The Long Thaw

Old Joe was settling in to read his evening newspaper when the knock came, interrupting his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He set it down regretfully, knowing the coffee would be cold by the time he returned.

The stoop was empty when he opened the door, but he spotted a small figure trudging down the driveway. Joe squinted. Was the figure carrying a shovel?

“Hey!” Joe called over the wind. “Hey there!”

The boy turned, his red knitted hat a spot of color against the snow. His face was ruddy with cold and his breath steamed in the evening light, reminding Joe, surprisingly, of his mother. She’d been a heavy smoker all her life and he never thought of her, even now, without imagining her in heaven, surrounded by a cloud of her own making.

The kid hurtled back to the porch, the pompom on his hat bobbling up and down with each stride. He stared expectantly up at Old Joe.

Irritated, Joe prompted him. “What do you want?”

“Are you Mr. Joe? Or Mr. Old? I’m not sure what to call you,” the boy asked.

Confused, Joe looked back at him. “Most people just call me Old Joe.”

“Mom says I’m not allowed to call adults by their first names. And I’m not sure which of those is your last name,” the boy said. “The lady at the grocery store called you Old Joe. But she was an adult.”

“Neither,” Joe said. He quirked an eyebrow, “You thought my last name was Joe?”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve heard weirder. My best friend’s last name is Schmelyk.”

They studied each other. “Call me Joe,” Old Joe said finally. “Now, what do you want?”

“Can I clear off your pond and skate on it?” The boy gestured to the snow-covered duck pond, where Joe could see the ends of frozen cat-tails peeking out.

Joe paused. “Yeah, why not?” he said finally. “Just tell your parents where you are. Don’t want to be responsible if you fall through the ice.”

The boy smiled, a flash of uneven teeth. “Thanks Mr. Old Joe,” he said, and waded off through the drifts.

“Dang fool kid,” Joe mumbled. “Snow must be three foot deep out there.”

Shooting a regretful look towards the warm living room, he grabbed his warm hat and shrugged on his coat. Then he headed off to get the quad with the plow. It’d take the kid hours to shovel the pond. Unless he helped.

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Almost a week passed before the next time the kid knocked. Old Joe’s coffee cup was halfway to his lips, and he put it down. Then he picked it up again and took a quick sip.

The child was standing on the doorstep, his eyelashes rimed with frost.

“Can I skate on your pond, Mr. Old Joe?”

“Your mom know where you are?”

“Yep. And she wants you to come over for supper tomorrow,” the boy said. Joe peered across the road at the brown house. It had belonged to Mrs. Gibson, but she had passed away in November.

“You live in the Gibson house?” he asked.

“Yep. It was my Grandma’s, but she died and left it to us. I have my own room and everything. Can you come?” the child looked anxious. “Mom’s making lasagna.”

He studied the child. Mrs. Gibson had only one kid; a son named Will. He and Joe had played together as boys, but that was before Will had gone off and joined the army. He tried to trace Will’s features in the small face before him, but it was a game he had always been bad at.

“Okay,” Joe said. “When should I come?”

“At suppertime,” the boy said, as though this should be obvious. “Want to come skating?”

Joe thought of his newspaper and his coffee. He tried to remember the last time he’d been invited anywhere. One of the guys from the highway crew he worked with had asked him for dinner last Christmas.

“Lemme find my skates,” he said. “And a couple hockey sticks.”

______________________________________________

Old Joe straightened his string tie in the mirror, looking at his reflection critically. He was wearing his good shirt and his best jeans. He had pulled his dress pants out of the back of the closet, but when he had put them on, the button had fired across the room, plinking off the dresser. Turned out he had grown some since his sister’s wedding when he was 18.

He went and stood in the middle of the kitchen, considering what to bring the Gibsons. He pulled a jar of raspberry jam from the cupboard and looked at it. Then he put it back.

Old Joe found the box he was looking for in the upstairs closet. The crocheted scarf Will had given him for his tenth birthday was in it. He sniffed, but the smell of stale cigarette smoke had dissipated. That, or his smeller was getting dull with age. He smiled grimly and headed off to put his boots on.

Someone had shoveled the Gibsons’ drive. Old Joe used to clear it for Mrs. Gibson when she was alive. She always brought him something at Christmas as a thank you, and she had offered to pay him, but he had waved her off. It hadn’t felt right to take cash from the old lady.

He rang the doorbell and waited.

A woman answered. “Hello?”

His greeting died on his tongue as he stared, stunned. Will’s wife had the prettiest smile he’d ever seen. The smile dimmed, but it was no wonder, finding a strange man on the doorstep ogling her.

“Hi,” he said, recovering. “Here,” he said, thrusting the red scarf into her hands, “I brought this for the boy. I…I thought it would match his hat.”

“This is lovely!” she exclaimed, “Thank you so much Mister…?”

“Joe Biggs,” he said, flustered. “The boy said you invited me to dinner.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I was expecting…” she blushed, and Joe watched, fascinated, as the color crept over her cheeks. “Well, your name is Old Joe and I thought you would be…”

“Old?” he finished for her. “They’ve called me Old Joe since I was 15 and my cousin named her kid Joe. Young Joe manages the gas station.”

“Oh,” she said again. He liked the way her mouth looked when she formed the word. He looked away. Will was around here somewhere, and Joe was going to get a mouthful of fist if he kept looking at her like this. He’d deserve it, too.

“Please come in,” she said. “I’m sorry to keep you out in the cold. I just… I’m forgetting my manners! I’m Irene,” she put out a hand to shake. “It’s very nice to meet you.” Joe took the proffered hand, holding it gently in his large palm. “You’ve been very kind letting Arthur skate on your pond.”

“It was nothing,” said Joe. “The boy’s good company.” At that moment, Joe heard a thunderous percussion of footsteps as Arthur pounded down the stairs.

“Mr. Old Joe!” the boy exclaimed as he reached the bottom of the stairs, “Come see my Lego!”

“Guess I’m being summoned,” he said. She smiled at him again, and he turned away quickly. Better be careful, Joe, he counseled himself. You only have one heart. He was going to keep his eyes to himself from now on.

____________________________________________________

Will didn’t come. They ate without him, and Joe didn’t comment on it, just made conversation as best he could. Mrs. Gibson could be witty, and Arthur was a funny kid. He filled in the holes in the discussion, as children do.

Joe couldn’t help but wonder where Will was, though. There was no man’s coat or boots at the door. Could he be serving in the army somewhere? That was probably it.

When he left, he thanked Irene for inviting him. Arthur grabbed his coat.

“Can I walk Mr. Old Joe home?”

Irene smiled. “All right, but come right back. It’s a school night.”

Joe avoided her eyes.

___________________________________________________

“I invited Mr. Old Joe over for supper again,” Arthur yelled down the stairs as he was getting ready for bed. “I asked him for next Wednesday.”

“Are you kidding me?” Irene called back.

“Nope. I said you were making meatloaf. He’ll like that.” Arthur slid down the banister. She knew she should stop him, but she didn’t. Sometimes she didn’t have the energy for all the battles.

“You can’t just invite people without asking me first!”

He gazed at her quizzically. “Why not? He’s my friend.”

She considered Arthur, looking into his big, innocent eyes. He had lost so much in the move. If he wanted to make friends with the giant across the street, why not?

She pulled him into a hug. “I guess you’re right,” she said, placing a kiss between his eyebrows.

“You’ll make meatloaf, right?”

“Right,” she smiled. But the smile disappeared as soon as he slammed the door behind him. What would people think of her inviting a bachelor over to her house?

She tapped her toe, thinking. Abruptly, she stamped her foot and went back into the kitchen. If Arthur wanted to be friends with a grown man, what did anyone else have to say about it?

____________________________________________________

They settled into a strange rhythm. Arthur invited Old Joe for supper the following week, and the week after that.

Finally, Irene gave up and issued a standing invitation for him to come on Wednesdays. He never came empty handed. He brought strange gifts that delighted Arthur; an old pair of red mittens with a sled on them, a mug shaped like a goose, a fake moustache. He talked little, but he and Arthur seemed to understand each other, and gradually, Irene came to understand, too. Old Joe was the shyest man she had ever met.

His eyes went to his coffee, to the window, to Arthur, but never to her. Not once. He responded to questions, and he talked, but he spoke to the wall when he did it. There was a strange current in the air, like electricity, and she could almost hear it fizzle when she spoke to him. It made her feel strange.

____________________________________________________

When the air got warmer, Old Joe brought a bicycle for Arthur.

“He’d better not skate anymore,” he told Irene. “The pond is melting. But he can bike around.”

Irene almost refused the bike. She felt she was growing too reliant on Joe, too attached. She wished he would look at her.

“When is Will going to be home?” he asked abruptly, staring out at the driveway. She turned to look at him, his craggy features outlined against the evening sky.

“Will?” she asked.

“Arthur’s father,” he said almost angrily. “When does he come home?”

“He doesn’t,” she said, surprised. “He died in an accident two years ago.”

He walked away and she watched him go until he went into his house and slammed the door behind him, so hard it didn’t latch and bounced open again.

She shook her head. Old Joe would have to come to terms with his grief in his own way.

____________________________________________________

Two months later, when the pond was clear and the ducks had returned, Joe came for supper in a pair of new pants. He presented Irene with a handful of crocuses.

“I walked up Teakettle Mountain to get them,” he said.

“I’m sure Arthur will be pleased,” she said, moving to call him. He stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“No,” he said, meeting her eyes for the first time in months. “They’re for you.” She looked up, meeting the full force of his dark blue gaze.

“Oh,” she said, feeling suddenly how very near he was. He did not look away. His eyes bored into hers, asking a question, asking it without words.

“Yes,” her mouth moved in silent answer.

“Good,” Old Joe said. “Because I love you too.”