18. Dante
CHAPTER 18
Dante
As I drove over the icy roads, the car slid again, and I turned into it, managing to keep control. The polar vortex had hit hard, bringing single-digit temperatures and heavy snow. Thanksgiving break meant fewer students on the roads, but driving in this weather was still a challenge.
I couldn't help but chuckle thinking about those poor kids from Texas who always ended up in ditches this time of year. Driving in snow wasn't something you just picked up; it was a skill you honed over time.
I was on my way to Meemaw's, my grandmother on my dad’s side. She lived out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields that were now just endless expanses of white. I slowed down as another gust of snow blew over the car, reducing visibility to almost zero. I'd been trying to convince her to move closer to town, but she was stubborn. “Your grandfather built this house with his own two hands. If you think some tract house in the city is going to cut it for me, you’ve got another think coming, my boy.”
We made a good team, but she needed to stop pestering me about finding a nice girl to settle down with. She’d even threatened to fix me up with one of her bridge buddies’ granddaughters over Thanksgiving. I’d bought some time by telling her I’d started seeing someone, though she definitely wouldn’t understand or appreciate the nature of my “non-relationship” with Faith.
Meemaw was going to be pissed that I hadn’t stayed in Newbridge. She’d warned me it was too dangerous to be out on the roads and suggested postponing our Thanksgiving. But I knew she’d been cooking up a storm, and I’d been dreaming about her homemade pecan pie for weeks. There was no way I was missing Thanksgiving on the farm.
After what felt like forever, I finally turned into the quarter-mile-long driveway. It looked like it had been freshly plowed, though it would need it again soon with the way the snow was falling. Her front door was always unlocked, so I let myself in.
I expected the smell of cinnamon and sweet potatoes or to hear her humming in the kitchen. But there was silence. Where the hell was she? I took out my cell phone and dialed the Withers, her closest neighbors. They were only in their mid-seventies, and if anyone knew where she was, it would be Mary Withers. She answered on the second ring.
After a long-winded conversation about her health and her granddaughter’s new job in Chicago, I finally got a word in. She told me Meemaw had gone into town for dinner at the senior center. Classic Meemaw, telling me not to venture out while she braved the ten-mile drive in a blizzard. I thanked Mrs. Withers and, after another few minutes of pleasantries, managed to hang up.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the senior center. Meemaw’s ancient light blue Ford pickup sat in the second row. She qualified for a handicap sticker but refused to use it, “in case one of the old folks needs it.” There were only a few other cars in the lot; most of the "old folks" were sensible enough to stay home.
As I walked in, I braced myself. Being fifty years younger than the average attendee, I always seemed to catch everyone’s attention. I put a finger to my lips to shush the gossiping ladies decorating tables with plastic cloths and made my way to the kitchen. Meemaw stood at the stove, stirring a giant pot of gravy. I snuck up behind her and covered her eyes.
“Guess who?”
She spun around and flung her arms around my waist. She’d been shrinking over the years, and the top of her head barely reached my chest.
“It’s good to see you, my boy.” Her eyes sparkled, and I could have sworn I saw her quickly wipe away a tear. “I thought I told you to stay put today.” She stepped back, one hand on her hip, the other wagging a wooden spoon at me.
“So, I was supposed to stay home, but you thought it was okay to get out in this storm?” I asked.
“Well, who else was going to come in here and make Thanksgiving dinner for all these fine folks?”
I hugged her tighter. “Meemaw, have you ever considered taking a holiday off?” I knew the answer.
She scoffed. “Pshaw! Now, as long as you’re here, make yourself useful. There are about forty pounds of potatoes that need peelin’ over there.” She waved the spoon toward a corner of the kitchen.
Shaking my head, I rolled up my sleeves and washed my hands in the big stainless sink. “Alright, Meemaw, let’s get to work.”
We fell into a comfortable rhythm, and as I peeled potatoes, I couldn’t help but think about Faith. She’d gotten under my skin, and I wanted to know when we’d be able to see each other again.
It wouldn’t be anytime soon. Right now, I needed to focus on Meemaw and making sure this Thanksgiving was as perfect as every other one we’d spent together.
Faith
Clutching the steering wheel, my knuckles were as white as the sheet of snow blowing over the road in front of me. What was I thinking, trying to get out on a day like today?
It seemed like a good idea at the time. I needed something to distract me from the spiral of despair that had taken over since I found that stupid piece of paper. For the past week, I'd racked my brain, trying to figure out how someone could have gotten access to that page. Thanksgiving break couldn’t have come at a better time. Most of the students had left campus for the holiday, and I didn’t feel so threatened.
Dante had been right about not finding another place in town to complete my volunteer hours for the month. Desperate to make my quota, I’d called the Hinkley Senior Center and committed to an afternoon of serving turkey to seniors. Mom and I had always volunteered at a soup kitchen or homeless shelter on Thanksgiving. We cooked and served others, then went home for a feast of our own.
I'd been on the road for three hours and had no idea how much farther I had to go. I glanced over just in time to catch a sign, half-covered in snow. Great, five more miles. I let out a giant sigh and tried to lighten up on my white-knuckled grip on the wheel. I’d be there soon.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Hinkley Senior Center. Not too many brave souls out tonight. A handful of other cars occupied a few spaces in the lot. If I’d driven all this way for nothing, I was going to be pretty disappointed.
I trudged through the knee-high drifts to the front door and pushed it open. A gust of wind sent it crashing into the wall and blew me, and a good amount of snow, into the room.
My hands scrambled to push the wet, icy hair out of my face. The door slammed shut behind me, and I looked out onto about two dozen of Hinkley’s seniors, some of them frozen, forks in mid-air, in the middle of their Thanksgiving dinner. All conversation had come to a grinding halt. They stared at me, and I stared right back.
Movement in the kitchen caught my eye. Sailing through the swinging double doors, a red and white checkered apron tied around his waist, with his hands encased in oven mitts and carrying a giant pot, came Dante.