Are We Ever Truly Alone?

Are We Ever Truly Alone?

               “If Henry was here this walk would be shoveled by now.” She stared out the kitchen window at a sparkling Christmas Eve. It was the kind of snow that reflected all the neighborhood Christmas lights in so many colors. She had spent most of the day gazing at the snow gently drifting down in deadly beauty. “If Henry was here this ham would have been out of the oven hours ago.” She muttered and pulled open the oven door. Black smoke billowed out of the oven like a great thunder cloud. The roaster sat patiently on the rack. One hard tug and it crashed to the oven door. Ham spilled onto the linoleum. “Oh, Henry why did you leave me in winter?” she cried. She opened the porch door to let the smoke out of the kitchen.

               She pushed her walker to the living room and watched the snow through the front window. “It’s getting cold in here.” She made her way to the wood stove and opened the door. A dim orange glow filled the bottom of the stove. She put some small pieces of wood in and stirred it with a walking stick that leaned against the wall. She closed the door and waited for the magic of fire to warm her up. “If Henry were here the room would be warm by now,” she said as she pulled on a jacket. She wrapped herself tight in a crocheted blanket she used as a throw on the back of the couch. 

               The lights outside the front window were brighter than the ones outside the kitchen. She watched the blinking sparkles on the deep snow drift. “Those carolers would be at our door if Henry were here to scoop the walk.” “You always did things like that Henry; scooping the walk for the carolers.”

               She pulled herself off the couch and dug out a stocking hat from the hall closet. She took Henry’s bulky coat off a hook by the door. It was easier to manage with her bursitis. She slipped into his big rubber boots, and inched out the door with the walker and a shovel. The carolers were down the street now. Their voices sounded like chimes in the December air. “They’ll see the beautiful walk and come back to sing,” she said into the cold.

               The night sky was clear. The moon shone bright. The drift was a soft sea of sparkling diamonds, with the other jeweled lights from neighboring houses interspersed and glittering. “It’s a beautiful night Henry.” Her breath was sharp from the cold air. Her lungs burned.

               She moved slowly through the drift. Each step she pushed the walker, then stopped and dug some snow. It was powdery and moved easily at first. The walker made little curved patterns in the edges of the snow, like so many left handed parentheses. She pushed on. The carolers were no longer in sight. Their voices faint still crept into her ears and finally vanished altogether.

               She stopped and looked back at the house. There was no smoke in the chimney. “Henry,” she said. A little louder she snapped, “Henry, why do I have to do all of the work. You could at least start the fire.” She turned around. Her walker caught on a bit of ice. “Now look what you made me do.” She sat in the snow drift for some time, how long she wasn’t sure. A small voice in her head kept saying, “Get up. Claire, get up.” She pulled herself up, first on one knee and then the other. She struggled to stand. Finally she did.

               “Very well,” she said. I’ll come in and make the fire. She left the shovel and a boot in the drift. The carolers’ voices came back around the corner. They weren’t singing now. They were arguing. Then they were silent. She waived with her good arm and fell back into the drift.

One of them shouted, “Mrs. Grayson, hey Mrs. Grayson!” They hurried toward her and helped her upright. “I told you I saw widow Grayson,” said one of the girls. They took her to the curb. One boy flagged his father, who was watching the children from his car down the street. He helped her in and drove her back to his wife.

They did all the normal things. They bundled her in warm blankets and parked her chair next to a space heater the husband produced from a distant bedroom. The wife put her feet into a warm Epsom salt bath. Before long she recognized the smell of baked ham. By the time the carolers finished their rounds a proper Christmas dinner was on the table and Claire Grayson was ready to eat. She watched as the children opened presents and smiled as they played.

Restored and happy they deposited her back at her house. The husband made short order of finishing the shoveling. He walked her up to the door. “Do you need anything before I go?” he asked.

“No, no, everything is fine now,” she said. Her smile was reassuring.

She entered the house and realized it was still cold. The car was gone. She poked at the orange glow in the wood stove with a walking stick. The flames wouldn’t come up. She sat down on the couch and pulled the crochet blanket about her shoulders.

“That was some dinner, wasn’t it Henry.” There was no reply. “The ham was the best we had in years. I’m sure I ate too much.”

She sat on the cold couch. She said, “Henry, I believe there is a draft in here. That’s why it’s so cold. I’m going to check the windows.” She stood up and clunked the walker about the living room. She worked her way around the rest of the house. “I found it,” she hollered from the back porch. “You left the back door ajar. And look at this, dogs came in and got into the rest of the ham. Now we can’t have any leftovers.” She closed the door and returned to the couch.

“Henry,” she said. Her voice was faint now. “Henry, I think something’s wrong with the stove.” She sat staring at the orange embers. “Henry, I think the stove isn’t working right.”

She closed her eyes. She drifted into a deep sleep. She opened her eyes again. Next to her on the couch sat Henry. He put his arm around her and smiled. “Yes, Claire, I told you before I left to have the chimney cleaned. Do you remember?”

She smiled back at him. “Yes, I remember, you always did take good care of me.”