Candy Cane Calaboose

by Spaeth, Janet

  “How did you come to that?” she pressed, finding that she really did want to know. “I mean, was it always like that, or did you have some kind of experience, or what? And please tell me if I’m being too snoopy.”

  “I’m always glad to share my story. I was raised Chris-tian. I went to Sunday school and to church. I’d accepted Jesus as in I accepted Him without thinking, the same way you accept a bit of snow in the winter or a pleasant day in June. But when I really accepted Him in my heart and my mind and my soul was in church one Sunday. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  Abbey nodded. “Please.”

  “I must have been growingly aware of the lack of something in my life, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. And then, one day in church, the gospel reading was the story of Jesus and the lame man. You know, where Jesus says, essentially, throw away your cane, your crutch, your mat, and get up and walk.”

  “That did it?”

  “I realized at that moment that it was very simple. I had to put aside the ‘canes’ I used in my everyday life—for me, that meant the whole slew of excuses I’d use to get out of anything that would require me to lay my heart on the line, like I didn’t have the time, or it was someone else’s turn to do the work—and get up and walk on my own, with Him.”

  “And that’s what you did.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” he corrected. “It’s all a process, which is why so many people refer to it as a path. I’m still walking and stumbling.”

  “I can’t believe that little Bible story did all that,” Abbey said. “I’d always thought it would a big knock-you-off-your-feet experience.”

  “I was sitting down when it happened, so I can’t speak to that,” he answered, his eyes gleaming. “But even the little things are what make the big things happen. Like the fire. You started by lighting the kindling, little bits of wood that burn out quickly. But the kindling sparked the twigs, which lit the small sticks, which lit the logs.”

  “The Parable of the Fireplace.”

  He laughed. “Well, you get the idea. We now have a wonderful fire keeping us warm, and that’s my point. From that one thin match came this great blaze.”

  “I don’t know,” Abbey said doubtfully. “I need to think about it.”

  “I’ll pray for you,” he said. “I can do it right now if you’d like.”

  The radio chose that moment to burst forth with renewed life and issue an updated weather bulletin: “. . .Storm has diminished. . .plows are out now. . .tomorrow. . .”

  The lights flickered on, and the furnace clicked into operation.

  “You don’t need to,” she said. “I think my prayers have just been answered.”

  ❧

  Mike concentrated as he drove along. He knew he shouldn’t be out yet, but with his vehicle in four-wheel drive, he’d be all right. And Golden Meadows wasn’t that far away.

  He’d had to leave. He knew now that more than anything he wanted Abbey to know the Lord the way he did. That’s asking a lot, isn’t it? he questioned God. He knew what the answer was.

  She’d have to do it on her own terms, in her own way. For everybody it was different. He could feel her hunger for faith, her thirst for salvation. All he could do was give her the kindling and hope the fire caught.

  His vehicle still hadn’t warmed up, and at the first stoplight he rubbed his hands together. Now that the storm was over, the sun was out, making the late morning seem warmer than it was. Once the snowplows got out and did their job, the only evidence of the morning’s blizzard would be the deep piles of snow scooped aside by the plow blades.

  God had asked him to watch over Abbey, and it was a burden he had accepted. Was what he had shared this morning too much—or not enough?

  His advice to Abbey about worry came back to him. He could continue to worry, turning his thoughts over and over in his mind in the futile hope that he’d see something new there, or he could do what he should do. He could examine the reason for his concern and give it back to the Lord in prayer.

  But the questions in her eyes did something strange to his heart, and for once it was very hard to take his own advice.

  fourteen

  A small snowplow was already clearing the lot at Golden Meadows. Mike pulled into a parking space and gave the snowplow driver a jaunty wave before dashing into the retirement home.

  The snow had drifted against the west side of the doorway, and over the top of the pile he could just make out the curious faces of some residents who were checking the aftermath of the storm.

  When he came through the door, they surrounded him, chattering about the excitement of the blizzard. One woman pushed her walker closer. “Wasn’t that something, Sweet? We couldn’t see past the edge of the parking lot!”

  The fellow standing beside her frowned. “Snow is snow, Marlys. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen snow before.”

  The woman beamed at him happily. “Actually, I’ve never seen a blizzard before at all! I came here from Florida.”

  The grumpy man seemed somewhat abashed. “Well, a blizzard is just snow with some oomph, that’s all.”

  Another woman, who stood behind him, rolled her eyes expressively. “It was exciting. They had to use the generator since the power went off. Did it go off where you were?”

  Mike nodded. “But it’s back on now.”

  He’d been scanning the group, but he hadn’t seen his grandmother, which was unusual since something this exciting should have sent her down to watch the storm and its aftermath. Maybe she had gone to visit someone or to pick up an item at the small store here at Golden Meadows.

  He asked about her, and the group discussed her absence with enthusiasm and concern. “I didn’t see her at breakfast,” the first woman said, “but a lot of people chose to stay in their rooms this morning. Storms do that to some folks. They just hole up.”

  “We had oatmeal with raisins for breakfast,” the grouchy man offered. “There’s some as what don’t like that. Maybe that’s it. I didn’t come down because I can’t abide raisins. Nasty little things. Stick in your teeth. Not a fan of oatmeal either. Horrid glop that tastes like somebody forgot to finish cooking it.”

  “Oh, John, you are such an old crank. Can’t you lighten up?” Marlys said.

  The man who had talked to Abbey and Mike about relationships joined the group. His long-sleeved shirt was neatly pressed, and he leaned on his cane. “Is Mrs. Thorson under the weather?”

  “I hope not,” Mike said, but he didn’t like the sinking feeling in his stomach. Claire adored breakfast, especially oatmeal with raisins. If anything happened to her. . . It was too painful to even think about.

  “I’m sure she’s okay,” Mike told them reassuringly, “but I’d better go up and see her.”

  “You do that,” the man said, turning to leave. “She’s a good woman, almost as good as my Eleanor, may she rest in peace. Tell her Albert Caldwell asked about her.”

  The group resumed their watch of the man on the snowplow as he continued to scrape the snow out of the parking lot.

  ❧

  Abbey attacked the snowdrift that locked her car in. She really needed to get a better shovel than the one she’d inherited with the house. This one was ungainly, and as much snow slid back onto its original spot as was left on the blade of the shovel.

  She probably should have insisted that Mike take her along to Golden Meadows. Then she could have easily asked him to give her a ride to Cedar Mall.

  Her back protested as a sudden realization brought her upright. She had never picked up the present from Aunt Luellen.

  This was getting ridiculous. How hard would it be to go out there and pick it up? She made a mental note to go out there and get the gift later in the day, once the snow-plows had cleared the roads. . .and she’d gotten out of her driveway.

  She jammed the shovel into the snow and looked at her handiwork. All she’d succeeded in doing was demolishing the drift from a smooth pile of snow into a ragged heap. But i
t was not a bit smaller.

  Maybe if she backed out as quickly as she could, she’d clear it. It was worth a try.

  She headed back inside to get dressed for work. There might even be enough hot water by now for her to take a shower.

  The red light on her answering machine was blink-ing. She pushed the button and heard the voice of the manager of Cedar Mall, clearly reading a prepared message: “The lots are being cleared by snowplows, but to ensure the safety of the drivers as well as our employees, we are requesting that you do not come into work until the parking areas are done. The mall will reopen at five p.m. today.”

  She was tempted to ignore the dictum. Those reports were waiting, and she could get so much done before the mall opened. But she knew that mall management was serious when they made these policies, and she did not want to tangle with them. So she resigned herself to spending the rest of the day inside. There was a book on the end table that she had started reading in the summer that she could start in on again.

  Abbey got the book and sat down with it. She opened it to the spot that was bookmarked and read for a few lines. It made no sense. She’d have to start it again.

  Well, that was okay, she told herself. She could do that. She turned to the front of the book and began to read.

  Coffee. Another cup of coffee would be nice. She made a pot and sat down once more with the book. Two pages later she was up again, looking for something to eat.

  “Oh, give it up, Abbey,” she scolded herself out loud. “You’re more antsy than an August picnic.” She paced through the house until she finally sank down onto the couch.

  It wasn’t just the forced house arrest that bothered her. It was Mike. . .and what he’d said.

  What exactly was it about him? She’d known him, somewhat, for many years, but lately their lives had become conjoined, primarily because of those goofy frog slippers that Aunt Luellen had sent to her instead of Claire.

  Abbey had long ago taken the idea of loving someone and shelved it in the back of her mind, right next to religion. She had always intended that one day, when she was settled in her career, her MBA in hand, she would look into love and faith. But with Mike, they came perilously close to arriving hand in hand.

  This wasn’t the way she had planned it, not at all. She had plans for her life, a career plan. It was what she had talked to the young women at his church about.

  What made her life work for her, what gave her days shape and meaning, was her career. She was good at what she did. She’d brought Trends back from being on the brink of closing to one of the most financially stable businesses in the mall. She had done it because she was focused. She’d started young, identified her strengths, and built on them.

  What was wrong with that?

  Aunt Luellen used to talk about the parable of the talents. It was everyone’s responsibility, Aunt Luellen had told her, to make the most of the gifts God had given them. Wasn’t that exactly what Abbey was doing? And rather than running ahead, helter-skelter into the future, she’d laid out a path to follow.

  The problem was that people kept stepping onto her path. People like Mike. And what had become painfully clear to her since her growing friendship with Mike was what she hadn’t included in her plan: fun.

  That Bible verse that was tucked into the toe of one of the slippers sprang to her mind: “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” That was Mike. He certainly was having a good time with God. Was that his secret?

  The phone rang, and she leaped to answer it. It was probably mall management, telling her that the parking lots were cleared, so she could go to work. . .assuming she’d be able back out.

  But it wasn’t the monotone voice of the mall manager. It was Mike, and he began without preamble: “Claire is ill. Very ill.”

  fifteen

  Abbey paused in midmotion, the scarf she was knotting around her neck hanging from her numb fingers. She must have heard him wrong. “Ill? What do you mean? How ill?”

  “She’s feeling dizzy, and she says she has pains.” Mike’s voice was calm, but Abbey could hear the worry behind the words.

  “What kind of pains? Chest pains?”

  “No, stomach pains. Probably something she ate.”

  Abbey realized that the scarf was now trailing in her coffee cup, and she pulled it out and swabbed at it as she spoke. “Is she in the hospital?”

  Mike hesitated a moment before answering. “She refuses to go.”

  “Refuses to go?” Abbey realized she was nearly shouting and forced herself to moderate her speech. “Why on earth won’t she go?”

  Mike’s pause was even longer, and when he spoke, Abbey could hear his stark fear. “She says she wants to die at home in her own bed.”

  Abbey’s world collapsed. “Die?”

  He spoke so softly she had to struggle to hear him. “She always said that when she died, she wanted to do it in her own bed, and preferably around Christmas. She wants to spend Christmas in heaven. . .where there’s bound to be a birthday party the likes of which earth has never seen.”

  “No, no. She’s not going to die, is she? She’s not going to die! Please tell me she isn’t.” This was not the way things were supposed to happen. Abbey had just gotten attached to Claire. She couldn’t let her go.

  He became reassuring. “It’s probably not that major—at least that’s the sense I got from the nursing staff. A doctor did come in and check on her. Praise God that he had been on ER duty at the hospital and had walked over to visit his own father at Golden Meadows. It’s just a short trip, but I guess it took him quite awhile since he waded through snow. The plows hadn’t been out yet.”

  “Well, if a doctor has seen her. . .”

  “But I have to be realistic.”

  “I don’t like realistic.” She was aware that she sounded like a little child, but that was exactly how she felt—small and powerless. Realistic was sickness and pain and parting. It wasn’t good, especially now.

  “She’s not young. Every illness is a stress for her. All we can do is pray for her.” The words hung in the air. “Please pray for her, Abbey.” Then he hung up the phone.

  Pray for her!

  Didn’t you have to be a Christian to do that? She didn’t know how to pray, not really. She’d learned as a child that it wasn’t right to pray for a bicycle—her aunt had straightened her out on that one—but that was about the extent of her knowledge on the subject.

  She didn’t want Claire to be sick, and she particularly didn’t want her to die. Please, please, make her all right.

  Well, she’d just have to leave the praying to Mike.

  Abbey poured herself another cup of coffee and carried it into the living room. She sank onto the couch and didn’t even bother with the pretense of trying to read one of the magazines piled on the end table.

  Make her better.

  She couldn’t abide sitting here a minute longer. She had to do something. Abbey put her cooling coffee on the kitchen counter and pulled on her boots. She was going to go to Golden Meadows.

  The sky was a bright, clear blue now that the storm had passed, and the sun hurt her eyes. The world looked sculpted in snow. A single storm can change everything, she mused. One storm blows through and another takes its place, she thought. First snow, and now this. Her emotions were battered.

  The demolished snowdrift was still behind her car, and she studied it briefly. At just the right angle, she could make it through.

  But then she saw the impediment that she could not cross.

  The snowplows had been by, and the end of her driveway was blocked with the snow the plows had pushed in. Heavy chunks of compacted snow and ice lay in a thick, impenetrable ridge. There was absolutely no way to get through that with her car. It had to be shoveled out, or preferably taken out with a plow or a strong snowblower. All she had was this insufficient shovel.

  Once again, she was ill-prepared for the storm. Abbey sighed. Was everything a metaphor?
<
br />   She mounded her hands over the end of the shovel and rested her chin on her knuckles as she surveyed her predicament. She was really locked in now. It would take her all afternoon to break through. . .if she were lucky. Experience had told her that she was not getting out any time soon.

  Thwarted by a snowstorm.

  Hot tears pressed against her eyelids. Why did she even care about this old woman? And what did she hope to accomplish by going to Golden Meadows, anyway? It wasn’t as if she could help Claire. She was a store manager, not a miracle worker.

  Why did Claire have to get sick? And why couldn’t she just go to the hospital? That’s what most people did. They got sick, and they went to the hospital to get better. Why wouldn’t she do it? This wasn’t fair!

  Abbey slammed her fist onto the side of her car. It was all wrong. Claire needed to be well.

  She abandoned the effort to dig herself out and put the inadequate little shovel back into its spot in her garage and went back inside. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, but it was bitter on her tongue.

  The coffee at Golden Meadows was good. She remembered the conversation with the man who had spoken to them on her first visit. His Eleanor was lucky indeed. Would Abbey ever find a love as real as theirs?

  God, save Claire.

  She paced through her small house. All she could think of was a single phrase: God, save Claire. God, save Claire. God, save Claire.

  Suddenly her feet stopped their mindless steps. She was praying. She, Abbey Jensen, was praying! For the first time in years, she was praying for someone else. And it felt terrific.

  She continued: God, save Claire. The words were simple, but they said it all. In her mind, she could picture the elderly woman, her nearly sightless eyes still alert behind the substantial lenses. The Bible, such a sign of her faith, centered in her room—as it must have centered in her life.

  And those slippers. Those goofy frog slippers with the fake gemstone eyes. Claire hadn’t even opened them yet.

  What had Aunt Luellen written on the note? “Wishing you great hoppy-ness always.” That’s what Abbey wanted for her too. Great hoppy-ness.