A Frozen Life

    Philip Bartholomew hated his last name. He hated this 5,500 square foot home, and he hated his job. Mostly though, he just hated this snow. 

    The great, fluffy flakes rained from above, creating a winter wonderland. Children dreamed of this weather. Not him. He did not like kids either. 

     Why did everyone have to be walking around, singing Jingle Bells simply because it snowed? Christmas was a month in the past, thank goodness. Philip did not think he could have handled one more holly, jolly moment. His family had descended, minus Pops. The infectious goodwill being thrown about was rejected by him emphatically. The gathering had nauseated him. How could they celebrate when they were missing the most important person? His last name reminded him of his deceased father. This home had been an inheritance provided through his father’s will. Even his job had been bequeathed to him upon his father’s passing. An empire, built on the back of Levi Bartholomew, had been handed down, just like that.

    Philip sighed. Life was flying by like nothing had happened. Could people not see the sink hole gaping in his chest? The heart attack had been a Widow Maker, and Levi had departed this world in a matter of minutes, right in the conference room of his fortune 500 company. The very next day, the COO and the CFO had phoned at varying times to inquire about this decision or that. They had seamlessly transferred power to Philip, heedless of the panic lacing him.

     The snow, which had continued to layer the plains out his bedroom window while he reflected, whispered words of comfort and calm. Philip refused the peace, flung his comforter off, marched to the window, and flipped the curtains closed. 

     His movements had been detected below. Mrs. Saxon could now be heard whistling along the steps, most likely bringing him his morning tea. How invasive. Philip simply wanted to hide under his blankets like he was five years old again and be left alone.

    Mrs. Saxon bustled into his room, indifferent to the thunder cloud filling the space. “Good morning!”

     Her sing-song voice used to soothe him, but that seemed like ages ago, when his father was alive. He growled in response. There were no more “good” mornings.

     “I brought your tea with a dash of cream, just the way you like it, Dear.” She busied herself, picking up his dirty laundry he had flung from his body last night. “Are you going out today?”

     Her hesitating lilt resulted from his behavior of late. He could perform business meetings right from his laptop in this room. He owned a cell phone. What reason did he have to go in to the office building? The CFO and COO certainly had not complained. 

     “No.” His short answers were also becoming routine.

     “The snow is so beautiful! It might make you feel young again.” She boldly winked at him. “Might do you some good, all that fresh air.”

     He sank onto his bed, steam running out. “I don’t believe that’s a possibility anymore.” 

     He mournfully viewed his surroundings. The forest green curtains covered in army men, the Guns N’ Roses poster, and the car model collections transported him to his childhood. He had never dreamed of returning to this place in adulthood as the owner. He closed his eyes to block out the memories.

     Mrs. Saxon was opposed to his tactics. “Look here, Philip Bartholomew. Although this came sooner than you would have hoped or expected, it was meant to be from the beginning. Your father raised you as his replacement. Now, start acting like it!” She clanked his tea tray onto the side table by the window and bailed out, surrendering this battle but already preparing for the next.

     He groaned. The one woman who had stuck by him throughout this whole terrible event, and he had to treat her like a nobody. His mother must be rolling in her grave. He approached the tea cautiously, eyeing it for any reproof. At least, he could put in an effort. He threw open the curtains once more. The snow still poured from the heavens. He instinctively shivered and snagged the afghan off the back of the chair beside his tea tray. He sipped and stewed. The giant tree blocked a good portion of the yard, but he was getting the gist of the landscape. Cold, windy, wet.

     The limbs and trunk of the tree spoke to him, whispering stories of days gone by. The times he had snuck out of this very window to shimmy down the branches flowed over him. His father had caught him once. It had been the last occasion Philip had ever betrayed his father’s trust, not because his father had beaten him or berated him, but because he had lovingly described in detail what life on his own would be like. If someone had taken Philip or he had gotten hurt while alone, what would he have done with no one to protect him? 

    Red flashed across his vision. What had that been? He scanned the tree, roots to top. He inspected the trunk again, and suddenly, the splash of color returned, grotesque in its stark opposition to the pure snow. It disappeared in the blink of an eye. It came to him then. The tiny pond behind his house was perfect for skating and should be frozen over by this point in late January. He contemplated who it could be though. There were no children living on the property. There was no one in residence at all besides himself and Mrs. Saxon, widow that she was. Who could it be? He did not mind the intrusion, but something niggled at his brain. The warm spell a couple days ago unnerved him. The sudden drop in temperature had cooled the earth, but what of the water?

     He rushed for his scarf and gloves, dragging his boots with him. Hopping down the stairs while he yanked one shoe on at a time, he yelled his mission to Mrs. Saxon. He burst through the back door, grabbing the coat hanging on a peg beside it. The wintery blast chilled his skin instantly, and his feet smooshed into the thickening snow. The crunchy slosh slowed his progress.

     The crack reported back to him. The scream echoed in its wake. The horrific realization that his fears were coming true drove him to pray like he had not done since he was a boy. 

     “God, protect them, whoever they are! Let me get there in time, please, Lord!”

    Sliding to a stop beside the broken pond, he dropped to his knees. The red swam into his sight briefly. The overcoat was there for but a moment before sinking below the frigid water.

     He edged onto the thickest surface he could find, balancing his weight on all fours. He could hear in his subconscious Mrs. Saxon hysterically approaching. 

    As he pulled himself to the cracking hole, some more ice disintegrated. He held steady, begging for the jacket to resurface. 

    There! He lurched out an arm, snaking around a tiny waist, and yanked with all his might. He did not stop. He tugged and propelled them both to the safety of the snow banks. Philip felt his wet arm freezing to his own coat. How cold must this little one be? He flipped the child over, for a child it was.

    Two blue eyes fluttered at him, drooping in icy sluggishness. Philip clutched him to his chest, while Mrs. Saxon buzzed around him like a distraught bee. 

    “We must get him warm! I’ll carry him. Get to the house and prepare blankets and tea!” Philip commanded. 

     Why was this child alone out here? He would discover the facts soon enough. Hastening behind Mrs. Saxon, he strove to keep the child conscious. 

     “Hey, can you hear me?”

     The chattering teeth could not form words.

    “It’s alright. I’m going to help you. Blink twice if you can understand me.”

    The answering blinks comforted Philip. “That’s good! You’re doing great. Why are you alone? Do you have family nearby?”

     The slow, single blink upset Philip. He was going to need more answers but not through eye communication. 

     Once inside, he collapsed with his precious bundle in the library next to the blazing fireplace. The tea was delivered and consumed, and the clothes were changed and hung. A child! Philip would have never imagined being in this situation. 

     He asked his questions carefully, as to not scare the young one.

     The boy took to the kindness and explained. “I’m Matthew. I come from the orphanage a few hills over. I sneak out through my window and down a tree when I want to get away. Please, sir, don’t get me in trouble. I won’t trespass anymore!” 

     A small smile formed on Philip’s lips. An orphan. Had God done this? Had He prepared this interaction to drain the hate? Clothes had dried and fingers had thawed, but the miracle of the rescue was Philip’s warming heart.