by Sandra Balzo
‘Thundersnow,’ I said as more of Mother Nature’s artillery rumbled. ‘Isn’t it cool?’
‘Isn’t it cool?’ a voice behind me mimicked disgustedly. Jacque put his palm on my shoulder and nudged me out of the way.
Oui’d better watch himself or I’d tell our new sheriff what Frenchy had called Pavlik’s prized hog.
‘Sheriff, you give me the hand with my baby?’
Pavlik blinked. ‘Your...?'
‘My treasure.’ Jacque gestured toward his rapidly disappearing car. ‘It is the Peugeot, one of many classics from the country of my birth.’ He put his hand to his heart. ‘I love it the way in which you love your motor scooter.’
‘My motor...?’
‘Fat Boy,’ I furnished.
Pavlik sent me a dark look. Talk about shooting the messenger.
‘Please?’ Jacque steepled his hands. ‘I implore you.’
Pavlik stepped out to get a better look. ‘I think we’re going to need a third person to get “your baby” out of that ditch.’
The words ‘your baby’ had a gratifyingly sarcastic edge to them.
‘One of us will have to steer,’ the sheriff continued, ‘while two of us push.’
Brookhills’ finest and the French Foreign Legionnaire looked toward me.
‘No way, boys. I don’t even have a jacket, much less a winter coat.’ Which prompted me to eye Pavlik’s leather number. ‘Unless, of course -’
‘Need help?’ a voice interrupted. Rudy Fischer, The Barber of Brookhills, had come up behind Pavlik while I was committing faux-foreplay with the sheriff’s jacket.
‘That’d be great,’ Pavlik said, watching me suspiciously as I rubbed the cuff of his sleeve. ‘Maybe you can drive while Jacque and I push.’
‘I am the only one who will drive the Peugeot,’ announced Jacque Oui. ‘As I say before, she is my baby.’
Yeah, yeah, yeah - your baby. We get it.
Pavlik hesitated. Although Rudy seemed well-conditioned, he had to be nearing seventy, which transformed ‘well-conditioned’ into a relative compliment.
‘Not to worry, Sheriff,’ Rudy said, sensing Pavlik’s indecision. ‘My personal trainer says that I’m in better shape than most forty-year-olds.’ He looked disparagingly at Jacque, who was probably teetering on the brink of leaving his thirties.
‘My “personal” trainer?’ This time Jacque was mimicking Rudy, which was much more to my liking. ‘But, tell me, in what manner does my ex-wife train you?’
Pavlik looked at me, puzzled, but I didn’t have any light to shed on what Jacque was talking about.
If Rudy himself understood, he chose to laugh it off. ‘“To everything there is a season,’ he quoted, plucking at the gloves in his pocket. ‘And yours, my French predecessor, is over.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Umm, Jacque. Shouldn’t we get “your baby” out of the ditch?’
The overly proud papa just nodded stiffly and the three men went out into the storm, wading through the snow like it was water.
Or maybe more like mud.
‘The snow is really wet,’ I said, turning to Caron.
She was mopping up the drift I’d let in by holding the door open and gave me a dirty, ‘tell-me-about-it’ look. I turned back and watched as Jacque climbed into the car and started it.
Because the Peugeot was hood-and-bumper into the ditch, Rudy and Pavlik moved in front and pushed, while Jacque put the Peugeot into reverse and stepped on the gas. Two or three rocking tries, but no luck. However, on (by my count) the sixth, the Peugeot was finally back on the road.
As Rudy and Pavlik waved, Jacque drove a half-block down Brookhill Road, turned left onto Civic Drive and then left again into the Benson Plaza parking lot, coming to a stop in a space not twenty feet from where his car had been stuck.
I could see Pavlik and Rudy exchange exasperated looks.
‘Aren’t you going back to Schultz’s?’ I said to the fishmonger extraordinaire as he came to the door of Uncommon Grounds.
‘A cappuccino first, I think,’ Jacque said, tracking snow-to-slush over Caron’s rug and up to the counter.
With my partner chasing Jacque with more paper towels, it fell to me to make his drink. A cappuccino is one-third espresso, one-third steamed milk and one-third frothed milk. For myself, I preferred lattes, which are one-third espresso and two-thirds steamed milk, with just a dollop of froth, if any.
Since a latte costs the same as a cappuccino, but contains the same amount of espresso and twice the milk, I figure it’s a better deal. Still, if people were willing to pay me for air, in the form of the steam that froths the milk, I was all for it.
‘That’ll be $4.95,’ I said, putting the drink on the counter.
Jacque pulled out his money as Rudy and Pavlik came in. ‘I buy you the drink for your help, gentlemen?’
‘A cup of black coffee sounds good,’ Rudy said, taking off his coat and laying it on the back of a chair.
‘Not for me,’ Pavlik said. He came around to the open side of the U-shaped front counter and I went to meet him.
He gave me a kiss and I brushed snowflakes off the shoulder of his jacket. Slowly. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK on that bike?’
‘Nah, it’s gotten too bad out for me to try for home. I just called in to the department, and a squad is going to pick me up.’
‘Good,’ I said gratefully.
He canted his head toward our picture window. ‘All right if I pull the Harley up onto the sidewalk next to your store?’
‘Of course.’ At least that way any overhang of the roof would protect his bike a bit. ‘Why don’t you have your deputy drop you back here at six when I get off? The streets should be cleared by then. We can go to my house and I’ll make you dinner.’
‘Deal,’ Pavlik said. ‘And maybe we can light a blaze in that big old fireplace of yours.’
And shut that big old sheepdog of mine in the bedroom. Pavlik was already lighting my fire. He, me and a smoldering log. Snow in May was suddenly the best thing that ever happened to me.
A cruiser with its bubble lights rotating, but no siren blaring, pulled to our door. As Pavlik went out to move his bike, I had an idea.
‘Any chance I can catch a ride to my house with you?’ I asked, following him.
He pushed the Harley over the curb cut and up onto the sidewalk. ‘Are you done for the day? I thought you wanted to meet here at six.’
‘I’m coming back. I just need to let Frank out.’
‘In a blizzard?’
‘I promised him.’ Deep solemnity in my voice.
To his credit, Pavlik didn’t question a pact with my sheepdog. But then, Pavlik had met Frank.
‘We can give you a lift there,’ he said, ‘but you’re going to have to get back on your own.’
‘Not a problem,’ I said.
I stuck my head back inside the store. ‘Caron, Pavlik is going to drop me off at my house so I can let Frank out.’
She just looked at me.
‘I promised.’
‘Fine,’ Caron said, after gazing momentarily skyward. ‘But hurry back, I have an appointment at one o’clock this afternoon.’
‘I’ll be back within the hour,’ I said. ‘Is Amy scheduled today?’
Caron shook her head. ‘No, but she’s on-call if we need her.’
Amy was our one and only employee, but she was a great catch. Legendary, even. Multiply pierced and with rainbow-striped hair, she was the punked-out rock star of baristas, the bartenders of the coffee world.
Our star barista also was as out of place in Brookhills on her end of the spectrum, as Sarah was at the other.
I glanced back toward where the cruiser was waiting. The storm didn’t show signs of letting up anytime soon.
‘Other than additional people who land in our ditch, I can’t imagine we’ll have many walk-ins this afternoon,’ I said. ‘I doubt we need to bring Amy out into -’ as I held the door open, I gestured toward the avalanche of f
lakes - ‘this.’
‘I agree, assuming you’re back before I have to leave for my appointment,’ Caron said, with an arched eyebrow I’d come to know and dread.
‘I’ll be back, Mom.’
‘By twelve thirty.’
‘Not a minute later.’
Caron played grouch. ‘If I don’t see you by half-past, we’ll fly the flag at half-mast. And, I’ll have to call Amy to help me.’
Subtlety did not come easily to my business partner. It was only after I climbed into the back of the squad that I realized if our land line was out, as Jacque had reported, Caron wouldn’t be able to call Amy. Hopefully for Caron, she’d brought her cellular to Uncommon Grounds. Hopefully for Amy, she hadn’t.
Pavlik closed the car door behind me, leaving his principal squeeze caged in the rear seat alone, while he took the front passenger one. I didn’t recognize the female deputy who was driving.
‘I’m Maggy Thorsen,’ I said, unable to stick my hand through the divider between us in order to shake on it. ‘Thanks so much for the ride.’
She nodded. ‘My pleasure, Ma’am. Where to?’
I gave her directions and settled back as Pavlik got on the radio to let his office know he was on the way in to what, given what I was seeing, would probably prove to be chaos.
The snow was blanketing not only the ground, but the trees and shrubs as well. Absolutely beautiful, but destructive to the plant life that was, foolishly or bravely, already starting to bud, even blossom.
The overhead lines were hanging low from the weight of the sodden stuff clamped onto them. No wonder we’d lost phone service. It would be a miracle if the electricity didn’t go as well, before this was all over.
As we pulled in front of my house, I saw that the daffodils were already buried under the snow. I might have had a chance to glimpse the tulips, which were taller, if the white-tailed deer that roamed the area hadn’t eaten the Dutch beauties the moment they started to bloom.
Red, white - it didn’t matter. The only tulips the deer left alone were the yellow ones, because I suspect they mistook them for daffodils.
Dumb deer.
And dumber snow, I thought as I climbed out of the squad into it.
Chapter 3
Jake Pavlik rolled down the squad’s window to talk to me. ‘You’re going to have to shovel this driveway if you’re going to get your car back into the garage.’
I barely glanced at the foot-plus already covering the asphalt drive. ‘My car’s on the blink, and I plan to leave it in the repair shop until the thaw cometh.’
Pavlik ‘blinked’ himself, maybe because of the wind-blown flakes landing on his long dark lashes - the kind we women are never born with - or maybe, just maybe, because I had finally confounded him. ‘Then how are you going to get back to the store?’
‘Walk.’ I was busy digging the house keys from my purse.
He shook his head. ‘Not a good option.’
‘Oh? And what would you suggest?’ I was hoping for the offer of a ride back.
‘Got a sturdy set of cross country skis?’
So much for my taxi service.
‘Or maybe put Frank to work as a sled dog.’ Pavlik’s eyes were luminescent blue as he chucked me playfully on the arm.
Mush, mush.
I tried to salvage the tender moment by thinking about Pavlik and the fire later that night, definitely sans sled dog or sheepdog.
‘I suppose we could -’ The cruiser’s radio squawked, interrupting him.
I stepped back from the passenger window. ‘I’ll be fine. You go. Just pick me up in front of Uncommon Grounds at six.’
And with that, he did. Damn him.
‘I’ll call you before I come,’ Pavlik called out the window.
I started to tell him the store phone line was out and he’d have to call my cell, but he’d already rolled the window up against the storm and was back on the radio.
Oh, well, Pavlik had been elected sheriff by a majority of the voters in our county. He’d figure it out.
I slogged up the driveway, registering the fact that the thunder, which seemed to wane as we drove, had gotten louder again. Mounting the porch steps to the back door, I put the key in the lock just as a particularly loud BOOM-CRACK sounded.
As if the lightning from whence the thunder came had hit something.
As the sound echoed and then reverberated at double the first crescendo, I turned my key. Cracking the door open so Frank wouldn’t mow me down like he usually did, I heard a panicked whimpering, followed by a thud-thud-thud.
Poor Frank. I couldn’t even imagine what damage, psychic and otherwise, had been done to him. Besides having a full bladder, the sheepdog hated thunderstorms.
‘It’s OK, Frankie,’ I called, like some demented doggy-mommy. ‘I’m coming.’
I traced the pathetic whining to my bedroom and found Frank half under my bed. Actually, that’s not technically true. The only part of him that fit under the bed was his head.
‘C’mon Frankie-boy,’ I crooned. ‘It’s OK, Mommy’s here.’
God, sometimes I appall even myself.
Frank did his best to back out, but his big furry head and my slippery hardwood floor were combining to defeat him. As he struggled, the bed, which had been in the middle, walked itself steadily across the room. The ‘thud’, of course. And the feet of the bed had etched long scratches into the wood of the floor.
‘Wait, Frank,’ I ordered. ‘I’m going to lift up the bed. You pull your head out.’
Frank’s stub of a tail wagged.
‘One, two, three,’ I counted, as I slipped my hands under the box spring and pulled up.
Success. Frank skittered out from under the bed, landing me on my butt and sending scads of under-bed dust bunnies scudding.
Nature isn’t alone in abhorring a vacuum.
‘You big lug.’ I hugged Frank. ‘You’re not a puppy anymore. You can’t hide under the bed.’
Frank cocked his head, as if to ask exactly where he was supposed to hide.
As I considered the point, another boomer hit. Frank jumped and landed in my lap, shaking like a 110-pound leaf as the thunderclap rolled.
When it finally ended, he climbed off me, looking slightly embarrassed. Padding over to the corner, he paused and looked even more ashamed.
‘Aww, Frank,’ I said. ‘Did you piddle?’
‘Piddle’ was a euphemism, not to mention a huge understatement. Frank’s puddle of piddle could cause localized flooding.
I mopped up the pee with a roll of paper towels and, stuffing them in the trash bag, checked the clock. Eleven fifty-eight and I’d told Caron I’d be back by twelve thirty.
I went to the door and opened it to let Frank out. He stuck his nose into the storm and swiveled back to me as if to say, ‘Are you crazy?’
Then he turned and padded away disinterestedly. I suppose it was possible that, given the lake he’d created inside, he no longer felt the need to go outside. I hoped it didn’t become a habit. I’d be forced to buy one hell of a litter box.
Beachfront property available.
‘I have to leave, Frank,’ I told him. ‘But I’ll be back at six.’
He was following on my heels now, the closest to herding behavior I’d seen the sheepdog actually do.
I pulled my Columbia jacket off a hanger in the closet, grabbed my boots and dug out a pair of gloves from the ‘glove basket’ on the shelf. The first pair I pulled out were Ted’s old ski-gloves. Then Eric’s orange and yellow ‘Big Bird’ mittens. The ones that only a four-year-old, infatuated with Sesame Street, could love. And a mother would keep.
Eric was nineteen now. Perhaps it was time to purge the glove basket.
I chose my black gloves and hoisted the basket back up on the closet shelf. As I did, one of the Big Bird mitties dropped to the floor. Frank immediately picked it up and started to whimper.
I knelt down and patted him. ‘I know you miss Eric. I do, too. But, just think, it�
��s already May. He’ll be home right after exams.’
Frank seemed skeptical. I hoped he didn’t know something about my son’s studies that I’d managed to miss.
‘And,’ I said, going for cheery, ‘I’ll be home in just a couple hours.’
More skepticism.
‘OK, six hours.’
Frank let out a huge sigh. Then, as if I’d asked for it, he padded over to his piddle place and poured me a new one.
‘Now that was uncalled for,’ I said.
God knows how I’d raised a child. I couldn’t even control a sheepdog.
Another crash of thunder sent Frank skidding back to me.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked him. ‘Take you with me?’
He ran to the door.
I opened it, thinking he had to go out. You know, pee for a third time.
But Frank wasn’t going anywhere without me, apparently. Nor, if he had anything to say about it, was I going to go anywhere without him.
He stood crosswise at the top of the porch stairs, blocking my way until I relented and got the leash. Then he pranced up to me.
‘You’re not supposed to be at the store,’ I said. Then, hoping that Frank wasn’t current on Wisconsin business law concerning partnerships, I tried: ‘Caron will fire me.’
Frank rolled his eyes. I know, because his eyebrow tufts twitched.
I checked my watch. After twelve. Caron was already ticked because I’d been late this morning. ‘I promised to be back by twelve thirty,’ I told Frank.
He danced at the top of the steps, happy to let me secure the leash for the walk. With a reluctant glance at the puddle he’d made and that I’d left, I secured the door and followed.
Despite his fear of thunder when he was in the house, Frank seemed to take it in stride during our walk. Me, I wasn’t taking anything in stride. More like half-strides, with a dose of stumbling for good measure.
The snow was getting deeper. Maybe I’d call my neighbors when I got to the store and see if their son Petey could come over and shovel. In fact, I'd do that from my cellphone right now, if I could see the tiny screen in front of my face.
With the wind whipping and the snow falling in curtains, I could barely tell where I was going. Happily, Frank seemed to know and I just rode his dog-tail, hoping he wasn’t going to pull me off my feet and drag me for a block or two. Pavlik had been right. I should have used a dog-sled, ala the Iditarod race in Alaska.
