Gwen’s Pale Christmas

Sleet set in.  Crystalline top.  Sun-spanked early morning, the world outside her cookie-cutter ranch vortexed around her skull’s interior as K-Mart crème bruleé.

Seven to ten inches.  She wasn’t anal retentive enough to bother with a measurement.  Global warming created what should have been stifling cold January fluff into sodden snow.  Overnight precipitation, rain atop snow thickness of custard, only not so inviting to dig in unless you were a child.

photo by rick copper. all rights reserved.

Gwen was no child.  Her mind, while housing wonderment blessed to a 4 year-old, betrayed her three score plus body into thinking snow shoveling was child’s play. If she had thought about it, if she had been anal retentive, she would have done the math and come up with a number in pounds reserved for movers mounting mounds of furniture on their backs, carrying sleigh beds down winding stairs from a deposed CEO’s manse.

Ten pounds per shovel, 20 shovels per row, 50 rows.

If only a fireman would save her from her self-imposed cold.  No fireman was around, ready to rip off their shirt and dive into the muck, taut washboard abs working overtime to roll her over, cleaning out the muddy snow, pressing lips against hers for mouth-to-mouth revival.

No fire to put out, no fire within.  Tired.  Constantly tired, Gwen felt as if gravity had jumped her and doubled the past decade.

Aron the boy was stone cold stirring.  Boy.  Twenty-seven, but still her boy. Stone cold sober for more than a year, it did her heart some good, but his heart rarely warmed to her.  As a baby, he rejected natural nourishment. The uphill climb after proved daunting.

Basement door, bitching from too much moisture, popped open.

Humidity’s pop always set Colonel Parker and Elvis on alert.  No matter how deep twin vertical slits in their eyes rolled back, basement door pop snapped lids open.  Complaining “rawrs” fell out of fang-exposing yawns.  Both stretched in tandem before sauntering over to Gwen, deftly avoiding Aron’s steel-toed boots.  As usual, Colonel took the lead, commanding the spot underfoot. Elvis twisted through legs as if constrictor ivy.

Snowed a lot, Aron.

Stubble ran through gnarled left fingers calloused from too many shovels of dirt when an apprentice. Seven years of apprenticeship, stewarded by a boss designed to give Genghis Khan sainthood put Aron at his current lofty position.  He wasn’t a bad man, just not good with directions or sage advice without knowing for sure the advice wouldn’t be used against him. Aron persevered. His was the heart refusing entrance or bleeding.  No quarter taken, none given.

Looks awful heavy, son.

Right hand held a cup, heavy from coffee cream-thick splashed with half-in-half and a swollen teaspoon mound of brown sugar.

Gwen looked up from her desk, staring.  Loitering against the study’s door jamb as he was wont to do, cup lifted to his lips, no expression from lips to eyes.  She didn’t know why she bothered to look.  Maybe it was her role as mother, seeking signs of warmth.  Perhaps it was concern borne from being female, wishing the man in the house could show gratitude.  Hoisting a shovel shows gratitude.

Must be 6 to 8 on the ground by now.

Facing west, her eyes stared motionlessly through French doors to the front yard.  The pair drifted to her lap, temporarily closing as her arms tried to will the rest of her body prone.

Not going to shovel itself.

Aron stood in the doorway, not ambitious enough to put one foot in front of the other, tripping over his own ambivalence. Stretching his chin, his lips met cup rim on the way back down.

A full two inches of snow caressing concrete must be slush, grayish half-frozen slush the consistency of a Seven-Eleven Slurpee, instead of Cherry Coke it was Silicate Surprise.  Slush glowed off of new walkway inset the previous summer.  Surely the Fiberglass handle had to save the shovel’s life.  At this weight wood couldn’t possibly last.  Bright red scoop brought up another load.   One quarter of it remained after the toss as snoisture coated Gwen’s stiff upper lip.  Gwen had asked Aron to coat the shovels with wax or better, non-stick cooking spray.  Apparently it slipped his short-term mind.

Bright red shot through as each load hurtled its way toward an increasingly high mound.  Arterial pumping maddened, beating turned frantic.  Paranoid veins pushed up faster, glowing the same cold blue falling about Gwen’s holiday-festooned stand of Lima green White pine.

Her hood, soaked through with sweat, kept her head from freezing, but caused dizziness.  Hood’s sauna fought hard keeping lips red, but was slowly losing the battle.  Gwen’s numbing fingers, semi-protected by Robin’s egg blue worn fiber-filled gloves, absentmindedly pulled off her hood.

Two teakettle’s worth of steam rolled out accompanied by a whistle.  Aron’s slippers, yet to rise above the pine slats, scooted to the stove.  Extra hot water drowned instant coffee.  Pellets dissolved into a brewing melee. He sat at the table, short-stirring cup and mind.

Steam stopped.  Only partial wisps caromed off her head as if graying embers sat on her scalp.  Lips were nearly white.  Shovel still boasting bright red, Gwen nearly felt a twinge rolling it cross-body with just enough lift to raise this load over the crushing tidal wave of snow.

The shovel was manual, not machinated.  It did not return without aid.  It did not return.  Gwen could feel herself falling into the woman-made drift, going into it far enough to nearly disappear, stopped from hitting dormant Kentucky Blue by two week’s prior snow packed and icy.

Aron worked with cold.  Everyday one or more bodies stacked up in the cold, waiting to be tagged before autopsy, rolled into elongated file drawers eight feet deep.  Post-work, Aron wanted nothing to do with fridges, freezers and definitely zero to do with snow.  He preferred any snow removal to be done with his mother’s cordless landline.

He was good enough with a spatula to grill or make breakfast.  He wasn’t about to entertain himself or his mother with delusions of Eggs Benedict, but an over-easy fried egg wasn’t so difficult.

Nor was French toast, today notwithstanding.  Today was wheat, plain wheat toast with a drop of oleo on two slices accompanied by orange marmalade.  He liked the tangy sticky stuff.  It contrasted well as he open-faced egg white on the toast, dipped this duo into slightly runny deep yellow yolk, jamming the bite into his mouth before the yolk fell onto his sweats.

Occasionally there was bacon when saltiness was demanded.  Most days he got enough salt poured into his self-inflicted psychological wounds by his boss.  Not necessary to add on before work commenced.  Besides, mother hated the stuff and rarely bought it.

How long does a body last in snow?  Preservation could be had if the snow would stay long enough to mummify.  Gwen, watching her breath produce little steam, thought perhaps he’d look out the window and wonder.  Perhaps he may pick up the phone between cooking another round of over easy.  Perhaps curiosity would grab him hard as a musher bites the ear of his lead. If only she hadn’t worn white.

Mother’s cats didn’t come to Aron.  Mostly out of ambivalence.  Cats, as is their nature, will find the one in the room closest to pure feline loathing and gravitate toward them as somehow all cats believe there isn’t a person in the world truly a hater of cats.  But, just in case, they will do their best to turn those who have lead themselves to believe they don’t like cats.

Colonel and Elvis stayed in the study.   No need for them to come out.  They were used to Aron’s laissez faire attitude and as such, realized any attempt to turn him around would be lost time napping.  As such, the purry pair remained curled together under the desk beside the cat bed Gwen had opened for them Christmas Eve.

Booming voice fell over dispatch as eyes went dark.

Aged down.  Riverside Drive. 711 past Huckleberry.  North I think. Yeah-huh. North.

Big yellow truck, blade so wide it could up-end an elephant, had a cautious driver with an eye for detail.  He made sure no mailbox ever got touched with the blade, no new sod was peeled back easier than a mandarin orange.

White was tough to spot, red shovel not.  First he thought it to be a careless kid, but then saw her in the drift.

Hadn’t seen a shovel victim since the old man couple blocks over had a grabber.  Hell, wasn’t even shoveling.  Blowing.  People never understood, convenience of blowing the crap gave you no rights to a bad diet and zero exercise.  The vibration can make your heart do flip-flops if you’re out there long enough.  You could ask him, but you’d be about 14 months and 6 feet too late.

Ben was good name. Solid. Manly. Heroic. Yes. Ben.

Ben set the brake at the same time hopping out.  He felt for a pulse, but was no paramedic.  A scosh of snow on her bridge melted as he rubbed his hands against her cheeks, attempting to warm her.

Gwen’s mind slowed to a crawl.  Great, she thought, fireman rescue turned to a clueless plowboy. A Samaritan, but still a fully-dressed winter-ready plowboy, willing to save complete with long johns under worn denim overalls and a red and black checkered down coat.

It wasn’t as if Aron didn’t care.  His job, and his life, left him cold.  Planning was never his best suit, and a suit wasn’t in his planning.  He fell to trade school, but no trade was ever worth the training.  Sitting at the table, 67 degrees and a sweatshirt, he took another sip, thinking: another egg?  Eh.  Don’t have the energy.

Phone rang.  Once.  Twice.   Mother wasn’t getting it.  The screen said David’s Mortuary.  Pronounced “Da-veed” as it was the owner’s last name and he was Israeli, but the mortuary strangely enough was not kosher.  He only did gentile funerals, but never went into a room for the service.  The mere thought freaked him out.

Hello.

Not a question?

No.  I can see it on the screen.

Oh.  Coming in, right?

Well…

I’m in.

You’re Jewish.

And you’re an honorary Jew.

Why don’t I get the high holidays off then?

I can’t close the store, Aron.

He liked to call it the store, although no one ever came in saying “I’m just looking.”  Without people making such a statement, it couldn’t classify as a store.  Aron never uttered “can I help you?” either.  At that point, the end user was most likely beyond help.

It’s Christmas, Ebenezer.

No one dies on Christmas?  It’s one of the busiest days of the year in emergency rooms.  Did you know that?

Yes, you told me before.  Like, at least ten times before.  Did you get a shipment?

Like UPS?

Hillel…

No bodies.  But I expect soon, I will.

Call me when there’s a new arrival.  I’m…

I know, ten minutes away.  Ten minutes.  Gotcha.  You have a good day off now.  And say happy birthday to Jesus for me.  Such a good Jewish boy.

Soon the paramedic showed.  Here was a man.  Mystery man, no name uttered or showing.  Snaps popped off, zinging past his head as he threw her coat open. Pounding on her chest, he worked hard to get a pulse.  She thought, open my blouse. Open it. Tear it. Bust buttons. Do it.

Mouth to mouth.  Really it was better than exposing her breasts to bitter cold.  His wet lips found hers.  She really wished she could wrap her arms around him, but her arms weren’t going to grab anything right now.  Her pinched nose, his spearmint breath (odd, but mint is mint) rolled across her tongue into her lungs.

Nothing was working.  Colonel and Elvis idled, Colonel’s exposed tabby belly used as Elvis’ pillow for his fat black head. Aron’s forehead touching table, he silently dozed.  Gwen knew he’d have to wake up soon.  Hillel David presided over his mortuary with all work successfully accomplished by Aron and other minions.  Soon as her body reached the back door, Hillel would be on the phone.

Aron…

Hillel.

A body.

One?

One.

Aron would scuffle in, cover his coat over the usual hook on this unusual day before taking off his hunter’s hat complete with bill and earflaps.  Hat would be set on the table just inside the morgue, rubber gloves strapped on post haste. He’d swing the doors into the refrigerated room.  37 degrees.  Cold enough for his craft hefeweizen but not so cold he couldn’t replace blood with embalming fluid.

One of the boys, moonlighting as a mortician’s assistant after his shift as a porter at the local Chevy dealership on Taft, would roll her out.  Sheet off, Aron would look at his mother, seeing her breasts for the first time since he rejected them as a baby.  He’d see her face, pale, cold.  Would he shed a tear?  What would he feel?  The moment Gwen was dying to know she couldn’t.

Radio weatherman, same guy who stood in when the curly-haired redhead with the big boobs and not-so-big brain bubbled out the weather as if she was on a casting call to play a weather girl not be one took a morning off, told the story of recent days’ global warming.  Reticent to use the exact words for fear of conservative pseudo-scientists calling to complain, he explained the pattern as the Christmas Eve’s eve and Eve cold front moved out.  A brief spell of warm weather was hitting the area.  High of 43 today.  But, due to the volume of snow, Christmas Day would stay snowy, albeit a messy flood-infused snow.

Shovel could rest. What global warming wrought, global warming wrung.

Colonel Parker and Elvis complained as feet moved around them.  Aron looked up. No sight of her yet, but sometimes what one heard carried far further than what one saw.

Love you mom.

A flood of emotion came to Gwen’s psychological surface. Crème Bruleé turned artisan, sparkling intensely beautiful.

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