Cold Comfort (6 page)

“I know it simply as Giacomo’s place. I’ll punch in fish stores, Federal Hill,” she said, pecking away on the phone keyboard. “Here it is…Garibaldi Plaza. This is it.”

As I sponged the coffee stain from my sweatshirt, Aunt Minnie left a message for Jack. The Nor’easter had completely seized the city and brought everything, and everyone, to an obvious standstill.

I was suddenly beginning to question and rethink the way in which my prayers were being answered.

By ten-fifteen, Minnie tipped the candle toward the eleven pound turkey in the roasting pan. “We’ve got to get this thing stuffed and cooking if we want to eat by two o’clock. What should we do—boil it?”

But before I could answer, a sudden loud crash beckoned from outside the brownstone. I rushed to the front window, fearing it might be another leaf-filled bough plummeting to the street. All morning, we were jolted by sporadic cracking sounds and then loud thuds from a string of tree casualties, the impact worthy of an arborist’s shout of
timber!
The weighed-down limbs had been succumbing, falling to their premature deaths and inflicting damage on trash cans at the curb, parked cars and the roofs of houses.

But this time, the culprit was an old, rusty pickup truck rigged with a snowplow that was striking the street in front of Aunt Minnie’s place. Through the density of snow tumbling down from the sky, the truck expertly backed up and lurched forward a couple of times until a path was cleared on the street out front. Great big snow drifts were built far enough from the curb making room for the truck to pull over. With the engine idling, a curl of smoke rose from the exhaust pipe, and Jack, collar up and a ski cap pulled over his head, hopped out of the pickup. Almost knee-deep in snow, he began to shovel a path to Aunt Minnie’s front door.

He looked to the window and smiled broadly. As I raised a hand to him and waved, Aunt Minnie’s voice beckoned over my shoulder, “That guy’s like a saint.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I told her, watching as Jack pulled back the tarp that covered the bed of the truck. He stacked some firewood in his arms and headed up the front steps.

Aunt Minnie rushed into the vestibule and flung open the door to greet him, but I held back in the parlor, feeling a rush of cold, frigid air sweep into the house.

Jack’s voice filtered in with, “Nice weather we’re having, eh?”

“Yeah, if you like living in the North Pole,” Aunt Minnie chided. “I tried to call you.”

“Haven’t been to the shop yet, but figured, hearing the weather reports, that you and A.M. are definitely going to need this,” he said, piling up the batch of wood in the vestibule.

“Well, we really appreciate it. Are you without electricity?”

“None at home. But I’ve got a very small generator that powers the refrigerators at the store. How are you and A.M. holding up?”

“A little frozen, but we’re okay... Anna Maria,” Aunt Minnie called. “Giacomo’s here.”

I hauled in a deep breath, counting to five as I ran my fingers through the tangles of my hair. I smoothed out the damp, dark spot on my coffee-stained sweatshirt before stepping into the foyer.

“Morning,” I said at first sight of Jack stacking the wood. He and his Boston Red Sox ski cap were all dusted with snow. “Thanks for helping us out…again.”

“Not a problem,” he told me.

Aunt Minnie asked, “While you’re here, Giacomo, do you mind taking a look at the fireplace?”

“I think the flue is broken,” I added.

Jack stamped his feet, pounding snow from his boots, and followed us to the parlor. I showed him the iron piece that had snapped off.

With gloves on his hands, Jack emptied out the pieces of charred wood and newspaper from the fireplace. Then he got on his knees, limbered onto his back and angled his head inside the firebox. He gazed up into the chimney.

When he was settled into position, I handed him a flashlight.

“Yeah, the flue is sealed shut, but maybe I can jimmy it open. Hand me one of those pieces of wood.”

I did as he asked.

With the flashlight in his mouth, he took one of the logs and using it like a hammer, he pounded on the metal flue until it finally burst open. Black soot poured onto his face and completely extinguished the beam of the flashlight.

Wind howled through the chimney as Jack coughed and turned his head from side to side to allow the debris to spill off his face.

Aunt Minnie snapped another picture.

“What was that?” Jack sounded panicked.

“Aunt Minnie just took your picture.”

“Yeah, I’m planning to document everything from the Nor’easter on my blog.”

“
You
have a blog?”

“Sure do. I’ve gotten over twenty-five thousand hits and seven hundred eighty-nine unique visitors.”

“No kidding?” Jack said, pointing the flashlight onto Aunt Minnie then swinging the beam of light over to me.

Blinded by the glare, I shrugged. “It’s impossible for me to keep pace with her.”

He laughed as he shined the flashlight into the chimney. “Okay, looks clear… Let’s fire it up.”

He rose to his feet, and together, we set things up again. This time, newborn flames licked the blackened logs. Sparks took off, spitting and cracking until warmth began to rage.

“Excuse me, I’ve got to tend to something on the stove,” Aunt Minnie said.

In my aunt’s absence, it was silent and awkward for a moment. Jack and I stood there basking in the hot, orange fire-light.

“How are the roads?” I asked him, his face ruddied by the fire.

“Terrible. There are downed, uprooted trees and power lines all over the county. It’s bad. Real bad. And I think we’re in for a long haul.” Jack cleared his throat, leaned toward me and whispered. “I hate to break it to you, but I think your theory about meteorologists has been proven wrong.”

“They got lucky this time, that’s all,” I countered.

“Well, maybe it’s best you stick to photography.”

I gave him a playful swat on the arm.

“How much firewood can you spare?” I asked.

“I already took what I needed for the wood burning stove at the shop. The rest is yours.”

“That’s great. Let me throw on my jacket and boots, and I’ll help you carry.”

“No, I’ll get it. If it’s all right, I’ll give you guys enough to keep you warm for now and bring the rest later.”

“That’s fine. Just fine. Whatever’s best for you,” Aunt Minnie said, answering for me as she re-entered the parlor. “I know we invited you for dinner, but I need to warn you, I have an electric oven. I think I can whip up most everything atop the gas range. The turkey, however—”

“Let me take care of that. I’ll cook it,” Jack said, finishing her thought. “I have a huge deep fryer at the shop, I’ll pop it in and bring it over later.”

“But I didn’t even stuff it yet.”

“Actually the stuffing gets too heavy and oily if you fry the bird with the dressing inside,” he said. “Maybe you could cook the stuffing right atop the stove.”

“But, the gravy—”

“I’ll whip some up.”

“But…” Aunt Minnie hedged, a catch in her voice and a flicker in her eyes. “But I’ve never made things this way…”

It was clear that the unexpected changes in plan, deviations from the long-held traditions to which Aunt Minnie was accustomed, were throwing her for an emotional loop.

“…What I mean is that I always stuff the bird, pack that cavity with my sausage stuffing, and cook it that way. The juices from the turkey during the roasting makes everything extra tasty…”

“Yeah, I love her stuffing. It’s to die for,” I said, looking to Jack.

“I’m sure it won’t be exactly the same,” Jack said, “but I bet if you cook the stuffing on the stove with some chicken stock, you’ll draw out some of the same great flavors.”

“But I like to garnish the bird and carry it to the table flambéed before I carve it.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing! And I guarantee, you’ll still be able to do that part.” Jack was being a very good sport, doing his best to rescue Aunt Minnie from her trepidation. “I promise, I’ll bring you back a fully cooked bird and gravy. You can do whatever you need to before we sit down to dinner. If you want, you can even load up the cavity with your stuffing
before
you serve it.”

Aunt Minnie laughed and turned to me. “Listen to him. Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

I feigned a smile and left Aunt Minnie’s question rhetorical.

“I guess I’m just a creature of habit,” she said, yanking out a crumpled tissue that she’d stuffed up her sleeve. She wiped her moist eyes. “When you’ve done things a certain way every year for ninety-six years, well…you never expect this. And when you stop to think about it, it’s scary, the forces of nature…” She motioned to the front door, the violent swirl of snowflakes filling the half-moon window.

“Don’t worry,” Jack told her. “We’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. And it’s going to be great for the blog… Think of it as an adventure.”

Aunt Minnie turned and looked to me, with glee. “You hear that, Anna Maria—an adventure.”

I crossed my arms. “Well, it sure will be different,” I said, nodding reluctantly as Aunt Minnie reached up on tiptoes and threw her arms around Jack. She was fawning all over him.

With his head anchored over Aunt Minnie’s, Jack looked across the vestibule to me as if to gauge for visual clues that might’ve indicated my approval for the way he was winning over my aunt. But I stood as still as a mannequin. With my feet rooted to the cold tile floor, I could not deny a sense of warmth that kindled beneath my breastbone.

Six

Jack’s old pickup pulled up in front of Aunt Minnie’s house promptly at two o’clock. Once again, he plowed the street then shoveled the front walk and steps, along with a path to the alley.

Afterward, he carted an enormous foil topped aluminum pan into the house and set it down on the stove. A shopping bag was draped off one of his arms.

Aunt Minnie reached for a candle. She positioned it alongside the pan and peeled back the foil. When a golden, fully cooked turkey was unveiled, her face beamed with pleasure.

“You’ll have to give me your email address,” Jack told my aunt. “I’m no photographer, but I did use my phone to snap a couple of pictures of how I deep-fried the bird. Maybe you could use them on the blog?”

Aunt Minnie smiled, obviously thrilled that Jack was so gung-ho about her internet presence.

“And I brought three different types of imported Sangiovese. One for each of us,” he joked, pulling wine bottles out of the shopping bag and setting each atop the kitchen table. “Now let me just go set up the grill in the side alley.”

“The grill?” I was stymied.

“Yeah, take
her
with me to all the New England Patriots football games. Just have to unload her from the pickup. Propane tanks are all filled up. She’s good to go.”

Aunt Minnie looked to me. I just shrugged.

“I figured that whatever you can’t fit on the stove to cook, I’ll warm up on the grill,” he said. “Sort of like a Thanksgiving tailgate party…”

My aunt turned and eyed the steam emerging from the four pots occupying the gas range.

“You know, the burners
are
getting a little crowded,” she said, in agreement. “I guess if you have room, you might be able to cook the fish—and later, maybe you can warm up the manicotti and garlic bread…even the potatoes.”

“Sure can. Sounds delicious. Just give me a couple of minutes to fire things up.”

I stood in the entryway of the kitchen, leaning against the doorjamb as if to steady myself and keep my head from spinning. Jack was like a whirlwind. I marveled at how his take-charge, upbeat enthusiasm continued to win over my aunt.

* * *

Steadily falling snowflakes melted into water droplets that quickly dissolved atop the steel cover of the preheating grill, while Jack and I unloaded firewood from the bed of his old pickup truck and deposited armfuls in the vestibule. Along the way, I felt something pelt me on the back. When I turned, I saw Jack standing by the front door, grinning, packing a handful of snow between his gloved fingertips. That’s when I realized the culprit and launched a retaliation effort.

My first snowball strike pegged Jack pretty good, splattering a patch of white on his jacket, right over his heart. That left things to escalate into war, snowballs whizzing between us. When I nabbed the embroidered B on his Boston Red Sox ski cap, I ducked and took cover behind the truck. Each time I launched another snowball that made contact with Jack, a sense of release expanded within me.

I was winded and sweaty by the time we finished hauling the wood, piling it floor to ceiling in the vestibule, leaving just enough room for a narrow path to the front door. It was so reminiscent of how Jack and I had always worked and played so well together back in our college days.

“This ought to ensure that Aunt Minnie won’t have to throw dining room chairs into the fireplace to keep you guys warm for a while,” Jack said, as the two of us brushed snow off our hats, jackets and boots in front of the stacked wood pile.

“Don’t kid yourself. This is a marathon meal,” I told him, fiddling with the high collar of my angora turtleneck sweater. “We might burn through half a cord today alone. We’ve got hours of eating ahead of us. I hope you’re hungry.”

Jack leaned in to me. His peppermint-infused breath whispered, “Not to worry. I came prepared.” He ran a hand over his fleece pullover, right at his belly. “Wore my elastic waist pants. I haven’t eaten since yesterday in anticipation.”

* * *

The dining room table was adorned with Aunt Minnie’s finest lace tablecloth, good china and crystal and the silver candelabras glowing elegantly with flickers of warm-orange light. Jack and I moved the table, along with the chairs, directly in front of the blazing fire.

Afterward, Jack uncorked the first bottle of wine. The three of us settled amid the fiery glow of the cozy, candlelit parlor, and toasted, “Salute,” clinking our glasses.

Aunt Minnie, wearing a new dress accented with a fluffy red scarf looped around her neck as if it were a boa, lifted her glass and said, “To old friends…” Then turning to me, she added, “and bygones!”