A Warmth in Winter (22 page)

Taking the phone from the pastor, he grunted a greeting: “Ayuh?”

“Floyd?”

“Ayuh.”

“It's Stanley.”

Floyd blinked in astonished silence.

“Did you hear me? It's Stan.”

“Stanley Bidderman?” Somehow Floyd found his voice. “Great day in the morning, man. Are you kidding? Is this really you?”

A hoarse cough rattled over the line, then Stanley said, “I need a favor, Floyd. Please.”

Floyd's gaze darted toward the kitchen. Through the opening above the counter he could see the women clustered around Vernie. His eyes shifted to the men sitting at the table, their attention now focused on him.

Looking away, Floyd lowered his voice. “We didn't know if you were dead or alive.”

“Right now I feel mostly dead,” Stanley admitted.

“Where are you?”

“Standing at the side door of the church. Calling on a cell phone.”

Floyd took a quick, sharp breath, then met Pastor Wickam's curious gaze. “Heavenly Daze Church?”

“That would be the one.” Floyd flinched when Stanley's words were punctuated by an explosive sneeze.

“Stanley Bidderman?” Winslow leaned closer. “Vernie's husband? I never met him.”

Cupping his hand over the receiver, Floyd whispered, “Stanley says he's here, at the side door.”

“Impossible,” Charles Graham concluded, thumping the table. “The ferry isn't running.”

“Impossible,” Russell echoed the sentiment. “It's dark out there.”

“Someone's playing a joke on you,” Charles added.

Lifting the phone back to his ear, Floyd said, “How'd you get here? The ferry isn't running.”

Another violent sneeze exploded, then: “I hired a guy to bring me across. That nutty lobsterman.”

Floyd lowered the phone and relayed the information. “He hired Crazy Odell to bring 'im across.”

The other men rolled their eyes and nodded in unison. Odell Butcher was the only human within sixty miles desperate enough to risk roiling Atlantic waters for a twenty dollar bill.

“If he's really outside,” Pastor Wickam said, “why doesn't he come in?”

Floyd turned back to the phone. “Why don't you come in? You'd have to be crazier than a backhouse rat to stay out when you could come in and get warm—”

“Vernie's there, isn't she?”

Floyd glanced toward the kitchen again. “Ayuh, she's here. In the kitchen with the other womenfolk.”

“Then I ain't so crazy. I can't have her see me, not yet.

She's still all fussed up about us.”

“Hold your horses, then. I'll be out directly.”

Floyd punched the power button, then handed the phone to Winslow. “I better get him inside before he freezes.”

“I wouldn't tell Vernie just yet,” Winslow whispered, looking toward the weepy women. “We better break this to her gently.”

Floyd nodded, then made his way through the fellowship hall. He took the steps double-time and hurried to the side door. Sure enough, Stanley Bidderman sat slumped on the steps, his face flushed, his eyes bright and watery in the porch light. He looked every day of twenty years older, but there was no mistaking Stanley's slight form and round face.

“In heaven's name, Stan. What's going on?” Kneeling, Floyd felt the ailing man's damp forehead. “You're burning up.”

“Don't tell Vernie,” Stanley whispered, his hand coming up to grasp Floyd's coat. “Promise me, Floyd? She'll throw my carcass off the island if she finds out I'm here before I'm ready.”

“Vernie wouldn't do that.”

“She would. You don't know my sweetums like I do.”

“I don't think I care to know her that well. I got enough headaches with Cleta.” Floyd grunted as he helped his old friend to his feet, then picked up his battered suitcase.

“Can you give me a room for the night? I'm sorry to put you to any trouble, but this fever came on me this morning. If you'll give me a room, I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow.”

“You're not putting me to any trouble.” Supporting Stanley's slight frame, Floyd led his unexpected guest toward the back porch of the bed-and-breakfast. Wind buffeted them as sleet stung their faces.

Floyd chided his friend as they walked through the deepening darkness. “Why in the world would you try to come here in your condition? This weather's a beast!”

Stanley drew a breath that dissolved in a coughing fit. “Had to talk to Vernie, and you know Odell—” He coughed again, then squeaked, “He's fearless.”

“He's batty. You're lucky you made it in one piece.” Floyd helped Stanley up the slippery stairs and onto the ice-covered porch. After turning the skeleton key in the lock, he hurried the sick man inside, shivering as a cocoon of warm air enveloped him.

“Come on in here.” Floyd led Stanley toward the front room. “You sit on the sofa and relax while I chuck a couple more logs on the fire.” He turned on a lamp, then reached for a log and asked, “You had anything to eat?”

Waving the question aside, Stanley shivered. “What about it? Can I have that bed for the night?”

Floyd straightened. “Cleta will be in big trouble if Vernie hears about it.”

Stan's fever-bright eyes pleaded his case. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“Man, I don't know. After all these years . . . Cleta will skin me alive.”

Stanley fell back on the sofa and lifted a feeble hand. “Please.”

Floyd stood for a moment, running the toe of his shoe over a pattern in the worn carpet. After a while, he sighed and shrugged. “Sure. There's a bedroom in the attic we sometimes use for overflow in the summer. It's cold as a well digger's ankles up there, but I'll get a couple more blankets and a heater from the storeroom.” He grinned. “Cleta doesn't have to know you're up there either, at least, not for a while.”

“Thank you, Floyd.” The two men's eyes met, and Stanley's shone with gratitude. “Vernie refuses to talk to me. I thought if I came to see her she'd have to listen.”

“She's not going to be happy about you barging in at Christmastime.”

Stanley broke into another coughing spell, then croaked, “I know.”

“What you did to her was rough.” Floyd sat in his easy chair and reached for his pipe. “You broke her heart. She walked around like one of those mechanical robots for months afterward and couldn't seem to hold her head up.”

Stanley lowered his eyes. “I'm not proud of what I did.”

Straightening, Floyd confronted him head-on. “Why, man? What would make you do such a thing?”

Stanley shook his head, then pressed his hand to his mouth as another coughing fit seized him. When the attack subsided, he dropped his head to the back of the sofa. “It was the most despisable thing I've ever done.”

The phone rang, and Floyd reached for the receiver. “Ayuh?” He listened, his eyes centered on Stanley. “I'll be over in a minute, hon. I needed to put some wood on the fire.”

As he hung up the phone, he glanced at his guest. “I gotta get back. If I don't go over there and help Cleta tote her dishes home, she'll be over here dragging me out by the collar.” His tone softened as he stared at the sick man. “Come on, Stan. Let me get you tucked into a warm bed. Things are gonna be okay, you wait and see.”

A few moments later he had settled Stanley between musty smelling sheets. As he tossed a third blanket over the bed, he frowned. “You ought to see Dr. Marc.”

“I'll . . . be . . . fine,” Stanley assured him through clattering teeth. “God b-bless you, F-floyd.”

“Well—” Floyd hesitated, his hands in his pockets. “At least let me fix you a cup of something hot before I go.”

“Maybe . . . tea would . . . be nice.”

Ten minutes later, as Floyd crossed the darkened lawn to return to the church, he glanced over his shoulder to look up at the attic window. Darkness had covered the island like a velvet cloak, but as long as Stanley didn't turn on a light, no one would know he'd arrived . . . none of the women, anyway, and the men would never tell. Of course, he'd have to tell Cleta soon, and she'd give him the very Jesse when she learned he'd slipped Stanley Bidderman into their spare guest room and tucked him beneath her mother's comforter.

Should he tell Vernie about his unexpected visitor? Years ago the two couples had shared a close friendship. When Stanley ran off, Cleta vowed to shoot him straight between the eyes if he ever stepped foot on the island again. She wouldn't, of course. The Good Book didn't hold with killing; and if Cleta was anything, she was a God-fearing woman. She liked to blow off steam every now and then, yet she was true blue when it came to Vernie. So the odds of her welcoming Stanley were slim to none.

But Stanley had been Floyd's friend. And though he didn't understand how any man could up and leave a woman without discussing his feelings, he reckoned there were a lot of things he didn't know about the Biddermans' past problems. What Stanley did wasn't right, not at all, but a man could change and after all these years maybe Stanley had seen the error of his ways. Why else would a sick man risk his life crossing a gale-tossed sea on a night not fit for man nor beast? People didn't do such things on a whim. They only took such risks if the matter concerned life and death—

Floyd halted in midstep, his mouth going dry. Was Stanley dying?

That had to be why he'd come back—Stan had a terminal illness. That's why he looked so thin and pale, and that was why he'd been begging Vernie to talk to him. He was trying to settle his earthly accounts before he coiled his ropes and stepped onto a heavenly shore.

Floyd sank to the concrete steps at the church's side door, his gut twisting. How could Stan be dying? They were about the same age. Though sometimes Floyd felt as though he'd just begun to live, they were all of an age now when anything could happen. Was it cancer? His heart? Floyd frowned, trying to remember Stanley's family history. The elder Mr. Bidderman, Stan's father, might have been but a young man when he died of heart problems—or was it the sea that got him?

Slipping through the church doorway, Floyd clutched his middle, realizing that either the gooseberry pie or the thought of Stanley's illness had soured his stomach. Probably the latter. But, sour stomach or not, he had to do something to help. You couldn't turn a dying man out into the cold, no matter how furiously your wife might protest his presence.

Another thought flitted through his mind then, one that had nothing to do with the dinner or Cleta. Over two thousand years ago, maybe on a cold night like this one, another man had sought shelter . . . for himself and his pregnant wife.

And he'd been given not an attic, but a stable.

Floyd lifted his chin, convinced he'd done the right thing. But, like the infant Jesus, Stanley might face the wrath of a ruler in a very short time. Cleta and Vernie didn't have the power of King Herod, but they might have power enough to make Stanley yearn to meet his Maker.

Chapter Sixteen

H
oarfrost fogged the north kitchen windowpanes on Sunday morning. Despite a sour sensation in his stomach and aching muscles, Floyd rose with the sun, hoping to fix Stanley a breakfast tray before Cleta caught the scent of his secret.

He wasn't fast enough.

“Mornin', Floyd.” Cleta wandered into the kitchen, scratching her chin and yawning. Curlers sprouted from her head like pink bean pods.

Floyd whirled from the microwave, hot water splashing from his mug onto his hand. “Good grief, woman! What'd you mean, sneaking up on me like that?”

Giving him a dour look, his wife plugged in the percolator. “Since when does coming into the kitchen constitute sneaking up on you?”

“You scared the willies out of me.” Setting the cup on the table, Floyd dropped in a tea bag, then stirred in three heaping teaspoons of sugar. Cleta watched, her eyes as wide as boiled eggs.

“Why are you drinking tea, Floyd?”

“No special reason.” Floyd dropped the spoon as heat crept up his neck. “Just had a notion for a cup of hot tea. Is that a crime?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Tea's not, but using that much sugar might well be. You know there's a sugar shortage on the island—” Her jaw dropped, then snapped shut. “Why, the only man I ever knew to take three teaspoons of sugar in his tea was Stanley Bidderman. If you start acting like him—”

“I won't, Cleta. My stomach's a little tense, so I thought I'd try tea instead of coffee. So get breakfast on the table and leave me be.”

Cleta snorted, then tossed her head and moved toward the pantry, her slippers flip-flopping against the linoleum.

Floyd glanced at the clock. He'd stopped into Stanley's room only to find that the man's temperature had risen to 102. If he didn't get some food in Stan, he'd never have the strength to face Vernie. And he had to face her, and soon, because Floyd couldn't keep him hidden away forever.

What would be good for a sick man? Something bland, maybe, and warm . . .

Lifting his chin, he called to Cleta. “I want cream of wheat this morning.”

Cleta stepped backward out of the pantry, sleepily eyeing him over her shoulder. “You detest cream of wheat.”

“Confound it, woman; I want cream of wheat!”

Their eyes met in a silent duel, then Cleta spoke in a clipped voice: “I don't have cream of wheat. I never buy it because you never eat it. How about oatmeal?”

“I reckon that'd do.”

Snorting again, she stepped back into the pantry, mumbling loud enough for him to hear: “The man's got rocks in his head. Cream of wheat? Whatever's gotten into him?”

She fell silent as she came out of the pantry, then knelt to rattle pans in a cabinet. Finally she tossed a saucepan onto the stove and stood. “I'll have to do dishes before church, looks like. Vernie's coming over after the service to make candy, and that'll use every pan in the house.”