by Alma Boykin
Alicia leaned around and read the thermometer set in the milk. “It says seventy degrees.”
“Thank you.” He added yeast to the milk and began stirring the eggs and melted butter into the dry ingredients.
Alicia hunted through the row of cookbooks until she found one for game and looked up a recipe for venison. They had everything necessary, and the process didn’t vary too much from making beef stew. The oven finished heating and she turned it off, cracking the door open a little. She’d seen the mess made by bread that rose too fast. Happy little yeasties got a little too happy.
Mr. Mills finished the bread and set it in the oven to rise. As he cleaned up, Alicia chopped potatoes and two onions, and selected a can of tomatoes to go with the carrots that he’d already brought up from the root cellar. After one look at the cellar, Alicia had decided to hide from tornados in the closet rather than to venture outside and under the house to the tiny hole in the dirt. But it did keep the potatoes, apples, carrots, beets, and other root vegetables fresh.
Rain began pattering down outside. Mr. Mills disappeared for a few minutes as she seared the meat, returning with a bottle of red wine and a heavy coat. “The wine goes into the stew, Miss Salazar, to help tenderize the meat. The 2015 buck was quite tough, even stewed. And you will need this if you venture out following the storm. I suspect we will get an Indian summer after this blows through, but once the snow stops, the air will chill quickly.”
“You said Indian summer. Is that allowed?” She added the onions to the meat in the pot.
He snorted as he opened the wine bottle. “Of course it is allowed. So long as you are not directing a mob or urging people to go, right this instant, and burn down a neighborhood, all speech is allowed. You might end up getting punched in the nose if someone takes offense, but only incitement to riot, slander, and libel are prohibited by law.”
“Oh.”
After the stew began bubbling, she turned the gas down and covered the pot. Mr. Mills kneaded the bread. He returned the now-flatter dough to the oven to rise again. “I enjoy eating the results of my labor, but I do wish those results required less labor.”
Why does he talk so funny? He sounds like those TV shows from England that Tia Rosa liked to watch, the ones with the people in old-fashioned clothes. But Alicia did not ask him, not then. He left the kitchen to her and she dried the bowls and spoons they’d used and put them away. The rain sound had changed, from wet slaps of drops against the windows to a pinging, bouncing sound. She got up, went to the back window, and saw tiny balls of ice bouncing off of everything. “Oh good! No freezing rain.”
The sight reminded her of the coat and she tried it on. It fit, more or less. The sleeves seemed a little long, as did the length, but the shoulders and chest worked. It smelled funny, a chemical sort of scent. She sniffed the sleeve. I wonder what the smell is? It did not smell of mold or other things, and she decided that she could live with the chemical. She took the dark blue coat off and carried it up to her room. In the dark, she almost tripped over a pile of sweaters and vests heaped up outside the bedroom door. All of the clothes smelled the same as the coat. Most of the garments fit, and she decided to wear one of the vests. Two drawers in the dresser remained empty and she put the knits in there.
Alicia pulled the sweater-vest over her head and stopped. “Wait. I should be worried, right?” The room felt as if it were waiting for her to continue. “Dios mio, esta loco. I should be scared of being trapped in an old house in a storm with a strange man. That’s how horror stories always start.” He’s not a stranger. Mr. Mills is a friend. Alicia blinked at the idea. No he wasn’t, was he? He is, something inside her insisted. Trust him. He found winter clothes for you, didn’t he?
Later that evening, after he took the three loaves of bread out of the oven, he asked, “Did Teddy bring any mail with him the first time he visited, Miss Salazar?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. It’s in the workroom.” Alicia slathered a slice of the hot loaf with butter and fanned the steam away, then took a bite. “Mmmm,” and she rolled her eyes.
“I take it the bread meets your standards?” She heard humor in his voice and she gave him a thumb-up. “Good.”
He returned from the workroom as she finished the bread. Mr. Mills sorted the mail, reciting under his breath as he did. “Junk, junk, I gave last month, bill, bill, you certainly took your time, junk, bill, made up our minds at last did we?” He pushed the bills aside and opened the “took your time,” and “made up our minds” envelopes. Waving a check, he informed Alicia, “This, Miss Salazar, is why one is far better off negotiating directly with one’s customer than hiring a middle-man. My agent eats fifteen percent of the pittance that Polar Bear Press deigns to drop in my path.”
She stirred the stew and cut herself another slice of bread, this time with a little less butter. Huh? He’s not an actor, unless he does those books on MP3 like the ones cousin Lupe listens to. What kind of agent is he talking about? She puzzled through the possibilities as she munched. Polar Bear Press prints books. If they pay him, he must write for them. But why would someone take part of his pay? Maybe an agent does something to the book, like translates it or codes it. She could see paying someone do put a book into computer code. Then she realized, He writes books.
“Are you an author?”
He looked up from the second letter and his eyes frowned. “Yes. Alas for my dreams of perpetual laziness, the pasture leases do not provide enough lucre, filthy or otherwise, to permit me to live in the manner to which I have become accustomed.”
I think that means he’s got to have a job to pay the bills. “Oh.” She finished the bread. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you write? I mean, what kind of books.”
That seemed to be a safer question. He sat back in the wooden chair, one hand still holding the second letter. “I write Young Adult books, including volumes such as ‘The Rangeriders’ and ‘Star Crossed.’ I also write true-crime fiction under the pen name of Njomo Bielkowski, or ‘Mr. B,’ and a few volumes destined for the Victorian Valentines romance series have emerged from my computer. Under another nom de plume, because everyone knows that a mere male cannot possibly write a readable romance novel.” He sounded just like one of the teachers at her old high school, and Alicia caught herself giggling again. “Am I to understand that you have met that particular literary maven?”
“I don’t know what a maven is, sir, but she sounds exactly like my Women’s Topics instructor from Denver.” As he returned to looking at the letter she added, “Um, I kinda, well, I snuck ‘Star Dreamers’ and ‘Kelly and the Solar Pirates’ behind my ESL textbook during class. You’re really F. I. Mills?”
He set the letter down on the age-smoothed wooden tabletop and began counting on his fingers without looking up. “Two next month, and then four by next July, yes, that’s do-able.” He glanced at her. “Yes. Before you ask, there is a very well known writer of, ahem, I shall call them erotica for the imagination-challenged, by the name of F. Mills. Rather than court disastrous confusion and visits by hordes of pitchfork-wielding parents, I added a borrowed initial. And might I add, you have excellent taste in books as well as a very good command of English.”
“That’s because I grew up speaking English, something the school district never wrapped its head around.” Bitter memories of the hours spent in the ESL classes showed in her voice. “They stuffed me in with the refugees and illegals’ kids until I was in the seventh grade. And scolded me for speaking English instead of Spanish to the teacher! Just because my name is Spanish doesn’t mean I’m Mexican.” She stopped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “Extended exposure to stupidity tends to cause high blood pressure, outbursts of righteous indignation, and chronic indigestion. You can understand why I was so damn lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Illif rescued me from the clutches of the well-meaning social workers. Or ‘anti-social workers’ as I occasionally thought of them.”
“I think so.” But you’re black, Mr. Mills, surely it would have been better for you to live with a black family? Except he said his mother didn’t want him and the Illifs did, even though they were white. And Papa did business with everyone, even thought Cousin ‘Sto and Tio Paco told him not to. But her teachers in the schools had said that … It made her head hurt.
She heard clattering and looked up. Mr. Mills had gotten out a bowl and dished up some of the venison stew. “Two slices of bread are not sufficient to keep you going, Miss Salazar.” He set the stew in front of her. “Eat, please. I nibbled while the bread rose and will have some stew later.”
He said he eats slowly. I bet the burns have something to do with it. Alicia dug into the stew. The venison chunks still needed a little time to get really tender, but it tasted good. “Bambi is still fighting back, Mr. Mills,” she told him between mouthfuls.
“Ah, perfidious cervid! I will can this year’s buck, if I am so fortunate as to acquire one.”
A little embarrassed, she asked, “What does perfidious cervid mean?”
“It means untrustworthy or treacherous deer. Deer belong to the order ‘cervidae’ if one uses the Linnaean taxonomy.” Her mouth full, she just looked her question at him. “Did you take basic biology, Miss Salazar?” She shook her head. “In short, when people sort out animals and plants, they use a system to organize similar things, so jellyfish do not get lumped in with clownfish and whales just because they all live in water, or with career politicians even though neither animal has a spine.” He explained the basics while she finished her stew. “More?”
“More stew, please, not more biology. My teacher got as far as plants and animals and ecology and the need for wilderness, but that was the 2014-2015 school year and the school closed before she could get any farther.”
He served her a second bowl. “Ah, then I retract my previous unkind thoughts about your instructress. She is not to blame for the results of the follies of political animals.” He got something to drink but turned away so she couldn’t see him as he drained the glass. “Pardon my insatiable curiosity, but what did Mrs. Hardeman have to say?”
She gulped her mouthful. “Oh, she says hello and that she sent my money to your account. And—“ Clunk. The lights died along with the heater blower. “Bother.”
“Agreed.” He sighed almost as loudly as the wind whipping around the house. “Finish your stew, Miss Salazar. I’ll get the lamp and turn the switches so we can run on the generator. Did you find the lamp and candles in your room?”
“Oh, yes, I did.”
He’d gotten everything done by the time she finished eating. “Hisss—pop,” he lit the kitchen lamp and adjusted the wick. “You were saying something about Mrs. Hardeman when the storm so rudely interrupted you?”
“Just that she says I need to set up a website and you can help me and that I need to charge more for my work.”
He started laughing and shaking his head as he raised one hand, assuring her that, “I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at her. Because that’s exactly what she told me when I started writing. ‘You must learn to design and convert your own manuscripts, young man, and if you do not start charging more for your work, no one will ever buy it.’ And she was right, as usual. She also claimed that I talked funny.”
“Well, you do. And how could she know what you need to do? She’s an artist, not a writer.”
He drew himself up and put one hand to his chest. If he’d had a nose, he would have looked down it at her. “My dear Miss Salazar, are you daring to imply that overly-dramatic, pot-boiling detective stories featuring someone who would be fired for stupidity by the Denver police department are not works of art? You wound me.”
He dropped his arm and winked. “No, they are not masterpieces of literature, but the principle of selling is much the same, as are the pitfalls. She battled gallery owners and I fight with literary agents. And I do not ‘talk funny.’ After writing three Bielkowski novels in as many months, it seems I have purged every short Anglo-Saxon word from my mind, such as it is.”
She giggled.
“It also takes me a great deal of effort to say anything correctly, Miss Salazar. If I must work that hard, it behooves me to speak properly, using words that say what I mean. And why not enjoy the richness that is English, especially after spending three months immersed in street cant and thieves’ argot?”
“What’s argot?”
“Slang, not to be confused with ergot, which is a fungus on grain.” He walked over to the rear kitchen door, poked his head into the mudroom, and shut the door again. “Yuck.”
Alicia scuffed across the floor and opened the door again. Already she saw snow piled almost knee deep on the small back stoop. “I agree, sir.”
She left him in the kitchen and went to bed. She must have slept late, because light woke her. She blinked, poking her nose out from under the thick blankets. “Brrr. Oh, yeah, no heat. Old house. The pipes!” She’d forgotten to leave a tap dripping in the bathroom. But the water ran fine, and she left a little water trickling after she brushed and flushed. Bundled up in one of the borrowed sweaters and her heaviest jeans, Alicia crept downstairs and looked out the front window of the workroom.
The glare made her eyes hurt. Ice in the air and snow on the ground bleached the land. Even the trees along the drive couldn’t break enough of the glare, and she turned around, blinking away tears and spots. Well, the light in the workroom is fantastic right now. Maybe this is a good time to sort those stupid white and cream beads.
She got a quick bite of venison stew and bread, then went back to the workroom and sorted. Chore done, she strung the bead loom and began weaving the white and cream beads. As before she fell into a semi-trance, thinking about the now-quiet wind and the storm. Alicia added pale blue and silvery gray to the swirling pattern forming on the piece. Her fingers brushed the end of the loom and she blinked. “Wow.”
“Grumble, growl.” Her stomach informed her that no matter how lovely the art, food had better follow soon after. “Good idea,” and she sort of floated down the hall, her mind still half in the work piece. The generator thumped on and off intermittently, running the freezers and charging the water pump’s batteries. She ate something, stew probably, washed the dishes, and returned to the workroom.
By the time the light faded too much for her to work, she’d finished a necklace and earrings that complimented the long woven strip. Should she add finishings to the ends of the belt? Yes, she’d make the strip into a belt. She’d found sturdy, cream-colored canvas and could use that as the backing. Alicia tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear and tidied up the worktable. “I wonder what time it is?” she asked the air.
She heard the door at the back of the house open and close, and returned to the kitchen to find Mr. Mills stirring the stew. He’d lowered the height of the big drift behind the door. “That, you see, is why the outermost door opens inward. In an emergency, we can still depart over the snow, although I do not recommend it. The bulk will be gone by the day after tomorrow.”
She rummaged around the pantry until she found a jar of last-year’s salsa, to go with the stew. Then she looked out the back windows, shielding her eyes from the painfully bright afternoon sunlight. “It looks deeper than I am tall, at least over here it does,” and she pointed to an area he’d left untouched.
“Oh it is. You don’t want to think about digging out the north side of the house, although sledding from the roof might be an option. The drift reaches the second floor. That is why it is so warm. The snow insulated us last night, and should do the same tonight.” He stopped, listening to something. She listened to, and caught a whisper of something. Not a voice, but an idea or picture. She listened harder, and caught a glimpse of red specks moving quickly over a map. He continued, “Teddy and his helpers. They are on snowmobiles, looking for the cattle that have drifted.”
“I know.” She blinked. “Wait, I can’t know.”
A slow smile lit Mr. Mil
ls eyes. “Yes, you can.”
Three: Cities and Powers
Mr. Mills refused to tell her more. “I am reluctant to speak for another, Miss Salazar. Suffice it for me to say that yes, there is a way for you to know what is happening on the Illif lands, and yes, you will understand how when you are ready to know.” She’d wanted to throw a snowball at his head. Alicia settled for blowing a long, loud raspberry and climbing up to the third-floor back patio to see if he was right about the snowdrift.
A week passed before the snow melted enough for Teddy to get the pickup up the drive. The power had come back the day before, and she’d done a little dance in her “office” when the test light she’d left burning flickered on. She’d tried calling her parents to tell them she was OK, but they had not answered and their voicemail box was full. Alicia logged onto her e-mail and sent them a note saying that she’d survived.
The message her father sent back left her staring at the screen. “Dearest Alicia, first, we are all fine. The storm blew the siding off the house and without power we had to move in with the Gonzales’s up on the highway, the ones with the blue roof.” She tried to remember the house. Oh yeah, blue metal roof, ugly green door, red windows, that house. The one with all the dogs hanging around. The dogs barked at everything that moved and drove her nuts when she’d walked past the house to catch the bus.
“Mr. Perez doesn’t know when he will be able to fix the rent house, but it will be several weeks. I know you want to come home, but it is better for you to stay with Mr. Mills if he does not mind. If he does mind, I think I can talk to Ernesto about finding you a room.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry I missed your call. The storm knocked down the closest cell tower and then Tia Manuela kept calling and filled the mailbox. She worries.”
Tia Manuela had a lot to worry about, since Ernesto was her son, Alicia thought. She typed a quick reply and said that she’d ask Mr. Mills, but doubted that he’d mind.
