A Quilt for Jenna (11 page)

M
ARK
K
NEPP GOT UP FROM HIS CHAIR
and walked slowly to the pile of wood by the heavy cast-iron stove. The old white and black coonhound lying on a rug by the fire didn't stir as Mark grabbed several more pieces of wood. The stove was already glowing red from the fire inside, but it wasn't keeping the chill out of the house. He opened the fire door and put in the freshly split oak. Then he went into the bedroom and rummaged in the closet until he found the wool pullover sweater hanging in the back. He put it on over his Pendleton shirt and returned to his living room. He sat down in the overstuffed chair in front of the stove and scooted it closer to the heat. An old orange tabby cat walked out of the mudroom and jumped up onto Mark's lap. It circled a couple of times and lay down, snuggling against the wool sweater.

“Yes sir, Tiger, it's cold as anything out there,” Mark said as he rubbed behind its ears. “This is a humdinger for sure.”

At first this storm had seemed to Mark like a normal November snowfall, but during the night the temperature had dropped significantly, and the wind and snow picked up. By Thanksgiving morning the snow was coming down thick and wet, and soon the fields and trees around Mark's place were heaped with white.

“We may be in for the long haul. What was that poem we used to read in school?” Mark searched his memory until a few stanzas came back to him.

A chill no coat, however stout,

Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,

A hard, dull bitterness of cold,

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race

Of life-blood in the sharpened face,

The coming of the snow-storm told.

Mark smiled. “Right! John Greenleaf Whittier! I may not be getting any younger, but there's still life in the old noggin.”

Mark laughed at his own statement while the cat yawned and stretched and dug its claws into the sweater. The old pot-bellied stove, satisfied for the moment with the new wood, soon warmed the room enough that, while not toasty, it was at least comfortable. Outside, the snow drifted up against the house, and the wind blew mournfully around the eaves.

Mark had gone out earlier that morning and dug a path through the snow to the old shed he called a barn. Inside the door he picked up a short pitchfork and went back to the hay pile. His dog, Smitty, lay curled up in the alfalfa. When the dog saw him he jumped up and barked excitedly.

“So that's where you spent the night,” Mark said as the dog pushed against him, biting gently at his hand.

Mark pulled a forkful of hay out of the pile and walked over to the sheep pen. The ancient ram glared at him and stamped its foot as Mark filled the feeder with hay and then poured in some grain. The two ewes pushed against each other as they gobbled the fodder.

“A little late for breakfast, eh, old boy,” Mark said as he scattered some grain on the floor for the chickens.

The rooster had led its harem to the barn door when Mark came in, but it turned back when it saw the snow outside and began to scratch at the grain, making gentle clucking sounds to prompt the hens to eat. Mark finished his chores and headed back to the house. Smitty followed him and whined at the back door to be let in.

“Don't blame you, Smitty,” he said. “It's cold out here.”

Now, with his chores finished, the old man sat by the fire with the cat asleep on his lap and Smitty stretched out by the stove, offering up an occasional twitch and a whimper in his sleep.

It was Thanksgiving Day, but Mark wasn't celebrating. When Millie died two years earlier, he lost much of his zest for living. Since then, holidays came and went pretty much the same as other days. He had been married to Millie for fifty-six years, and now, without his wife around, he could feel his own life winding down. He had settled into a day-to-day routine while the sun rose and set without him paying much attention.

Until Millie passed, Mark had thought of himself as a devout Christian. He went to church with Millie every Sunday, tithed, supported missions, and did everything expected of him. But now that Millie was gone, it just seemed more like a social club than something that was of comfort to him in his grief. After a while, Mark realized he was just waiting for his own time to go. He was looking forward to seeing his beloved wife in heaven, so church just didn't seem so important anymore. He stopped attending regularly, which he knew would not make Millie happy, but somehow he just didn't have the juice to get up and around on Sunday mornings.

Soon the old man fell asleep, and the hours passed. He woke up around two that afternoon and stretched himself. He picked the cat up from off his lap and set him down beside the chair. The cat complained loudly.

Mark went over to the cupboard to see what he could find to eat. He rummaged around until he found some Ritz crackers and a jar of peanut butter. He went to the refrigerator for some milk and poured it into a pan on the stove. Then he rustled around in the cupboard until he found the plastic jar of chocolate syrup, squeezed some into the milk, and turned the burner on.

After it had warmed up, he poured the milk into a cup, turned on the radio on the kitchen counter, and set his snack on the reading table next to his chair. Then he put some more wood on the fire and settled back.

The radio was playing Glenn Miller—“Moonlight Serenade” or something like that—and Mark started eating his crackers and drinking his milk. The warm milk and the music soothed him, and soon he moved back to his overstuffed chair and fell asleep.

When Mark awoke it was already dark outside. He turned on the lamp next to his chair and sat for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Suddenly he heard a loud crash outside. The dog and cat both jerked awake and stared at the door.

“That sounded like a tree going over,” Mark said. “Come on, boy, let's go see.”

Smitty jumped to his feet and went to the door and whined. Mark went to the back porch and got a flashlight off the shelf. He slipped on his galoshes and put on the old army parka that was hanging on a hook by the door. He went to the front door, and when he opened it the cold wind and snow blew into the room.

“C'mon, Smitty, let's check it out,” he called to the dog.

As he shined the flashlight around, Mark soon saw the cause of the noise. The big laurel tree out on the lane had blown over and was partially blocking the driveway. Mark pulled the face flap of the parka over his mouth, and he and Smitty walked down the driveway toward the tree. Suddenly Mark stumbled over something and sprawled headlong into the snow. The flashlight flew out of his hand and hit the ground hard, but the light stayed on.

“What was that?” Mark asked as he gingerly rubbed a bruised knee. He grabbed the flashlight and took a closer look. Smitty was whining frantically and digging at something under the snow. Mark hobbled over and started brushing the snow away as Smitty pawed at the heap. In a few seconds he realized what he had tripped over. Lying in the snow faceup with a bloody gash on the side of his head was a young man.

The little girl pushed deeper into the pile of clothing and the seat cushion. She slipped in and out of consciousness, now dreaming of angels. She had never seen an angel, but her mama had told her about them. They had wings and were very kind and helped people who were in trouble. As she lay on the ceiling of the upside-down car, the fierce wind continued to blow, and the car slipped a few more inches down the bank onto the frozen pond. The ice groaned and crackled, and beneath the front of the car, the crack in the ice widened.

Mark Knepp brushed the snow off the unconscious young man's face and then gasped.

“Henry Lowenstein! What in the world are you doing out here, boy?”

No answer.

“Henry, can you hear me? Wake up, Henry!”

Mark shook Henry, but he didn't stir.

“Gotta get him inside,” the old man said as Smitty whined and pawed at the lad. The old man reached under Henry's arms, took hold, and began to drag him slowly toward the house. He managed to get him up on the porch and then kicked the door open and dragged Henry inside, pulling him over by the stove. The lad's lips were blue, and his face was pale white. Mark checked for a pulse. There! Henry was alive but in bad shape. The old man wrestled off the boy's coat and gloves and pulled off his boots and frozen pants.

He went into the back room and pulled some blankets and pillows from the old cedar chest. He folded up a couple of blankets and laid them beside Henry. Then he rolled the boy over onto them and got him adjusted. He slipped a pillow under Henry's head and covered him with several more blankets and a thick down comforter. Once he got Henry bundled up, he went to the phone. He picked up the receiver but heard nothing. The line was dead.

“Well, that's not good,” the old man said to himself. “I'll have to take care of him here tonight and then try to get into town in the morning.”

He went back to the boy and washed off the blood with a warm wet cloth. The boy groaned and stirred but didn't wake up.

“Hang in there, Henry,” said Mark softly. “Just hang in there, boy.”

Jerusha, wrapped in the blanket, trembled on the backseat. She had screamed out her rage and fear, and now she was exhausted and numb inside. The night closed in on her, and the wind howled like a fierce beast. The cold crept into the car like a starving animal, gnawing at her weakening resolve. She was lost in her memories, lost in her heart, lost in the storm, and lost to her God.