January Thaw

            It was early January, the annual thaw had left behind rock, grass, and wicked ice. Bitter cold would return soon enough. Mother Nature gave me a gift I wouldn’t piss away. Snowbanks were high around the property, making space tight. Without the reprieve Erica and I would have to hire an excavator to remove the snow. That was an expense we greatly wanted to avoid during our store’s dismally slow months. There were still eight to ten weeks left in the season.

            I stripped myself of my snow boats and ratty, stained Carhartt jacket. “Are you going to Franki’s tonight?” Erica asked as I walked through the mudroom into the kitchen.

            “I was thinking about it. Why?” The enticing smell of just baked chocolate chip cookies was overwhelming. I devoured two from their cooling racks on the island.

            “You need to make a delivery,” she said walking toward the oven along the far wall. Her frayed jeans ended just above her worn sneakers. It was the barrier to prevent the bottom of her pants from getting wet. It was an easy target to tease. Just as my wearing the same work clothes all week left me vulnerable to attack. “I have a can of cookies you need to take to them.”

            Behind us Sierra stood, nose in the air, sniffing thoughtfully, enjoying the fragrance as much as me. I wrapped my arms around her in a full body hug. She tried to walk out of it, but wagged her tail when I rubbed my face against hers. “I can do that. They’ll both be home by 6.”

            “Don’t forget I have spin tonight at 5:15.”

            Erica wore a light blue sweatshirt. Her straight blonde hair lay easily across her shoulders. When I reached around to hug her just under her breasts, she didn’t seem surprised. “Where are the girls?”

            “Upstairs doing their homework.”

“Quickie?” I asked rotating my hips against her ass.

            “You’re a pig.”

            “Ah c’mon baby,” I said leaning into her ear, and kissing it before pulling away.

 

It was three in the afternoon.

 

            By the time Franki pulled into our shared driveway I had two hours in on cutting back the snow around the rental houses toward the back of the property. Thirty minutes later the dull pain in my right shoulder, and angry sciatic nerve brought my chores to a halt. Being forty-two, not pushing myself into injury, was about survival.

            The headlights from Susan’s car rolled into, then out the family room windows. Erica would be home soon from her spin class. Angela and Whitney were on the couch watching a ridiculous show on Nickelodeon. “I’m going next door to have a beer in the kitchen,” I announced to the back of their heads.

            “Uh, Uh.”

 

            With Erica’s tin can in hand, I knocked twice on the closed door at the top of the stairs, opened it, and walked in. “It’s a boy,” I announced rounding the corner into the kitchen. “I’ve come bearing gifts.”

            There was a soft easy feel to the dark green room. The clean linen votive candle burning somewhere in the apartment gave it that fragrance. A lamp perched on a small shelf above the stove, and another on the kitchen table next to the peanut M&M’s were the only light. Susan sat on the counter toward the corner of the cabinets. Her glasses, askew, matched the easiness in which her curly bangs fell to her forehead. She had a glass of white wine in her hand. Franki stood in front of the sink smoking a cigarette. I put the cookies on the counter.

            “What’s that?” she asked.

            “Cookies. Chocolate chip. Erica baked a batch and said I had to deliver them.”

            “How come you didn’t bake them?” asked Susan.

            “Because I’m a disaster in the kitchen. The only reason I should be there is to clean up. I can barbecue, and throw eggs together, but that’s not cooking. That’s just getting rid of what would go into the trash.”

            “That was very sweet of her,” said Franki. “Tell her thank you.”

            “I will.” I sat at the kitchen table.

            “Forget where I live?” she continued.

            “I’ve been tending to the farm,” I pleaded. “People think its glamorous being me, but it’s really not.”

            “No. It’s not glamorous. It’s infamous. Don’t forget that, Scott Peterson,” said Franki. We all laughed. It was just before we moved to Birchwood that Scott Peterson was all over the news. Franki still thinks I look like the convicted murderer.

            “Deni. Did you get stuck in your driveway earlier?” asked Susan.

            “Yes. Now you’re not the only one,” I said before drinking from one of the two Labatt Blue Lights in my coat pocket. Franki put out her smoke in the ashtray and emptied it into the coffee can below the sink. When she moved back to her wine glass on the counter I spied her. Her blue jeans were baggy, and her flannel shirt crisp. She wore low top hiking shoes. Her movements seemed effortless. If she had missed a step, I would have known she wasn’t feeling well.

            “I would have helped you,” said Franki.

            “I know. I didn’t want you to come home and see me stuck in my own driveway. How pathetic would that be? Stuck in my own driveway!”

            “How did you get stuck anyway?” asked Susan.

            “Well, when I was working on the snowbanks, I blew the snow where Erica and I park. I figured as warm as it’s been it would melt by the next day. What I didn’t realize, until I was almost done, was how much I threw. So, I figured I would back blade it with my plow, and thin it out. That’s when I got stuck. I buried my front tires in the mealy snow, and my back tires spun off the traction on top of the ice. It took me forever to shovel myself out.”

            “I love it,” laughed Susan.

            “I bet you do,” I said. “Let’s not forget you getting stuck in the driveway when the store roof slid. But there’s more to that story than just the snow falling.”

            “Oh, yeah,” said Franki with the grin of the Cheshire Cat. She passed me the bowl and I smoked.

 

            It was April, mud season. The time of year when the lengthening days of spring turn the snowpack into a slushy mess. It can be like driving through mash potatoes. A lot of businesses are closed because there are no tourists in town. The downtime gives many locals their only chance at a vacation. Easter break is a full two weeks off for the school kids.

            The first Friday of break we were in Florida. The snow had finally slid off the metal roof above the store and landed in the driveway. Franki watched Susan leaving for work from the kitchen window. Down below the small SUV with a Life is Good sticker in the back window tried to drive through the mass. There was no other way out. At first, her front tires gave Susan hope that she could make it. Then they, like the rear, began to spin, and her progress was halted.

            Franki drank her coffee hoping she wouldn’t have to leave her warm apartment. During the winter, Fridays are an off day at the water park where she worked. In forward or reverse the spinning tires did little good but make the snow greasier. “Shit,” she said before grabbing her snow boots, and putting her coffee on the counter.

            Outside the sky was a bright cloudless blue. Wearing baggy sweatpants with a University of Miami sweatshirt Franki carefully walked toward the car, alternating her steps between ice and gravel. At the driver’s side window, she saw the panic on Susan’s face. Franki took a look under the car. The rusted car frame sat on top of the snowpack.

            “Is it bad?” asked Susan.

            “I’ve seen worse. Not in this driveway. But worse.”

Franki stood beside the vehicle thinking how she could free Susan without having to get a shovel and dig her out. Lyle, the owner of Franki’s building, stood on the front porch smoking a cigarette. “For fucks sake, Lyle are you going to help.” He just laughed, turned, and walked back into his place. He would be over later for beers in Franki’s kitchen. Then four guys sitting in a National Grid truck parked on Main Street caught her attention. They were probably on their way to the diner for breakfast.

            She approached the front passenger. “Hey. You think you could help her out,” she motioned towards the SUV. “Maybe a good a push would do it.”

            The lineman turned towards his buddies getting out of the truck, and said “Hey, this guy needs some help. Let’s see what we can do.”

 

            We roared with laughter. Franki walked to the refrigerator, grabbed the box of wine and filled their stemless glasses. I cracked my second beer.

            “Did I tell you about the snowmobiler that got stuck at the Trail 5 entrance.”

            “I don’t think so. Was this today?”

            “Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.” She waved her hands around to exaggerate her point. “A guy had his truck and two place trailer stuck. Right by the back gate to the park.”

            “What the hell was he doing there? There’s a fence on either side of that entrance. Maybe he thought he could drive down and turn around?”

            “I don’t know, but he was down into the trail. And as soft as the snow is right now, he just sank.”

 

            Under the gray haze that colors most winter days in Birchwood Franki drove the lower parking lot road back to the shop to get paint. Just past the back gate she saw the truck and trailer. Laying on the ground, was a heavy man wearing overburdened snowmobile bibs. His face was a big round bright red, and he was sweating profusely.            The guy was using a camping shovel to dig himself out. Dumbass, she thought rolling down her window. “Stuck?”

            The guy’s buddy stood leaning against the trail post sign smoking a cigarette.

            “Yeah.”

            “Didn’t you see the sign?”

            “Finally,” he answered in his abrasive accent. “After I was already in.”

            “Would a Bobcat help?”

            “You’re going to help me?”

            “No, but I might be able to get you a Bobcat.”

            “Oh,” he said. She could tell that he didn’t know what that was.

            “Listen,” she said. “You keep working on this for the next twenty minutes or so, and I’m going to go back to the shop and have a cup of coffee. I’ll see what I can do for you there.”

            At the shop Franki asked Roy if he would run the Bobcat. “Why? For the guy stuck at the trail entrance.”

            “You saw him?”

            “Yeah, I saw him,” the head mechanic explained. “I drove right by. Figured I’d give him about half an hour. Then go get him.”

 

            “Did he have to pull him out?” I asked moving to a window to look out. Erica was just getting home.

            “Yeah, he was pulling him out as I was leaving.”

            “Hopefully the guy gave him a tip,” offered Susan.

            “I don’t know,” responded Franki. “Cheap bastard probably thought it was owed to him. Fuckers!” We all laughed.

            Franki handed Susan her refilled glass. Her friend asked if she would grab her a handful of nuts. Without saying anything she moved toward me at the kitchen table, grabbed a handful of mixed nuts, and while walking toward Susan said, “But you didn’t say what kind of nut.”

            “How many different kinds of nuts are there?”

            “Well, there are peanut M&M’s, or you could have asked for just peanuts. Or maybe you wanted mix nuts, and now that I think about it, we have walnuts in the freezer,” explained Franki.”

            “Oh brother. The mixed nuts are fine. Thank you.”

            Franki turned toward me. “Have I ever told you the peanut story?”

            “I don’t think so.”

            She stood in the middle of the kitchen as if she was a comedienne delivering a joke. “Let’s say, you walk into Jackson’s bar. And there’s only one person there. And let’s say it’s Bob Holland.”

            “Who’s Bob Holland?” I asked looking to Susan.

            “Never mind who Bob Holland is. Are you going to let me finish the story?” said Franki.

            “You’re the one who brought up Bob Holland.”

            “Doesn’t matter. Just know that you walk into the bar, and Bob Holland is the only person in there. You sit down, and you notice that Bob Holland has the only bowl of peanuts in the bar in front of him. But he doesn’t offer you any.”

            “Do I know Bob Holland?”

            “So, you sit there watching him eat those peanuts, and you say to yourself, man I wish I had peanuts to munch on. Peanuts would taste really good right now. You know what you have?” she asked.

            “What?”

            “You have peanuts envy,” she could barely hold back the laughter to get the punchline out. “You get it. You have peanuts envy.”

Franki turned toward Susan. “Do you remember Bob Holland’s birthday party?”

            “The one at the Lookout?” she asked.

            “That was fun,” said Franki stepping over to the counter next to the sink to light a smoke. “They had a birthday party for him, and he said that he didn’t want presents.”

            “Typical Bob,” offered Susan.

            “Isn’t that the truth. So, Barb was working that night. Do you remember when she worked at the Lookout?”

            “Yeah. That was before we worked together at the Whispering Winds Campground. I was working for a linen company out of Dyeton. I hated that job. I was never so happy to get laid off when the company closed six months after I started. The first time I met Barb she was working, and I stopped by to deliver towels on my way home one night. She said, “Who are you? What makes you so special that you get to make a deliver this late?” After I told her I was a local she lightened up.”

            “So, Barb is working this party, and she says that they need to give Bob something, it’s his birthday. She decides that they should collect a dirty sock from each one of his guests, put them in a barrel, and give it to him as a present.”

            We all laughed. “I’m surprised you don’t know him,” said Susan.

            “I’ve never even heard that name before.”

            “He either likes you, or he doesn’t. And it takes him a long time to like someone.”

            “But,” said Franki, raising her finger in the air like a politician making a point. “I feel like if I needed something he would help me out.”

            “He sounds like an asshole.”

            “Don’t get me wrong. I think still think he can be an asshole. I just feel like if I needed something Bob Holland would help me out. I gotta tell you this story.”

 

            It was a few years before, during fall. Franki’s brother came to town for a visit. Against the backdrop of exploding orange and purple leaf colors they paddled down the river in Franki’s canoe. Just past the highway bridge where you maneuver the canoe around the reeds and high grass of the low flowing water, they heard the voice of an angry man. Out of the foliage they saw a big guy standing on the shoreline digging a hole in the ground.

            “Hey Bob,” yelled out Franki. “Whatcha doing?”

            He threw back a menacing look.” I’m moving my wife,” he yelled.

            “You think he’s serious,” asked Franki’s brother. “He sounds like he means it.”

            “Ah that’s just Bob Holland.”

 

            “Oh you got to hear this,” said Franki quickly walking into the living room, and putting a cd in her player.

            “Oh, no,” said Susan, shaking her head in disbelief.

            “What?”

            “You’ll see,” said the mother of three boys.

            Back in the middle of the kitchen Franki stood like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Her index fingers were her batons. The silence was broken with a guitar riff that reminded me of the Country Bear Jamboree at Disney World. Franki began waving her fingers around like she was Leonard Bernstein.

            The song was about a little black bear who happily skipped through his neighborhood in the woods. It wasn’t long before he ran into a pretty red fox, playing with a friend by a den.

            Franki sang the chorus and Susan dropped her head in defeat. “I like it. It’s fun.”

            “It’s definitely that,” I said. “Can I make a copy?”

            “Really?” asked Susan.

            “Yeah, I’ll make a copy, and play it on our way down to Florida. Can you imagine? Twenty hours in the car, and I’ll play it over and over. The girls will love it.”

            “Yeah, your teenage girls will be thrilled,” replied Susan.

            “I’m only defending myself,” I said getting up from my chair, and grabbing the empty beer cans on the table. Franki went to the player, pulled the CD, and handed it to me. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

            “You don’t have to bring it back tomorrow,” she said.

            “It gives me a reason to come here,” I said proudly. “But then again, I don’t really need a reason. Good night.”

I gave Franki a hug, kissed her, and told her I love her before descending the stairs.