September Wind (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

(1958)

Emily lifted her arms and wiggled just enough so that the gray and pink checkered dress slid down over her tall slender frame. Outside, the wind whipped around the house as though it was mid-winter. An icy draft came in through the windows causing goose-bumps to rise up her arms.

She zipped up her dress, tied her hair into a ponytail, and then went to the window and pulled back the curtains.

              The night before, the skies had been clear. Now snowflakes whirled with the moan of intensifying winds. She thought of her aunt a mile up the road. With the snow already piling up and no boots to wear, she didn’t know how she would make it over that afternoon.

             
From his cabin, Claude came across the yard, hunched over in his hooded jacket. When he looked up at her, she dropped the curtains and went to finish dressing.

She stooped and tugged at the bottom of her long johns, loving the way the thick cotton warmed her legs. Pulling on a pair of knee high socks, she grimaced as she stepped into her sole-worn saddle shoes. She laced them up and grabbed a sweater off the back of a chair, ready to go down. Then something made her stop, go to the dresser, and pull out her mother’s sapphire ring. Although she took it out now and then, tried it on and marveled, she had only worn it once on her sixteenth birthday. She placed it on her finger, and then headed downstairs to make breakfast.

              An hour later, the table was set with bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, fresh biscuits, and a dish of honey and another with jelly. The men were in good spirits as she brought over a fresh pot of coffee.

             
Back in late February when the last major storm came through, the men spent two days in the basement, happy as four pigs in a trough. Instead of chopping wood or
making repairs, they played cards and drank beer as if the cool flakes and chill in the air meant that a leave of responsibility was in order.               Now, with the prospect of another storm, the gleam was back in their eyes.

             
Emily didn’t understand their reasoning, nor did she share their enthusiasm. This wasn’t just because of the demands and the reckless banter she would have to put up with, but mostly because she hadn’t made it to her aunt’s two weeks in a row. During her last visit, the old woman had been visibly troubled. Now if things didn’t change, she wouldn’t be going today either.

             
For a while, the storm seemed to have lifted. But then a gust of wind came like a train and flung debris against the house.

             
“
Son of a bitch!” Steven said. “What was that?”

             
Timothy flew out of his chair and went to look out a window. “Ha. Half the arbor just went down.”

             
Grandfather placed his coffee on the table and reached for a toothpick. “Looks like we’ll have to move the cows to the South pasture, boys.”

             
“
Awe, come on,” Claude moaned. “They have a cowshed and some trees for shelter right where they are.”

             
“
Now listen here, Mister, you should know by now, if it gets worse and we don’t move them cows, come night, it’s gonna freeze and so will they.”

             
Emily wasn’t sure they’d even care, but she had to say it anyway. “While you’re at it, someone better check on Aunt Francine.”

             
She was right. The men were more interested in winters gone by, playing crazy eight and drinking-it-up in the basement.

             
At first, Grandfather sat stone-faced. Though after a couple shots of whiskey and another pot of coffee, he joined in the banter. The old woman was the last thing on their minds.

             
Emily turned from the sink where she was washing dishes. “Steven!” she said, louder than she meant to. She caught his eye and softened her voice. “Please, can’t you just run over?”

             
“
What? What’re you talking about?”

             
“
Aunt Francine. Go check on her.”

             
“
Damn it, girl.”

             
“
I’d go, but I’ve got no boots.” She lifted a leg and wiggled her foot. “Plus, the soles on my shoes are wearing through.”

             
He glanced at her shoe, groaning, “Auh, maybe later.” Although, she wasn’t at all convinced that he would.

             
Following breakfast, the four men stepped into the veranda and rummaged through the closet for winter gear. They looked out the window and discussed the weather. Although that’s as far as they got before heading down to the basement for a game of cards and a drink or two.

             
When Emily finished cleaning the kitchen, she went out to the barn to check on the animals. She was glad that Kidders and Caesar, the cats, and the two Norwegian Elkhounds, Angel and Tokeep, were sharing the comfortable hideaway she made for them beneath the steps.

Throughout the years, cats came and went, but there had only been four dogs in her life. The two she had grown up with died a few years back within a couple of months of each other. After they buried the last one, she cried for a full week. Then one day Steven pulled into the yard with two puppies. She couldn’t imagine life without them.

By the time she headed back to the house, the winds had all but died. A few snowflakes glistened in the sunlight that came through patches of blue sky to the east. She raised her chin and let the cool flakes caress her face, thinking that it had turned out to be a perfect day for baking.

             
There weren’t too many things more comforting to her than a warm kitchen on a cold day and the aroma of chocolate chip cookies and apple pies fresh out of the oven. She would begin immediately, and then later she would take a pie over to Aunt Francine’s.

             
Enthused about her baking plans, she went inside, placed her shoes by the fireplace, and ran upstairs to put on a pair of dry socks.

             
Before she finished mixing the first batch of cookies, the orders from down below began. If it wasn’t beer, it was a snack. If it wasn’t a snack, it was cigarettes, or whatever else they were too busy to get themselves.

             
The living room and kitchen joined into a large open area. There were a couple of air vents into the hallway and one up into her bedroom. The wood stove and fireplace were their only sources of heat. They needed constant wood burning to keep things warm. Somewhere in the middle of stoking up the fireplace and stove, running errands, and putting pies and cookies into the oven, the storm picked up again.

             
She wasn’t too alarmed at first, and went to the laundry room to wring out clothes.

             
As she walked back into the kitchen, the hourglass sifted the last of the sand, indicating the pies were ready. Wiping her forehead with the back of her arm, she grabbed the potholders from a hook behind the stove. As she reached into the oven for the last pie, a gust of wind hit with such force, it sounded as if shingles had ripped free and were ricocheting across the roof.

             
She placed the pie on top of the stove and rushed to the window. Snatching a dishtowel from her shoulder, she wiped away mist and peered out just in time to see the rest of the arbor fall.

             
She sank to a bench and watched snowflakes pile up along the windowsill. Winds whistled along the eaves, finding cracks and crevices to chip at. And with each gust, it was obvious that things would only get worse.

             
Suddenly, she leaped to her feet, dropped the dishtowel over the back of a chair, and hurried down the narrow basement steps. She moved into the light of the lantern that dangled from the ceiling and glared at the four men. A jug of Jack Daniels, four shot-glasses, and half a dozen or so bottles of beer stood on the old kitchen table.

She felt as mean as the storm by now, and too angry to care. “You forgot about the cows. And what about Aunt Francine?”

              The men continued with their card game as if she hadn’t said a word.

             
“
I’m telling you, she didn’t look so good the last time I saw her.”

             
She waited for a response until she wanted to scream. “Dang it! The cows are probably dead by now anyway. And for all we know, Aunt Francine could be too.”

             
Timothy looked up then, rolled his head back, and laughed. “Ooh, look who’s worried about dear ole Fraanzeeen.” He whirled in his chair and stomped a foot. “Boo!” he said, howling with pleasure when she jumped.

             
She nearly smacked her youngest uncle who could go a whole day without uttering a single word, unless of course, he had two or three shots of whiskey under his belt. From the looks of it, he’d had plenty more.

             
He turned back to the game and slapped his cards onto the table. “Aces High,” he said. He laughed so hard he almost tipped his chair. “Another win for me. That makes you all three time losers.” This didn’t go over well with the others.

             
Steven picked up his brother’s cards, and then pitched them back onto the table. “You’re a cheat. Either that or you don’t know how to count. Now where’s the other card?”

             
Emily noticed a card on the floor. She picked it up and dropped it in front of Steven. If any of the men would listen to her, he would be the one.

             
“
So, are you going or not?” she asked him, although he was still brooding over Timothy’s questionable win. He picked up the stray card and turned it over several times.

Claude pulled a cigarette from his mouth and blew smoke her way. “Go yourself, Mud. Shoo! Get outta here.”

She brushed smoke out of her eyes, moving closer to Steven. “I’d go, but I’ve got no boots. You want me to get frostbite?” She pointed to a small window in the corner. “Have any of you looked outside lately?”

             
Grandfather slammed a bottle into the garbage can. “If I were you, I’d close that son-of-a-bitching mouth of yours.” His eyes were as cold as the icicles outside.

             
A shiver ran up her spine as she headed up the steps. With all the booze burning inside their bellies, she shouldn’t have expected less although it was clear now that Aunt Francine was on her own. They had no intention of going to check on her.

             
Upstairs, she made a pot of hot chocolate, poured a cup for herself, then took a plate of cookies to the table and sat listening to the winds break against the house. Each time the winds let up, she looked out the window, half expecting to see the sun.

             
Nearly five hours earlier, the men declared they were going out to rescue the cows. Now all fired up with whiskey and beer, they rumbled up the steps and into the kitchen.

             
They grumbled and complained as they finished dressing, pulling on parkas, hats and gloves. Finally, Grandfather snapped on a thick furry cap, and disappeared out into the storm. The others buckled up and scrambled after him
.

             
Emily closed the door behind the last of the men, watching out the window until they had all wandered out of sight.

CHAPTER NINE

Emily leaned over the kitchen table and yanked a chain hanging from the ceiling light fixture. The harsh light blazed in her face, and so she gave the chain another yank. She picked up a box of matches and lit a kerosene lamp and various candles that sat along the east wall. After rekindling the wood stove, she pitched a couple of logs into the fireplace. She washed the dishes, mopped the floor, and then sat by the hearth on one of her grandmother’s hand-woven rugs.

             
The fire crackled peacefully as the candles cast willowy shadows that danced along the floor and up the wall. She tried to enjoy the mood. Yet her thoughts kept drifting back to Aunt Francine.

             
All at once, her shadow leaped up against the wall with the others. It danced and stretched, and then disappeared around the corner, giving way to the sounds of her footsteps pattering up the stairs.

             
In a whirlwind of activity, she searched her room for winter clothing before heading back downstairs. She replaced the soothing candlelight with the overhead light. Then she dug through drawers, boxes, and closets for winter clothing already packed away for the summer. After ransacking the house, she stood next to the fireplace, looking over the pile of winter paraphernalia.

             
She unzipped her dress let it slip from her shoulders onto the floor, kicking it aside. Then she pulled on another pair of long johns, and two pairs of jeans, one size larger than the other, several flannel shirts, and three pairs of socks.

             
Next to the kitchen door sat an enormous pair of black boots. She had been growing out of her own boots long before winter, and her requests for a new pair, a few times almost in tears, were ignored. Now she went over and dragged those monsters to the fireplace.

             
“
Damn it! Damn all of you for not going yourselves.” She stared at them a while longer, wondering how she would keep them on.

             
“
Well, I'll make ’em fit,” she said, heading to fetch a roll of cotton. She tore off pieces and stuffed handfuls inside the toes of each boot. Then, still not certain it would work, she used a nail to jab two holes on both sides near the top of each boot. She pulled on a pair of men’s overalls and let them hang at her ankles as she stepped into the ugly clodhoppers. Threading twine through the nail holes, she fastened each end onto a belt loop. Then she picked up the overalls and buckled the straps.

             
Buttoning herself into an overcoat, she gazed at her reflection in the window, thinking she looked like a rag doll. She hugged herself, twisting her shoulders, and flipping up a heel. The sense of security she felt all bundled up did her good.

             
She pulled on a wool cap; a pair of gloves stuffed with warm cotton, and then wrapped a scarf around her neck. Feeling as ready as she would ever be, she made her way out the door. Carefully taking herself down the steps and across the yard, she stepped through the rubble of the arbor.

             
As she neared the mailbox, a gust of wind came through a grove of trees across the yard and thrust her, feet flying, into a snow bank. She sputtered and spat, swiped snow from her face, and pulled herself up. The house begged her to rush back to its warm fire, and the soft bed upstairs. She lingered a moment, and then lifted the scarf over her nose and turned up the road.

             
The snow reflecting off the trees gave her comfort, knowing it would light a straight path to Aunt Francine’s. Yet her calm was short-lived when an animal lurched from out of nowhere and charged toward her. She ducked and spun around as it shot over her shoulder and disappeared into the whirling flakes. Shivering, glancing around for another, she soothed herself by reasoning that it could’ve been anything sheathed in a cloud of snow.

             
Just as she thought the worst of the storm was over, she heard it coming again. She braced her shoulders and arms in as gust after gust hit with vengeance. Her teeth chattered. Her toes, her fingers, and cheeks burned with frostbite as she fought the wind and cold with the cumbersome weight of her garments and boots pushing her back. At times, it seemed like a battle she might not win.

Finally, there was a lull in the storm as she approached her aunt’s. A branch snapped above her head and a mound of snow fell to the ground as she turned into the driveway. Then all was quiet except for the sounds of her feet crunching toward the house and up the front porch.

She opened the door.

             
“
Aunt Francine! Hellooo!”

             
She shook snow from her parka, stomped her feet and stepped inside. Pulling off the boots and a few layers of clothing, she called again. “Aunt Francine? It’s Emily.”

A pile of wood nearly burnt to embers glowed in the stove. And even with the cast-iron doors wide open, little heat escaped. There was barely enough light for her to see around the room.

              She moved toward the bedroom door, fearing the worst. Halfway there, something made her stop and turn. Just beyond a coffee table, her aunt lay on the couch beneath a mound of blankets, her hair spread across a pillow like a silvery halo. Her face was drawn and thin, her eyes closed.

             
Emily held her breath as she walked over and leaned in for a closer look.

             
The old woman’s eyes popped open. “What’re you doing here?” she said in a voice, husky, obviously from a cold.

             
Emily bolted upright. “I… I, well I hadn’t seen you in a while. And with the storm and all, I was worried that…”

             
The old woman’s eyes softened. “You caught me by surprise, Emily, that’s all. I didn’t expect anyone in this storm.”

             
“
I’m sorry for scaring you. Are you okay? You don’t look so good.” She placed a palm on the ailing woman’s forehead. “You’re a little warm.”

             
Aunt Francine looked up, almost timid, so unlike her. “It’s not so bad now,” she said.

             
But Emily had never seen her look so frail. She smoothed back her aunt’s wiry strands of hair and fluffed her pillow. “Think I’ll get some light in here. Get the fire going.” She looked around the room. “Now, where are those matches?”

             
“
There, against the wall,” Aunt Francine said, pointing to a mantel.

             
Emily felt Francine’s eyes on her, and noticed the way she cleared her throat several times.

             
“
You know, Emily,” she said, “I’ve always preferred being alone. But tonight… Well, I guess you could say the last couple of weeks… I, uhm… well, I’m just glad you’re here.”

             
Emily finished lighting the lanterns and candles, then turned. “I had to come, Aunt Francine, I was worried.” She almost told her how the men played cards and drank until dusk. This was something she wouldn’t normally do, only there was something so different about her aunt. Deciding not to mention the men, she replaced the matchbox and went to pitch a couple of logs into the stove.

Noticing the wood was nearly gone, she pulled on her overcoat and gloves, and brought more in, along with kindling from the shed, enough to fill up two wooden boxes. Teeth chattering, she tossed a handful into the flames, calling over her shoulder, “I wish you felt better.” She used the poker to jab at the fire, chucking in a few more pieces.

              “
Oh, don’t worry about me.” The old woman struggled to sit up. The movement brought on a bout of coughing that left her gasping for air.

             
“
Stay right where you are,” Emily scolded. She dropped the fire iron and rushed to her aunt’s side, helping her back onto the pillow.

             
Aunt Francine caught her breath, took in a few sips of water, and then pointed to a jar of Vaseline on the sideboard. “Fetch that for me, will you? My nose is burnin’ like crazy.” Emily took off her gloves, retrieved the ointment, then knelt on the floor, and dabbed some onto the raw skin around her nose.

             
“
I don’t deserve this, Emily. What’ve I really ever done for you?”

             
“
Showed me how to take care of the house, for one.”

             
“
And I couldn’t wait for you to take over. What, were you six?”

             
“
More like nine.”

             
“
Well, I left you for days at a time on your own, long before.”

             
Emily sat back on her heels, wiped her finger on a piece of tissue, twisting the lid back on the jar. “You taught me to sew. Grandmother taught me to count, but you showed me how to add and subtract. And, you taught me to read.”

             
“
You pleaded until I gave in. And you were damn good at it. Besides, I was grumpy as hell the whole time.”

             
“
Well, yeah. But the reading did wonders for me when I got into school. Remember, I skipped two grades.”

             
“
Mmm. I never told you this, Emily. But… I was proud of you for it.”

             
“
Thanks. I thought you might’ve been.” Emily placed the jar on the coffee table, and went to the stove. Tears formed around her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away, took off her parka, and tossed it aside.

             
“
The fire sure feels good,” Francine said. “I’ll just rest a bit, get my old limbs warmed. Then I’ll put on some supper for you.”

             
Emily shoved a log into the stove, poking at the fire again. “Ooh no you won’t. If anyone does any cooking, it’ll be me. What would you like?”

             
“
Nothing for me… Well, maybe some hot tea. Oh, and add some of this.” She reached under the couch and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “I haven’t felt much like eating these last few days. Thought this might help my ailing. I did manage to cook some oatmeal last night.” She thought for a moment. “Or was that the night before?”

Emily picked up the bottle of whiskey, surprised that it was already three fourths empty. “Looks to me like you need something to eat.”

              With two pots over a flame, she dumped canned vegetables, along with some broth in one. Then waiting for the water to boil in the other, she spooned out the tea. Every once in a while she glanced at her aunt, wondering how long she’d been drinking. It didn’t make sense, not with the way she scolded the men for doing the same.

Placing a cup of whiskey-laced tea on a stool beside the couch, she persuaded her aunt to take a few spoonfuls of soup.

              Later, while her aunt slept, Emily straightened the house. She picked reading material as she moved around, placing a book and a couple of magazines next to the fire.

The winds returned, rising and then falling. Yet Emily felt cozy as she finished the last of the dishes. She sat on a rug at the foot of the couch, tucking her stocking feet beneath her. After thumbing through an article on Audrey Hepburn, she leaned back against the armrest and looked into the fire. Miss O’Reilly came to mind, the way she felt sitting on the steps with her so long ago. That’s how she felt now. It’s how it should have been all along. A gnawing resentment worked its way into her thoughts, although she quickly pushed them back, glad for what she had now.

              When Aunt Francine woke, she reached for the cup of brew.

             
“
The sleep do you some good?” Emily asked, setting the magazine aside.

             
Francine’s hands shook as she returned the cup to the stool. “Auh, a little, I think.” She dropped back to the pillow.

             
They watched the fire in silence. Then Emily turned to her aunt. “So, uhm… when I saw you last, you seemed to be troubled by something. Was it the being alone stuff?”

Francine gave it some thought. “Nooo, that wasn’t it, not at all. I guess the being alone stuff came after the fact.” Her eyes burned into the ceiling for some time.

              “
Aunt Francine? After the fact, meaning what?”

             
“
Well, I was about to tell you something that you should’ve heard long ago.” She reached for her drink, and then another. When she finally spoke, her voice was weak compared to the crackling fire and rumbling storm, but the words rang clear as a trumpet.

             
“
You’re a good girl, Emily. And I realize I should’ve done better for you. I mean, who else did you have? Not that group back at the house, that’s for sure. Auh, it wouldn’t of been so bad if your mother hadn’t...” She took a breath and heaved a sigh. “That, and that damn drink.” She looked down at her own mix sitting on the table, laughing.