Page 19 of Solo

My headache is still a constant, and I’m a little dizzy, but I think I’m well enough to drive the ten miles or so. I’m going to have to be. I grab my keys and look around for my shoes. The first thing I see are the flip-flops I wear to go down to the laundry room in the basement of the apartment building. My toes will be chilly, but I can crank the heater in the car. Within five minutes of hanging up on The Ice Queen, I’m headed down the stairs and to the parking lot. Three feet out the front door I realize I can’t see my car. It, like everything else in my line of sight, is buried under six inches of snow.

…

Winter storms in the mountains of North Carolina are nothing to take lightly. My little car climbs a hundred feet or so, then spins out and slides back down fifty of those feet. Luckily, all the sane people are already buttoned up tight in their nice warm homes and I’m the only lunatic braving this weather right now.

When I decided that there was enough time to get this assignment to Markham’s house, I didn’t consider the fact that his house sits higher up on the mountain. By the time I turn off on the steep, winding road leading to his neighborhood, I’ve fishtailed about a dozen times, spun out twice and, at one intersection, I did a slow-mo 360. But I’m almost there now.

With a little help from a wrench and YouTube, I figured out how to get the Corolla’s battery cables back to their happy place. And thank God for that because just a few days later, the poor little engine is having to work unusually hard against gravity and ice as it climbs to the higher elevation. I have the accelerator pressed all the way to the floor and still, I’m barely inching along. Eventually the terrain levels out and the car settles down, along with my stress level.

I spot the turnoff for Windsor Court and make a slow, wide left to avoid gliding into the curb. As I drive past the big houses, I look at their sprawling lawns, now nothing more than blankets of fluffy white snow. A few people are out and about, bundled up tight as they shovel or snow blow. There are a group of teenagers having a snowball war on one property, while younger kids build a snowman across the street. They remind me of what it was like growing up at our home in Virginia.

Winter brought snow angels, sleigh rides, and sliding down the big hills on cookie sheets in our neighborhood. The memories make me smile. Then the smile promptly fades as I recognize the last house on the block. The log cabin-inspired house takes up the entire rounded end of the court. I glance at the clock on my dash. Four forty-eight. Twelve minutes to spare.

“Thank. You. God!” I breathe out loud as I maneuver my side of the car close to the mailbox. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The wheels skid a little, but I manage to get close enough to slip my parcel into the brass cylinder reserved for the delivery of newspapers and probably take-out menus. There are three other manila envelopes inside already. Good. That means he hasn’t been out to collect them. I slip mine into the middle of the pile so it doesn’t look as if I was the last person to get my paper in.

A flood of relief washes over my exhausted, aching body. That’s it. All I have to do now is make my way back down the hill and the few miles home. I’m going to crawl under the covers of my bed and stay there all weekend. I’m already envisioning my pillow as I shift the car into drive once again and give the accelerator gas. But nothing happens. That is, nothing except for that sound. The sickening high-pitched whine of tires spinning without any traction.

“Come on,” I coax the little car. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Please!”

When I try again, it’s the same. Okay. Maybe reverse will get me some grip.

No dice.

I try again and again, realizing, too late, that I’m only melting the snow under the tires, causing it to refreeze instantly as slick ice.

“No!” I wail, pounding the steering wheel in frustration. “Dammit!”

The wash of relief is long gone, replaced by a wave of nausea and exhaustion that hits me like one of those anvils that falls from the sky in cartoons.

Shit. What the hell am I going to do now?

Okay. There are only a few options. I could go and knock on Markham’s door.

Hell. No.

I could abandon the car for now and walk down the hill to the main road, and hope someone picks me up and gives me a ride back to town. Not ideal considering how I’m dressed, but still preferable to Plan A.

I could just stay put. Not likely Markham’s going to come out in this weather to get the papers. Maybe if I just sit here for a little while, a snowplow might come by and help me. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll just wait for the snowplow.

That decided, I take a long, shaky breath and turn on the radio. But even the classical station is broadcasting nonstop doom-and-gloom weather predictions. Finally, I just turn it off in favor of silence. The problem now is that I can barely keep my eyes open. I don’t want to fall asleep and miss the snowplow. They’re loud though, right? Hopefully I’d wake up for something like that.

I close my eyes, only to feel a fierce burning behind the lids. Ugh. The fever must be back. And the chills. I twist around, looking in the backseat looking for something that I can use as a blanket. But there isn’t anything. And, whatever adrenaline that got me here has now drained out of my body. Exhausted and frustrated, I set my forehead against the steering wheel. If I can just rest. Just for a few minutes, I’m sure I can figure this out.

Chapter Eight

Drew

It’s taken my neighbor and me nearly an hour to get his snow blower up and running.

“Jesus, Joe, do us both a favor and buy yourself a new one next season, will you? I think I dislocated my shoulder pulling the starter on this thing,” I complain as he rolls the machine back into his garage. “You’re one cheap son of a bitch,” I tease and give him a slap on the back. He’s a salty old geezer who gets a kick out of busting my chops, so I like to give it back to him whenever I can.

“No, man, cheap is the shitty bottle of bathtub gin I’m going to give you for helping me out with this.” He snorts, and then his leathery old face softens. “Seriously, thanks. It’s starting to come down hard now. I’ll be out here again in an hour, I’m sure. I mean, fuck! It’s like we’re in some goddamned snow globe or something.”

Joe gestures to the rapidly appearing winter wonderland around us. Already, the neighbors’ yards have lost their definition. The cul-de-sac is a pristine surface of white, powdery snow, making it hard to tell where one property ends and the next starts.

“You set for the storm otherwise? Anything you need before I’m snowed in?”