Lighting Candles in the Snow

by Karen Jones Gowen

  “Have you considered an operation? I’ve heard that knee replacement surgery can be quite effective.”

  “Damned if I’ll let some hack cut into me like that and pay him thousands of dollars for the privilege. No, I’ll keep on like always, taking Tylenol when it gets bad.”

  Jeremy came in, handing me a can of Diet Coke and a glass with ice. He said, “You could try losing some weight, Mom. That would take pressure off your knees.”

  “I suppose,” she replied. “Easier said than done though.”

  We sipped at our drinks. Now that Jeremy was back in the room, I intended to stick to my vow of silence and let him do all the talking. I would sit and savor my soda without another word. I glanced at the TV, where the decorator was helping the homeowner select a variety of summer-blooming annuals for his brand-new window boxes.

  “How’s the book coming, Jeremy?” Mrs. London asked.

  Oh, right, now there was a topic he could go on and on about.

  “The new one is going well. I have some major changes to make, just heard back from my editor, and then we’ll be on the home stretch.”

  “When is it coming out?”

  “Next spring.”

  “What’s it called again?”

  “In the Dead of the Night.”

  “Another horror story?”

  “Not horror, Mom. Character-driven crime fiction with elements of horror.”

  “I have your last two on my bedside table. I tried to finish them but got too scared and had to quit.” She chuckled at herself and shook her head. “I guess I’m a big baby when it comes to things like that. I’ll keep on though. What kind of mom is it that doesn’t read her own son’s books?”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it, Mom. I understand if they’re too intense for you. Don’t think you have to. You’re a good person and a good mom, don’t ever think otherwise, and probably much too decent to read the kind of stuff I write anyway. You don’t need that in your head.”

  I was liking Jeremy a little more right now, seeing him so nice to his mother.

  “Well, never mind,” she said. “You know I’m proud of you all the same.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, and this is where I would normally chime in with something to keep the conversation going. Instead, I tried to figure out what kinds of flowers the homeowner was planting in his window boxes. Pansies, maybe?

  “Are you two in the mood for some Inspector Lynley?” Mrs. London asked us.

  I smiled at that. She loved British detective shows, and especially Inspector Lynley, her favorite. It made choosing gifts for her easy. She had quite a selection of the series on DVD.

  “Sure, Mom, if that’s what you want.” Jeremy stood to inspect the shelf next to the TV where her DVD collection was lined up. “You care which one?”

  “No, you pick one out. I’ve seen all of them more than once anyway. That Inspector Lynley is a real gentleman, a truly fine man. He reminds me of your dad, Jeremy. Did I ever tell you that?”

  Jeremy didn’t respond. He was reading the back of the DVD case.

  She turned to me. “This fellow who plays Inspector Lynley, he even looks like my first husband, Jeremy’s dad, with that mop of black hair and those dark good looks.”

  “Really?” I said encouragingly, hoping she would continue on this forbidden topic. I glanced at Jeremy, expecting him to interrupt and hoping he wouldn’t.

  “Oh yes. My Gerald was a handsome man and a fine human being. He had the kind of grace and class that you don’t often see in a regular guy. Like this Inspector Lynley, although of course, Lynley is an earl, British royalty, and you’d expect it of him. Maybe that’s why I like watching this show. It reminds me. . . .” She ended with a wistful note.

  Since I had determined not to carry the conversational load, I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking her about her first husband. I figured Jeremy and I would have another fight on the ride home if I got his mom talking about the past. Nothing annoyed him as much as when she veered to that topic.

  I needn’t have worried. Jeremy put a stop to it by sliding in the disk and turning up the sound.

  We spent the remainder of the day watching three episodes of The Inspector Lynley Mysteries. We took a break part-way through to order out. It was fun, like a party. We had pizza, super-spicy chicken wings, ice cream. They drank more beer and I made a dent in Mrs. London’s stash of Diet Coke.

  It was late when we left the house. Jeremy and I were sated with the high-fat, carb-filled dinner; and the yummy Nathaniel Parker/Detective Inspector Lynley and his ever-present sidekick, DS Barbara Havers, who are quite obviously in love with each other. Partly why the series is addictive—you know Lynley and Havers should hook up, but of course they never do.

  Like a magical spell, the visit had somehow cured our ill will. When Jeremy and I got home, we felt energized and happily bonded. We cleaned the apartment, working together like we hadn’t done for a long time, chatting easily the whole time. We fell into bed after midnight and talked for an hour about how we would make a greater effort to improve our relationship.

  I had long forgotten my vow of silence.

  Spicy Chicken Wings

  2 pounds chicken wing drummettes (24)

  2 tablespoon honey

  2 tablespoon ketchup

  1 tablespoon red pepper sauce

  1 tablespoon soy sauce

  Paprika

  1 cup ranch dressing

  Heat oven to 350º F. Line large cookie sheet with sides with aluminum foil.

  Mix honey, ketchup, pepper sauce and soy sauce in one gallon Zip-Loc bag. Add chicken. Seal bag and refrigerate, turning occasionally, for several hours.

  Place chicken in prepared pan and sprinkle with paprika. Bake, uncovered about thirty minutes or until crisp and juice runs clear. Serve with ranch dressing and plenty of napkins.

  Chapter Ten

  Getting off work at the candy factory, I parked my car and approached my apartment house. With its six large, white pillars framing the wraparound front porch, it looked warm and inviting on this cold day. I couldn’t wait to get upstairs to my apartment, pull on my sweats and relax.

  My landlord was out front, sweeping snow and debris off the porch.

  “Hello, Mr. Rahimian,” I greeted him.

  He nodded and smiled. “How are you today, Karoline?”

  “Good,” I lied. After another boring day wrapping saltwater taffy, I felt like crap.

  Mr. Rahimian leaned on the broom. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  I wondered if my rent was late. For a second, I couldn’t remember what month it was. Oh right, February, nearly March. The rent was due next week.

  “I paid my rent this month, didn’t I?”

  “Oh sure, sure. You good with paying rent. I never worry about you with rent.”

  “That’s good then. You know how it is without a set routine, being unemployed; the days and weeks can run together sometimes.”

  Mr. Rahimian nodded and returned to sweeping accumulated dead leaves out of the corners of the porch. I doubt that the man had ever been unemployed in his life, at least not since coming to this country. Immigrants like the Rahimians came to the United States to live the American dream and earn money, often by taking menial jobs like my coworkers at the candy factory, and saving up for the day they can buy a house and run their own businesses.

  He made an excellent landlord, keeping things in top condition. I’d been in older apartment buildings like this that were dirty and falling apart and disgusting. Even the large foyer gleamed with personal attention.

  The Rahimians had left their home in Persia—as they called it, never Iran—when the Shah was ousted. They had been wealthy landowners and part of the royal court, having to leave behind everything they owned, including their true name, to escape with their lives. They had told me about drugging their infant son and carrying him through customs in a duffel bag, praying he w
ouldn’t wake up and praying the officials would not unzip the bag to inspect it. No boys regardless of age were allowed out of the country. They were needed to grow up and fight for Ayatollah Khomeini and the revolution.

  Instead of opening the bag, a soldier stabbed it through again and again with his sword, while the parents struggled to keep any expression of horror from their faces.

  Once safely away, Mr. Rahimian unzipped the duffel bag, knowing their baby would surely be dead. He was unharmed and still sleeping soundly. Now their son was a grown man living nearby under the same adopted name as his parents. He was an engineer, married, with a young daughter. I’d met him and his wife and child, as they frequently visited the parents.

  I felt like such a whiner. What did I know about suffering?

  As I opened the front door, the smells of Mrs. Rahimian’s curry potatoes wafted out into the hall. She liked to cook traditional Persian food, and I debated whether to pop in and invite myself to dinner. I could use some solid comfort food. Instead, I would probably grab something quick then eat low fat microwave popcorn in front of the TV.

  My neighbors knew about the job loss and the divorce. We were a fairly close bunch, sharing meals, having barbecues out back in the summer months, chatting as we came and went. Currently, the unit across from the Rahimian’s was empty. Sheila kept threatening to leave hers and move into it, except like me she enjoyed the larger front rooms upstairs and the tall windows that looked out over the street, with the view of the Wasatch Mountains in the distance.

  Sheila must have come in behind me. She caught me trudging upstairs and hollered from the downstairs hall, “Hey, wait up, Karoline.”

  I turned and saw her grab her mail from the box. “Hi, Sheila. What’s up?”

  “I have a question for you.”

  She stuffed her mail in the black leather, multi-pocketed bag that hung from her shoulder and trotted up the stairs. Although mid-forties, Sheila was tiny and petite; I didn’t understand her complaining about the stairs causing her trouble. She weighed a lot less than I did, being about five inches shorter and a slip of nothing.

  I waited on the stairway.

  She approached with that concerned “oh I feel so bad for poor you” expression I saw on people since my divorce. I hated that look. Sheila was divorced, too. Why should she feel sorry for me?

  “So, Karoline, are you dating anyone yet?”

  Ugh, the most dreaded question ever. Right after, “What happened between you two anyway? You seemed happy when I saw you last.”

  “No, not yet. I haven’t met anyone I want to go out with.”

  “I have a nephew who’s single and about your age, and I think you two would be perfect for each other,” she said.

  I moved up the stairs, Sheila following behind, chattering on about her nephew and how he’s cute and smart and recently moved here from Wyoming and is looking for a nice girl.

  Well, I hated Wyoming. It’s the most boring state to drive across, and I couldn’t imagine myself liking any guy who was from ugly Wyoming.

  Sheila didn’t pause at the door to her apartment but kept following me to mine. I didn’t want to ask her in. These days I was not only divorced, bitter, borderline fat and essentially jobless, I was also seriously anti-social. The last thing I needed was a blind date with my neighbor’s nephew from Wyoming. What if things didn’t work out? Or what if he liked me and I didn’t like him? It could get awkward with Sheila, and I believed in keeping my neighborly relationships issue-free.

  I dug in my purse and pulled out my key. “Oh, I don’t know, Sheila. I think it’s still too soon for me.”

  She tilted her head in a questioning way. “Hasn’t it been awhile?”

  I sighed and rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Six, seven months. Not that long.”

  “You need to get out, Karoline. You’re still young and pretty with plenty of good years left. Don’t give up on happiness. You only need to find the right guy.”

  I had a strong suspicion that Sheila’s nephew wouldn’t be that guy. “I know, Sheila, and I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think so. I’m simply not up to meeting anyone right now.”

  She laughed and said, “Not right now, silly. Give me a week or two to get it set up.”

  I hurried to say, “I knew what you meant. But I need to go lay down. I have such a splitting headache. I’ll be sure and let you know if I change my mind.”

  I pushed the door open and turned to go inside, hoping she would take the hint and leave.

  She took a breath as though readying herself for another onslaught.

  I frowned at her. “Never mind, Sheila. Seriously.”

  She nodded. “I understand, honey. It’s rough. I’ve been there.”

  I stepped into my apartment and made a move to shut the door, not wanting to hurt her feelings but not willing to have this discussion at the moment. “Okay,” I said, “thanks.”

  “You let me know, won’t you, if you change your mind? I can have the two of you over to dinner. That way it won’t be like a date, it’ll be me inviting my nephew and my neighbor for dinner. What’s the big deal, right?”

  It sounded absolutely horrible. Not in a million years. I liked Sheila. She had always been a good neighbor, friendly but not too pushy—well, except for now—and I didn’t want to jeopardize our relationship.

  “Okay, Sheila, I’ll let you know. Thanks, I appreciate your concern. I need to go lay down though, because I’m . . . I’m not feeling well.”

  She waved a cheery goodbye and I shut my door, leaning against the back of it like I’d managed to escape the swine flu. Ugh, blind dates.

  I went straight to the kitchen and pulled out the cottage cheese. I had no energy to make myself a real meal tonight. I sat at the table and ate cottage cheese out of the container using celery sticks to scoop it up. Protein, vegetable, done and done. I poured myself a glass of Diet Coke over ice and sipped it slowly, beginning to feel somewhat revived.

  Hooking up with another guy right now didn’t sound the least bit appealing. I was dog tired from my big day at the candy factory, wrapping taffy and hearing Spanish conversation from which I could only catch snippets of meaning.

  And I kept thinking about Jeremy which made me want to avoid men in general.

  Well, except for my brother-in-law. And my dad. If all men were like Rob and my dad, this world wouldn’t be in such a mess. Mr. Rahimian was very nice as well. He and his wife seemed quite happy. Maybe it was younger men, those in their twenties and early thirties that annoyed me. I should only date men in their forties and fifties. Rob was forty, six years older than Suzie.

  I emptied the cottage cheese container and tossed it in the trash. Assuming Jeremy and I were still married, he wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight. That kind of domestic routine had evaded him. He often stayed out late writing and who knew what else until midnight.

  Jeremy had women’s numbers saved in his cell phone. He had a few close female friends, women he had once dated and then kept on a strictly friends relationship. Or so he told me. He also had phone numbers of women he’d never spoken of, and I suspected the worst. Why did I snoop in my husband’s cell phone, you ask? Because, although suspicious, I wouldn’t want to accuse him falsely; I had to know the facts. Not that it did me any good.

  He always denied any wrong-doing. “They’re just friends, Karoline, what’s the big deal? Can’t we have friends of the opposite sex? If you wanted to go out to lunch or have a drink with a guy from work, I wouldn’t think anything about it. Go ahead, try me. You need to stop being jealous about some woman’s number in my phone.”

  He never admitted anything and I ended up feeling like a shrew overreacting at the slightest thing. Finally, I let it go and found it easier to bury my head in the sand as they say. Or bury myself in work. Either way, it was better than starting fights over something I couldn’t seem to control or change anyway.

  About a year after we were married, sex-talk calls began to
show up on our credit card bills. Porn sites popped up on both our computers, because for a sex addict, one porn-infected computer is never enough.

  I knew what Jeremy was. But I didn’t know what to do about it. Confront him? Denial. Catch him in a lie or some other compromising situation? Promises to change and vows of eternal love. “It doesn’t mean anything, babe. You are the only one I love.”

  I had threatened divorce before. First it was three years into our marriage. The Incident. I should have gone through with it. What kind of idiot stays with a man after catching him in bed with another woman?

  We had argued about the porn. He insisted that sex is a natural, healthy act and there’s nothing wrong with something that makes him better in bed. “We both benefit from it,” he argued. At first he tried to get me involved too, but after a few times I couldn’t watch the stuff. It felt wrong. I’m a person with a healthy sexual appetite, and neither he nor I had absolutely any problems in that area. I’m a multiple orgasm type of woman. It offended me that Jeremy thought we needed this for stimulation.

  It hurt that he viewed porn and called sex-talk numbers while knowing my feelings about it. It made me feel less of a woman, like I couldn’t satisfy him. I tried to make him see my way while he tried to convince me otherwise. I suspected him of having a serious problem with sex, an addiction, and I worried that it would lead to something worse. Jeremy loved sex. He had an insatiable appetite for it. I had feared that being married would make him feel restricted, and the day would come when I could no longer satisfy him and he’d look elsewhere.

  Most of the porn arguments had happened in the year leading up to the Incident. Our first year of marriage had been happy. Second year the pornography issue reared its ugly head. Third year it got worse, with the sex talk phone calls, the strange numbers showing up on his cell phone, the constant arguments, the staying out late night after night.