Snow Path Crossings

The doorbell rings. I walk over to the door, peep through the peephole, and open the door.

“Ms. Chaise?” he says looking down at a piece of paper, “delivery for you from Cuddly Confections.”

I know that, your uniform has given you away, I think.

“Yes.”

I pay the man and go back inside. The box is white cardboard with red lettering and patterns of flowers, hearts, and stars on it, characteristic decorations. It has been secured with clear tape. I put the box in the fridge. The digital clock beside the kitchen sink shows 2:53 pm, and the afternoon is chilly, and silent and still, blessings of the weekend. A nap would feel nice…

I sit up in my bed and look at my mobile, it is just past five. I shiver and scuttle to the washroom and wash my face, then wear a sweater. I brew coffee and take out the box. In hindsight, I didn’t need the refrigerator for making the pastries cold in this weather. But when I open the box, there are no pastries at all. Disappointment is strawberry doughnuts for chocolate sprinkled pastries. Shit, should have checked the box before stuffing it in. I almost eat them, but then remember, quite vividly for I have been so many times, the price tags in the shop. The pastries were more expensive. Compromise on flavor and lose out on money? No. I chug my coffee – lava sinters my tongue – and I throw on a jacket and head out to try and return the items.

The bakery smells pristine and it is warm with soothing yellow lights.

“Hello, how may I help you,” says the man at the counter. He has on a green apron and a smile.

“Hello…I have this,” I push the box forward and fumble for a receipt, “I ordered these pastries,” I say pointing towards the pastries visible through the glass enclosure, “But was sent these doughnuts instead,” I say opening the box towards the man, which looks like a little white Pac-man.

“Hmm, you ordered these about three hours ago…”

“Yes, could I get my original order? Or a refund?”

“Just a moment…” he says and goes somewhere. He comes back with another man, elderly, but with a full head of hair (white), black moustache, and spectacles.

“Hello Miss, I am Don Wittman, the manager here. How can I help you?” says the elderly man.

“I’ve already told him how he can help me…” I didn’t understand the fuss. Why did he have to call this guy?

“Uh, yes, so,” says the man, and he explains the situation to Mr. Wittman who nods along.

“I see…that’s how it is…hmm.”

He thinks for a while looking above my head. What’s above my head? Maybe he’s looking behind me. I look back and there’s nothing except the way to the glass doors out of the shop.

“Okay, Miss. We can get you a refund.”

“Why not give me the pastries instead?”

“Oh, but those are to go out right now and our last pieces for today. Sorry…”

“Ah, okay then, that’s fine.”

I get out of the shop and figure out where the man had looked. Across from Cuddly Confections, which I just exited, is Baked Offerings. It has lots of woodwork and is smaller. I haven’t been there very many times. So that’s why he gave me a refund on a food item…well, at least the competition helped me. Too bad it doesn’t help Mr. Wittman because I still need those chocolate pastries.

I get inside Baked Offerings.  

There are two women in the shop, one behind the counter who greets me enthusiastically as I enter. Even I would be energetic if I were surrounded by baked gems all day.

The other woman is much older than the first one and looks fidgety. She touches her hands together, fingers wrinkled like parrot legs, rubs her hands together. She gives me an appraising look. Trust me woman, I’m not here to window shop. I can see the pastries from here.

“Can I have four of those,” I say.

“Of course! Do you want it packed? And anything else?” The younger wench says.

“No thanks, please make it to go…”

I get back home and open up the box. I put on coffee again. Why must humans keep mirrors everywhere. I see one and see myself trapped inside. I run my hand over my stomach, then slightly lift up my top, and let it drop again. Saggy, I’m a pear. The coffee is ready, and I drink it and eat a pastry. After some time, I eat another.

***

It is December and cold and the gods are preparing summer creations on their divine blackboards and the chalk dust is falling down on the earth turning it into a white counterpane for all things alive and dead. Port Washington, Wisconsin, where I live, has a festival every December. Not Christmas. They call it ‘The Snow Path Crossings’ and it’s tomorrow.

***

There are lights and people. The lights are warm, man-made fireflies on poles. Where the illumination doesn’t reach, the snow has turned blue in the dusk. I hear laughter and talking and shopkeepers persuading. Somewhere an infant is bawling. People pass by left and right, most have steamy foods in their hands: coffee, tea, cocoa, corn, bagels, sweet buns. They expel steam from their mouths, too. I walk along and buy an espresso. I continue along and see a man playing the ukulele on a slightly elevated limestone platform and there are people gathered around the man, the couples hugging each other side by side, the ukulele gentleman smiling and singing. Further along. Oh, there’s Baked Offerings, I think, seeing the woman and the younger lady working with her at a stall they’ve put up. I walk up to them. There is no crowd here. Like their small shop. I see people going over to Cuddly Confections’ van that they’ve brought out here, which is standing a little way away from this stall. I did like the pastries; I’ll try something else now.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi, how are you?”

I see brownies and I melt.

“Can I have two of those?” I ask, pointing.

“Hello, could you give us a moment?” the older woman asks now, “we’re having a bit of a problem here…”

“Oh, okay.”

“We’re sorry, actually the power is out,” the younger one says.

“The power is out?” I look around. There are lights everywhere.

“Oh, I mean for this outlet,” she says pointing to the switchboards that are connected to the microwave and oven. She flips the switch off and on to illustrate. 

The woman who seems to be the manager is shouting at someone on her phone. Probably the contractor who got them this stall. People will buy only heated goods when their ears and faces are cold. I suspect they aren’t going to Cuddly Confections naturally, who would like to stand around in this cold?

“I’ll be back,” I say and go away. This should not be happening to them. I walk over to Cuddly Confections’ van.

“Hello, Mr. Wittman,” I say.

“Oh! Hello er, Miss…?”

“I’m Eleanor Chaise.”

“Ah, yes, we have seen you many times, Miss. What can we get you today?”

I decided to buy something first.

“A brownie please.”

“Sure, anything else?”

“Yes. I need a favor. Baked Offering’s there has a big problem. Their power is out, and they can’t heat up any of their stuff, so no one is buying anything from them.”

Mr. Wittman leans out of his Van and looks over. There the woman is still on the phone and is using her hands to effectively communicate her issue telephonically.

“Can you help in any way?” I ask.

“We have many customers here…”

Yes, because you’ve taken all of theirs, I think.

“It is a festival Mr. Wittman, please? Couldn’t you, like, sell their stuff out of your van?”

“I suppose…”

“Okay, I’ll tell them then,” I say and walk away. I don’t look back to see if he has anything else to say. What is the sin in having a stroke of bad luck? An old woman, an old man, both selling warm sugary love to others must have some understanding for each other.

I tell the older woman at Baked Offerings and accompany her to the van to establish an understanding. The woman thanks me, bows her head a little as well. I slightly flush and feel warm despite the cold. The woman’s name, I find out, is Thelma Payne. I say it’s no problem and say goodbye.

***

It is late January, I am sitting at a park bench, and now I see them walking slowly on the footpath, taking rounds together, Mr. Wittman, and Mrs. Payne. Sometimes she wraps her parrot legged fingers around Mr. Wittman’s hand and he smiles and clutches her hand firmly and gently. I look down and my hands are wrapped around a sweet bun. When will this sweet bun become a sweet hand? I look back up and Mr. Wittman is waving at me. Seeing him Mrs. Payne also turns and waves. I wave back and they get out of my view after a while. They’ve been here pretty often lately.

My bun is half finished now, and on the way out of the park there is a trash can. I throw away the bun and get back home. The next day I try jogging. I encounter the new couple – I think I can call them that – every round. Although I can only do three rounds.

When their creations are complete, the gods release the new and soft leaves, and the explosions in the sun burn it brighter and snowmen in driveways across America melt into water which is sucked up by the atmosphere and the days get rejuvenated and stick around for longer and the summer arrives like a relative long lost.

June, and a month has passed since Baked Offerings cleared out and united with Cuddly Confections as Mr. Wittman and Mrs. Payne became ever closer. I walk by the shop now and peek inside through the glass and see a smiling Mr. Wittman and a flustered Mrs. Payne. There is a big queue. I focus on my reflection in the glass. Not so saggy anymore, Eleanor.