, Vernie Bidderman perched on the side of her mattress and sorted through the contents of a shoebox. Moisture had formed in the corner of her eyes, a reaction, she was certain, having more to do with the dusty objects on her lap than nostalgia.

  Carefully she lifted each object and returned it to the shoebox—pressed flowers, a bronze butterfly pin Stanley had given her on their first Christmas together, and Stanley’s high-school class ring. She hesitated as she picked up the marriage license with the names Ingrid Veronica Riche and Stanley Bruce Bidderman inscribed in black ink and stamped with the seal of the State of Maine.

  Outside the window, a cold wind whistled under the eaves as Vernie’s thoughts reluctantly led back to the night she and Stanley had taken the marital plunge. They had not been kids. Stanley was twenty-eight; Vernie trailed him by a year. Her parents, Greta and Rolf Riche, warned her the match would be disastrous. Her father hadn’t bothered to pull his verbal punches: “Why, Stanley is meek-mannered, while you, Vernie, have the diplomacy of a bulldozer running on high-octane premium!”

  Despite her parents’ objections, attraction overruled common sense. Or maybe it was love, Vernie decided a year later when the bloom still fragranced the rose.

  Marriage to Stanley wasn’t all that bad, and they’d forged a workable relationship. Maybe it wasn’t Romeo and Juliet, but what couple did have the perfect marriage? Stanley let her have her way, and she let Stanley join a Thursday night bowling league. When Thursday night rolled around, Stanley would eat a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, then put on his turquoise bowling shirt with “Hank’s Lube and Tube” silk-screened across the back in red lettering. He’d then pick up his AMF bag containing a pair of white size 10 Dexter shoes and a sixteen-pound blue fingertip Dino-Thane ball Vernie had scrimped for months to buy him. At exactly six-thirty he’d throw his beloved ball and watch it thump and rattle down the polished alley.

  He wasn’t the best bowler, but marriage had been a good arrangement.

  Dabbing the corners of her eyes, Vernie focused on a yellowed newspaper clipping announcing the Bidderman nuptials. Thirty-nine years had passed since that cold, snowy wedding day. Had Mr. Bidderman elected to come home that night back in ’81, they would have celebrated their anniversary on December second. Tomorrow.

  The tight knot in Vernie’s throat threatened to suffocate her. She inhaled deeply, then heard the door to the mercantile open, followed by Cleta Lansdown’s high-pitched warble. “Is Vernie busy?”

  Elezar’s soft baritone drifted up the staircase. “Vernie? You got a customer down here.”

  Flushed, Vernie slammed the lid on the shoebox, then shoved it beneath the double bed so suddenly she startled MaGoo. The cat blinked his cone-shaped eyes, gave her a how-dare-you-disturb-me look, then went back to sleep.

  Sliding off the bed, Vernie straightened her dress and repinned a strand of loose hair. Lately she’d been acting like a moonstruck fool. If Cleta knew she was up here pining over some shoebox filled with long-forgotten memories, she’d—well, she’d have a good chuckle.

  “Vernie?”

  “Coming, Elezar!” Land, a body didn’t have time to think around here! After giving the mirror a fleeting glance, she closed the door, firmly leaving the shoebox and its memories behind her.

  Cleta Lansdown, manager and co-owner of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, stood chatting with Elezar. Four sets of peppermint pigs sat on the counter in front of her. Vernie eyed the doodads, a Victorian tradition, as she came down the stairs. Those candies were a big favorite with Cleta every year.

  “You buying more of those?” Vernie called.

  The first lady of the Baskahegan B&B grinned and picked up a set of the hard candy. “Did you know that smashing one of these things is supposed to bring happiness and prosperity throughout the coming year?”

  “Good grief, Cleta.” The swine sets were cute and gimmicky and sold like maple syrup, but Vernie doubted the pigs produced anything more noteworthy than a cavity. “You don’t believe that stuff, do you?”

  “Oh, Floyd and Barbara get a kick out of smashing the pigs on New Year’s Eve—and you’ve got to admit the little red velvet bag and steel hammer is as cute as a bug’s ear.”

  As Cleta added another set to her order, Vernie made her way to her desk, refilled her glass of Coke, and took a long swallow. Floyd was Cleta’s other half, and Barbara the Lansdowns’ only child. Barbara and her husband, lobster-man Russell Higgs, married three years back. Before the ink on the license was dry, Russell moved in with Cleta and Floyd, lock, stock, and barrel. Now Barbara and Russell appeared to have taken root. Talk no longer centered on when Barbara and Russell would move, but if Barbara and Russell would move. Cleta didn’t seem to mind having her daughter in the house, but Floyd said feeding Russell was like shoveling coal into licking flames. Cleta would get red in the face when he talked like that, and shy Barbara would run, but the Higgses and the Lansdowns hadn’t come to blows.

  Yet.

  Vernie eyed Cleta sourly, then took another long drink. Remembering her manners, she turned and focused an eye on her guest. “Want a Coke?” she mumbled around the rim of the glass.

  “No, thanks.” Cleta dropped a pair of red fleece earmuffs to the pile of merchandise. “Stopped by to see if you want to go shopping with me over to Ogunquit.”

  Vernie’s glass paused in midair. “Today?”

  “Of course.” Cleta nodded to Elezar. “That’ll do it, Elezar.”

  After draining her glass, Vernie set it on the counter. “Can’t. Promised to help Bea with the angel mail.”

  Last month someone on the Internet had launched a ridiculous urban legend about angels working miracles on Heavenly Daze. Since
then, everybody in town except old Salt Gribbon, the curmudgeonly lighthouse keeper, had been enlisted at one time or another to help answer letters.

  Cleta waved Vernie’s intentions aside. “Oh, come and go. Bea has plenty of help today. When I passed the bakery a few minutes ago, several of the Smith men were working in there.” She fished in her drawstring purse for money to pay her bill. “You haven’t got another thing to do and the outing will do you a world of good. I saw this cute tree ornament I want to buy at the drugstore.”

  “You can buy ornaments from me.”

  “Not this one—it’s a Hallmark.”

  Vernie glanced out the front window. Hour by hour the clouds grew lower and thicker. For all the world, it looked like Heavenly Daze had been gripped by what might become one of the worst winters in years. Now a stiff wind whipped bare oak branches outside the mercantile, and Vernie shuddered to think of the bone-chilling walk to the ferry. Captain Stroble had already given notice that if foul weather descended, the ferry could close on a moment’s notice.

  The smiling clerk sacked the order and tied the butcher paper bag with a colorful red ribbon. “Why don’t you go, Vernie? You’ve got a warm coat and mittens. I don’t have a thing to do but put the new stock away. I’m assuming you want these things near the front?”

  Vernie nodded absently. “Ayuh—anywhere you think best. You have a knack for arranging things.”

  “Thanks.” Elezar shifted his gaze to Cleta. “Once I close up here, I plan to mosey on over to the bakery myself.”

  Vernie sighed. It had been weeks since she visited the mainland. And her mood wasn’t exactly A-1 today.

  “Oh, come on,” Cleta nudged as Vernie vacillated. “You need to get out, get a little color in your cheeks. We can pick up a few Christmas presents, then eat a bite of lunch. I might even treat us to a movie. Popcorn’s on me. Nicolas Cage has a new movie out.”

  Vernie wasn’t in the mood for shopping, popcorn, or a movie, but Cleta was right, she could use a break. Monotony had begun to set in and the worst of winter was yet to come. She glanced at Elezar, who smiled and nodded. “Are you sure?”