Arts
Clare Tannerman’s tiny house was cold, and she was sitting in a rocking chair when they checked on her. She was shivering, and her speech was slurred. Her eyes looked feverish, but her skin felt cool—maybe too cool. There were plenty of blankets in the house, but she didn’t seem to be thinking clearly enough to put them on. Mark did it for her, and gave her hot cider to drink, while the lieutenant got on the radio to consult with the EMTs. Eventually, they decided it was too risky to try to get an ambulance out to her, so they bundled her up, carried her out to the Humvee, and took her to the ER that way. Mark left her there, promising to visit as soon as he could. Sandra had an adventure of her own, while Mark was out on that call. Ready for a break from the kitchen, she went out on the snowmobile with Vicente to bring a hot meal to Doris Shaughnessy. Doris was the oldest member of Mark’s church, and one of the most outgoing and friendly. She had struck up a conversation with Sandra the first time Sandra had come to a service there; and later that morning, when Sandra had confessed to the old woman that she wasn’t a Christian, only the briefest moment of disappointment had interrupted Doris’ friendly welcome and nonstop conversation. At the end of a long, wooded drive on the west edge of town, Doris lived in a little Victorian cottage even older than herself. It seemed almost too small for human habitation; Vicente, on the porch, looked like he might not fit through the doorway, and when he stomped the snow off his boots, Sandra imagined the whole structure crumbling under his energetic weight. There was a lot of fussy scrollwork on the outside of the house, and Sandra marveled at it as she climbed through the drift at the bottom of the stairs. “Nibble, nibble, like a mouse! Who’s been nibbling at my house?” she murmured to herself. She was planning to try letting herself in—no need to drag the old woman out of whatever chair or bed she was taking refuge in—but Doris met them at the door. Doris was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. On her feet were slippers, with thick hunting socks showing above them; a long winter coat bulged on her body, suggesting additional layers beneath; a thick scarf was tied around her neck; and she wore a hat that was comically large for her head, a man’s fur hat with ear flaps pulled down. “I heard your machine, and I wondered if that might be you,” said the old woman. “Do come inside. It’s not warm, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll be out of the wind. Leave your boots here, please. See, I have slippers for guests: help yourself.” Sandra and Vicente followed her instructions, and then passed through a short entry passage and emerged into the kitchen, where Doris greeted them again. “Welcome, Sandra,” she said, reaching out to embrace her; Sandra bent down, and Doris kissed her cheek before turning to greet Vicente. “Welcome, sir—I don’t know you, do I?” Sandra introduced Vicente, and Doris carefully removed her gloves to shake hands with him. She sat them down at her little Formica table, looked around for a moment in confusion, and then sat down herself. “Oh, dear!” she said. “It feels so wrong to have guests, with nothing to offer them. I always have tea and cookies—but not today. There’s no hot tea, and I haven’t been able to bake.” She smiled at them. “But, of course, you know that! Thank you so much for coming to visit me. It hasn’t been that long, really; sometimes I’m alone here all day, you know, and I don’t mind it at all. But without the electric, and without any news, this morning is taking forever to pass! What’s going on out there? Tell me what you know.” Sandra began to unload her backpack. “The snow seems to have stopped,” she said, “but the wind is still blowing it around. We get a little news from the police; they’ve been stopping in to warm up in my tavern, where we have our own generator. Last I heard, power was still off all over town,