Angels in the Snow

by Rexanne Becnel

  “Lower it, stupid!” Alex shouted.

  “Turn up your so-called music, stupid,” Jennifer retorted.

  Charles suppressed an urge to send them both to their rooms. Instead he stood up and began stacking the dishes. “Let’s wash them together, okay?” He glanced briefly at Judith, then back at the dishes. He was so scared that his hands were shaking, but his very fear drove him on. He would not let their marriage end, no matter what she said. Somehow he would relight that spark. Somehow he would make her remember all the reasons she had once loved him. Long ago, before the children had been born, they’d washed dishes together every night. Although he didn’t expect his gesture now to win her over completely, he at least hoped it would be a start.

  If he could simply hold his emotions at bay he knew he could succeed. It was just like closing a deal with a reluctant seller. Bit by bit, point by point, as long as he was careful and thorough, and never gave up, he could make this sale. He’d retrieved enough deals from the brink of disaster to know it could be done. But only if he remained calm and in control of himself.

  That would be the hardest part.

  “Well,” he prompted her with a determined smile. “Are you going to relegate me to dishpan hands all alone?”

  When she met his gaze with a forced smile of her own, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or let down. “Do you want to wash or dry?” she asked.

  “Whatever you say.” He bobbled a glass but quickly caught it. “Maybe we can find a radio station playing Christmas carols.”

  The kitchen was sleek and efficient, with just enough natural wood to prevent it from appearing completely austere. The sink was a gleaming white three-bowl affair with the very latest in oil-rubbed bronze fixtures. It wasn’t designed for washing dishes by hand, for there was no provision for a dish drainer. Dishes were meant to go directly into the dishwasher. But Charles found an old-fashioned square drain rack in one of the lower cabinets and positioned it in one of the sinks. Two dish towels lay in the back of a drawer.

  “I’ll wash,” Judith said as she filled the sink.

  “Do you want gloves?”

  “No.”

  He watched as she placed dishes in the hot soapy water. Her hands were so graceful; they always had been.

  He leaned past her to reach the mini-entertainment center built into a wall cabinet. They both jumped as sound filled the room, and Charles quickly lowered it. He punched the scanning bar several times, leaping from some sports event to a weather report and then some preacher, before the radio honed in on seasonal music.

  As the strains of “The Holly and the Ivy” filled the kitchen, for the first time that day Charles felt himself begin to relax. The tune was so upbeat and joyous, even though this rendition had no words. Were there any words to this song?

  “Does this song have any words to it?” Judith asked.

  Charles laughed and took a glass from the rack. “I was just wondering that myself. I know the melody, but I can’t remember any words.”

  There was a short silence. She handed him another glass. “Do you think we could talk Alex into playing a few Christmas songs?” she asked in a noncommittal voice.

  A sudden poignancy filled Charles’s throat with emotion. “Remember the year Jennifer was born? We had Christmas Eve dinner with Doug and Cora. Cora was playing carols on that old piano she used to have.” He slowly dried a plate. “Alex was just a little thing.”

  “He was three.”

  “Yeah. Three years old. Remember how he stood on the piano bench next to Cora, singing his little heart out?”

  “On the first day of Christmas my two loves gave to me, a party in a pear tree.” Judith sang the version Alex had so innocently entertained them with those many years ago.

  “A party in a pear tree,” Charles repeated. “I wonder if he remembers that.” He reached for another plate and his hand touched Judith’s wet fingers.

  She released the plate and concentrated on the silverware. “That song has always been hard to remember—all those verses.”

  “Yeah.”

  The strains of “The Holly and the Ivy” were replaced by the smooth baritone of Bing Crosby. “Looks like we’ll definitely have our white Christmas this year,” Judith remarked.

  “Yeah.”

  They worked in silence, finishing the silverware and the casserole dish. From relaxed to edgy, somehow they were back to where they’d been before, and Charles didn’t know how it had happened. He fiddled with the dishcloth after the last dish was dried.

  “Judith,” he began abruptly. “I want this Christmas to be good for all of us. I think . . . I think that pretending to get along is not a good solution. We need to talk about why you’re so unhappy. Why you’re so unhappy with our marriage—and with me.”

  He was trembling inside by the time his words were finished. They had to be said and he needed her to respond. Yet he was petrified with fear at the prospect of her answer.

  Judith reached for her rings on the windowsill. One by one she slipped them on. The art deco one of onyx and baguette diamonds. The pearl one. And finally her wedding band. Then she looked up at him.

  “We need to talk? Yes, I suppose we do. But are you willing to listen, to hear what I say and not talk over me?”

  “I am listening, Judith. I am.”

  “Okay, then.” She lowered her gaze, took a deep breath, then looked up at him. “You’re a workaholic, and you’re never going to change—”

  “I work hard, yes,” he interrupted her. “But we have a good life. You have the time and money to do any damn thing you want, Jude. Anything at all. I even offered to set you up in a business all your own, if that’s what you wanted. I don’t tie you down. The kids don’t, either. Not anymore. Hell, you have more free time than any ten people I know!” He realized he was shouting when she took a step back from him.

  “I’m not complaining about that. You’re a good provider, Charles. I’ve never denied that. But when does it stop? When is enough enough? Our kids are growing up—and away from us. I’ve been raising our children alone, Charles. Alone. I feel like . . . like a single mother. So . . . why not become one?”

  For a long moment he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe what she’d said. “Jude. No.” He shook his head. “You’d abandon the kids—”

  “I wouldn’t be abandoning anybody,” she retorted in a frustrated tone. “Despite all your words to the contrary, you don’t need me. And I’ll still be there for Alex and Jenny.”

  Charles stiffened. How could she be so blind? “I do need you,” he choked out in barely more than a whisper. “How can you think I don’t?”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Not the way you once did.” She hurried away, leaving Charles alone. More alone than he’d ever been before.

  He folded the dish towel in his hands, then refolded it again. He did need her, as much as he ever had. In even more ways than he had twenty years ago. How could she think otherwise?

  Yet she did think otherwise, and that scared him. Even worse, however, was the question that he hadn’t asked her: if she needed him anymore. He was too afraid the answer was no.

  Chapter Four

  The house was warm. The fire blazed. The central heat was going full force. Though the snow came down in a thick white blanket and the wind howled around the corners of the house, the cold was kept at bay.

  But inside his heart, Charles felt frozen; numb and shivering. All he wanted was to retreat to the bedroom and crawl into the bed. Maybe then he’d get warm. Maybe then he could find solace in the blankness of sleep.

  But Judith was upstairs in their bedroom, and he was too afraid of another confrontation with her to risk going up there. Instead he scanned the meager offerings on the tall, narrow bookshelves and wondered if she would come downstairs again tonight.

  “You’ve watched that dorky show for an hour. It’s my turn now.”

  “Says who?” Jennifer challenged her older brother.

  “Says me, yo
u stupid wuss.”

  “You’re the wuss—”

  “Yeah, right. You’re showing your ignorance, wuss, ’cause the only wuss around here is you. Always has been. Always will be.”

  “You’re such a fool,” Jennifer spat right back. “Now, give me that remote!”

  “Come and get it, punk.”

  When Charles finally turned around to face his children, Alex was holding the remote control for the television up out of Jennifer’s reach, taunting her with it. “Come and get it,” he egged her on.

  “Daaaad!” Jennifer cried, stretching that one syllable into three. “Make him stop!”

  “She’s been hogging the TV ever since we got here. It’s my turn.”

  “For God’s sake, can’t you two ever cooperate? Here, give me that.” He grabbed the remote control unit from Alex, then punched at the various buttons until the television flicked off.

  Charles turned and glared at his two children. “There will be no more bickering. Do you understand me? No more.” He took a frustrated breath, then made himself speak more calmly. “There’s a bunch of games on that bottom shelf. Go get one and then sit at the table and play it. No!” He forestalled their protests before they could voice them. “I’m not giving you a choice in this. Now, go!” he thundered.

  If Charles had felt the chill of his family situation before, the furious silence he received now was positively arctic. Like wooden puppets, Alex and Jennifer did as he had ordered, but resentment was clear in even the least of their movements. A cabinet was jerked open; a game box was snatched out, then slammed down on the table. Two chairs were yanked back. One teetered and nearly fell over, but Alex righted it with a kick, then flung himself down on the seat.

  “C’mon, cheeseball. Let’s start this stupid game.” His words were directed at his sister, but his sullen gaze was focused on his father.

  “This is all your fault, butthead!” Jennifer’s words were a low hiss, but her tone was no less vehement.

  Charles whirled, ready to shout again. But the sight of his children—miserably hunched, flanking a worn gameboard and scattered plastic pieces—suddenly left him defeated. What was the point? They hadn’t been here three hours, and already Judith was avoiding him and the children hated him. How had he screwed up so badly?

  Disheartened, Charles made his way back to the kitchen. A shiver coursed through him and he decided to make a cup of hot chocolate. Then he spied the wall phone and changed direction.

  A few quick jabs of his finger, four short rings, and a familiar voice answered the phone.

  “Doug! It’s Charles again. How did things go with Garrington?”

  “Charles. I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight. What number are you calling from?”

  “The reception’s rotten, so I’m using the landline. And it’s pretty quiet around here. Makes me a little antsy.”

  “You gotta learn to relax, guy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And I will. It’ll just take a couple of days. So, did you get to Garrington?” Charles asked, settling himself on a chrome-and-leather kitchen stool.

  “Actually, I found out he and his wife are going to the Odyssey Christmas Ball tonight. Cora had bought tickets, although we weren’t going to attend. You’re a lot better at that social stuff than I am. But we’re going after all. Cora’s friend Beverly—that’s Richard Beasley’s wife—she’s going to introduce Cora to Garrington’s wife while I hobnob with the man himself. So . . .”

  “Sounds like you have it all under control.”

  “I’ll know in a couple of hours. Look, I gotta go finish getting dressed. How about I call you in the morning?”

  “Sure, sounds fine. Good luck, guy.”

  “Hey, like you always say, you make your own luck with guts and perseverance.”

  “With balls and belligerence.” Charles laughed.

  When he hung up the phone, he felt better. At least business was good. A muffled expletive brought him back to the moment.

  “You’re a dork!” Jennifer’s shrill cry came. “I hate you!”

  Before Alex’s retort could come—before Charles could force himself to deal with his children again—the unexpected chime of the doorbell echoed through the house.

  The doorbell? Charles glanced out the kitchen window to the thick snow striking silently against the triple-insulated glass. Who in their right mind would be out in such weather?

  “Dad! Somebody’s here!”

  “Don’t open the door!” Charles yelled as he hurried through the house. From the corner of his eye he saw Judith coming down the stairs, drawn by the still reverberating chime.

  He flipped on the outside light, opened the sleek inlaid front door, and stopped before the double glass storm doors. Outside, huddled on the front landing with the wind and snow whipping at them, were a group of heavily bundled people. A family, Charles realized when he recognized a child in the tallest figure’s arms. Two more children and a woman hugged one another for warmth behind the man.

  “Oh, my goodness.” Judith hurried up behind him and tried to open the doors.

  “Wait a minute, Jude.” Charles pulled her back.

  “We can’t leave them out there—”

  “I know. I know. But you need a key for the storm doors. Here.” He fished around in his pocket for the key ring Rogers had given him. In a moment he had the doors opened and the pitiful group stumbled into the small foyer.

  “Come in. Come in,” Judith said as Charles forced the doors closed against the bitter cold. It was a lot worse out there than he’d realized. And the wind! It was ferocious.

  “Thank you,” the man mumbled past his frost-encrusted mustache. “Thank you.” He shuffled stiffly forward, out of the crowded entry alcove into the foyer. He still held the child tight, but one of his hands moved in a jerky fashion up the little one’s back. The woman and the two older children seemed to be holding one another up; they were too frozen to do more than hobble forward.

  For a moment there was complete silence. The newcomers huddled together, still coated with snow and edged with a hoary frost on their eyebrows and around their mufflers.

  “We were in an accident . . . Our van . . .” The man trailed off, as if even talking took too much energy.

  Charles was torn between natural feelings of caution, and irritation that a bunch of strangers had suddenly been forced upon them. What were they supposed to do with them?

  Judith rose to the occasion. She closed the inner door. “Alex, get blankets and sweaters—any dry clothes, socks. Anything. Jenn, make hot chocolate. Lots of it. Go!” she ordered when they hesitated.

  “You want us to bring our clothes down here for them to wear? Our clothes?” Jennifer asked. On her face was an expression of incredulity.

  Charles couldn’t help but silently agree with her.

  “Yes, Jennifer.” Judith gave her a stern look. “You have enough for three people up there.”

  “Don’t worry, Jenn. I’ll be real careful in what I select.” Alex smiled sarcastically.

  “Don’t you dare touch any of my clothes,” Jennifer snapped. She shot her mother a pained look. “I’ll do it.”

  “Please. You don’t have to put yourselves out for us,” the man interjected through teeth chattering from the cold. “I know we’re disturbing you. We . . . we just need to get warm and . . . and call someone.”

  “You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Judith contradicted. “We can dry your own clothes quick enough and give them back to you. Now get going,” she ordered her two children. There was nothing to do but take these people in, Charles knew. They couldn’t leave them outside in this weather with no other houses around for miles. But he didn’t have to like it.

  Under Judith’s direction the family laid down their knapsacks and other clutched bundles. The man was fortyish, as was his wife. The three children—a boy around thirteen or fourteen, a girl a little younger than Jennifer, and another little girl, five or so—all appeared to be in a state of shock
. They just stood there as Judith rushed around trying to make them more comfortable.

  “Charles, come help me,” she ordered.

  He did as she instructed, though he didn’t really want to. They helped remove wet shoes and socks from the children’s frozen feet. They replaced their icy pants with warm thermal underwear and layered on sweatshirts, sweaters, and blankets. The three children didn’t say a word. They only did as directed: stuck out an arm or leg as necessary.

  Jennifer and Alex stood to the side watching everything. For once they were both at a loss for words. But Jennifer frowned when the middle girl was folded into her pink-striped robe.

  The man and the woman helped each other as best they could, but their movements were awkward and interrupted by violent shivers.

  “We hit an ice patch,” the man said when he had caught his breath enough to speak. “About a mile up the road. I veered to avoid a rabbit. The van spun . . . We would have gone over the edge, but a big old oak caught us—”

  “You’re okay now,” Judith murmured as she pressed a mug of hot chocolate into his hands. “Can you hold this?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Thanks,” he added with a shaky smile.

  Charles had the younger girl on his lap. He’d just pulled one of Jennifer’s sweaters over her head when she started to struggle away from him.

  “Mama!”

  “Hold on,” he muttered. “Just wait while I get these socks on you. Jennifer, don’t just stand there. Help me.”

  “Me? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Josie, hush, sweetie. I’m here.”

  The woman fell stiffly to her knees and put her arms around the little girl, rocking her in the ageless way parents always have. With that movement, she seemed to release all the emotions the entire family had been holding back. The little girl, Josie, began to cry. Her mother began to cry. The two older children—now dressed in a motley collection of Alex’s and Jennifer’s clothes—burrowed weeping into their father’s arms, and for a long moment there was no talking.