He hesitates and then says, carefully, “Agreed, but you are also a woman alone in the countryside. That is not jealousy,” he hastens to add. “It is safety.”
“My being alone will startle no one in this world,” I say. “Is it less safe than you going in my stead? Yes, but only slightly. I will be careful and stay on the doorstep. If anything, you might alarm them more—an oddly dressed man showing up after dark.”
“Ought we all to go?” Edmund says.
August pauses again and then shakes his head. “No, your mother is right. It is warmer here, and you are the least well dressed. I trust your mother, and I will not insist on accompanying her.”
“Thank you,” I say and lean over to kiss his cheek before I ready myself to leave.
The storm had been abating when I left the car. Yet I get only a hundred feet or so before it whips up again. I pull Bronwyn’s large but very warm jacket tighter and continue trudging along the side of the road, squinting into the distance for lights, whether from a car or the house that marks the end of my journey.
When we’d been driving in the opposite direction, the snow had been slamming into the windshield, as if the wind blew it straight at us. Now I swear that wind has maliciously changed direction so it can blow into my face instead.
All I see is white. Snow pounds against my face and swirls about me and even manages to blow up my skirts, despite the hem dragging along in the snow. I was rather fond of this dress, too, a festive red with a lace trim that I’m certain is being ruined beyond repair.
I sigh and plow forward, head down, as the edge of the road guides me. The actual road has long since vanished under the snow, but brambles along the shoulder peek through to guide my path. August insisted I take the flashlight we found in the boot, and while I swear it only conspires with the snow to render me blind, it does help me pick up that brown vegetation.
August said the house was about a quarter mile back. Either he was measuring with grave optimism, or the storm has upended my own sense of distance. Likely a combination of the two. Either way, it seems to take forever before dim lights appear. I pick up my pace, only to have a gust of wind knock me clear off my boots.
I sit in the snow a moment, grumbling to myself. Then, as I begin to rise, I catch a faint jingle.
Sleigh bells?
The sound, only faintly audible, slips away, and I shake my head. We are not in a world of sleigh bells. More likely I heard wind chimes from the farmhouse.
I continue on until I reach the drive. There’s a car at the top, covered in snow. The house is dark except for one lighted front window, and that gives me pause. I do not have a watch, but it must be later than I thought. I hate to wake the owners. However, it is an emergency, and I can only hope they understand.
As I head up the front walk, I realized that what I’d thought was a lighted front window is actually a holiday decoration lighting the window. A menorah. There’s a doormat with festive dreidels wishing me a happy Hanukkah, and I smile at that. In the Victorian world, it would be a rare Jew who dared put up such decorations, especially in the countryside. I only hope that this family does so with confidence and without trepidation, though I am certain there is a little of the latter still.
My mother was Jewish, and so I recognize the symbols from my grandparents’ home, where we had celebrated Hanukkah. I don’t recall quite what I thought of that as a child. It seemed a variation on the holidays rather than a symbol of their faith. For us, even Christmas was mostly devoid of religion, and I wonder now if that was our parents’ way of reconciling the two, tucking religion aside rather than choosing which faith to raise their daughters in. We were raised in love and kindness, and that was what mattered.
Now, though, I pause to look at that LED menorah, and I reflect a little, in a way I might never have if I hadn’t visited the modern world. My father met my mother through her father, who’d been a doctor and his mentor. I don’t know what my maternal grandparents thought of the union, only that they’d accepted it and loved us. Did that union explain why we had no contact with our paternal grandparents? Perhaps.
My mother’s father died when I was young, and her mother passed when I was a teen, but my memories of them are as bright as those of my parents. I look at that menorah, and I silently declare that I will do more to understand that part of my heritage, because it is one, as I realize after living in the twenty-first century. A faith, yes, but also a heritage.
I straighten and rap on the door as I prepare a bright “Happy Hanukkah” greeting. When no one answers, I press the bell. It buzzes. Then all goes silent, only the whistling of the wind to be heard.
I both knock and ring the bell again, to no avail. Then I head back down the driveway, where the car sits, and I realize it isn’t just covered in snow. It has a tarp over it. Put away for the winter.
I peer at the barn. It looks like a stable, which means the owners won’t be away long. I walk to it. The door is latched but otherwise unlocked. I hesitate a moment, during which I debate the propriety of peeking in versus the danger of my son spending the night in a storm-blasted convertible. The choice is simple, and I push open the door.
The smell of hay and horse wafts out, but the latter is faint, and when I walk in, I shine the flashlight on empty stalls. Two look as if they’ve been occupied, but they’re empty now. Have the homeowners boarded their horses while they’ve gone away for the holidays?
I shine the light around. The barn isn’t what I’d call tidy, but it is clean. The mess is mostly confined to a workshop area, where someone crafts furniture from the looks of it. That workshop contains a pot-bellied stove, with wood piled beside it.
I glance from the stove to a pile of clean straw. We could take refuge here. Light the stove. Sleep on the straw. It is trespassing, but while my parents raised me to be a law-abiding citizen—and to be considerate of others—they also raised me to be practical. If I meant no harm and I left the barn as I found it, then the owners should understand my predicament and forgive the trespass.
I give one last look around, and then I head to put the proposal to August.
8
August agrees that my plan is a reasonable one, far more reasonable than either staying in the cold car or battling the storm further in search of another house. Not a single car has passed to be flagged down. We are, simply put, out of options.
We bundle Edmund up as best we can, even as he fusses that he is already warm. Then we set out. The storm has subsided enough for the trek to be an easier one, and August is able to concede to Edmund’s protests that he does not need to be carried “like a baby.”
When we reach the house and head up the drive, Edmund spots the LED menorah in the window.
“How does the flame light the whole candlestick?” he asks.
I explain that they are not real candles, but a lighted decoration.
“It is a menorah,” I say. “For the Jewish celebration at this time of year. Hanukkah.”
“A Jewish Christmas?”
“No, it’s a holiday that falls at the same month and is very important to the Jewish people.”
I lead him up onto the porch and point out the dreidel decorations and tell him what they are and that a game can be played with real ones.