Ellen sighed. Three and a half hours to go. Tomorrow would be more of the same, and next week, and next month. This was her fourth year at Garfield Elementary and it already seemed like a lifetime.
Ellen loved the first two months of winter with its sparkling blanket of white snow. But when the mercury consistently dipped down below zero and every day tested her survival skills, she began to long for the spring that was still at least another four months away. By the end of January, she was sick to death of climbing into a parka and boots and heavy mittens just to empty the garbage, and of remembering to plug in the headbolt heater on her car every night so it would start in the morning.
Her first October in Minnesota, Ellen had taken the advice of her coworkers and gathered all the necessary survival gear. In addition to the ice scraper and snow brush she carried next to her on the passenger seat, there was a twenty-pound sack of kitty litter in her trunk to add ballast so she wouldn’t get stuck in a snowdrift. There was also an empty three-pound coffee can containing a candle and a book of matches to provide life-sustaining heat and light in case her car broke down. And she’d put together a cache of candy bars and bottled water that lay frozen in a shopping bag in her trunk. An extra gallon of gasoline sloshed in its plastic container, along with a can of Instant Flat-Fix that probably wouldn’t even work in subzero temperatures. Ready for the long Minnesota winter, she hated every moment of it.
Ellen stared out at the slide, a snow-covered hump that rose like a prehistoric beast out of a field of unbroken white, and wondered what would happen if she just pushed open the doors, ran across the playground, climbed into her car, and drove west to California or Nevada or Arizona, or anyplace warm and sunny and green.
“There you are!” Alma Jacobson ran down the hallway to intercept her, the sleeves on her gray sweater flapping. “Mr. Eicht’s looking all over for you. You’ve got a long-distance call in the office and he said it was an emergency.”
“Long distance?” Ellen frowned. “Did he say from where?”
“Las Vegas, Nevada. A Mr. Marc Davies. I’ll take care of your class if they finish lunch before you’re through.”
“Thank you, Alma.” Ellen realized that Alma was shifting from foot to foot, barely concealing her curiosity. “Marc Davies is my Uncle Lyle’s partner.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong.” Alma looked genuinely concerned. “Take your time, Ellen. I’ll herd them all into the multipurpose room and we’ll sing “Froggie Went A’Courting.” That should be good for at least ten minutes.”
Ellen’s heart was pounding as she hurried to the office. Why would Marc Davies call her? Uncle Lyle and Aunt Charlotte were her closest living relatives, but she hadn’t seen them since her mother’s funeral, ten years ago. Naturally, they exchanged Christmas cards and letters, but they’d never been close. She rounded the corner quickly and pushed open the office door. Mrs. Timmons, the school secretary, motioned her toward the principal’s office. “Use Mr. Eicht’s desk, Ellen. He said it’s all right. Your call’s on line two.”
Ellen was surprised to find her hands were trembling as she picked up the receiver. They were trembling even more as she put it down, five minutes later. Mrs. Timmons took one look at her pale face when she emerged, and rushed her to a chair.
“Just sit right here, Ellen.” Mrs. Timmons hurried off for a glass of water and watched anxiously as Ellen sipped. “Bad news, then?”
Ellen nodded. “I just found out that my aunt and uncle are dead.”
An angular woman in her mid-fifties who was not given to any overt signs of affection, Mrs. Timmons patted Ellen’s shoulder awkwardly. “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry, Ellen. Was it a car accident?”
“No.” Ellen’s voice was shaking slightly. “They went to Mardi Gras for their anniversary and they were attacked in a hotel elevator. The police think it was a mugging that got out of hand.”
“I don’t know what this world’s coming to!” Mrs. Timmons sighed deeply. “It’s gotten to the point where decent people can’t even step out of their houses without taking their lives in their hands. Ellen, dear . . . you still look white as a sheet. Shall I call Mrs. Percy to come in and sub? I know she’s home today.”
Ellen was about to say that she could stick it out when she remembered that Mrs. Percy needed the work. A teacher’s pension wasn’t much to live on. “Good idea, Mrs. Timmons. Tell her my lesson plans are in the middle desk drawer, but she doesn’t have to follow them if she’d rather do something else. Alma took my class down to the multipurpose room to sing.”
“That’s fine, dear. You just get your coat and run along. Alma can watch them until Mrs. Percy gets here.”
In the teachers’ lounge Ellen slipped into her coat, put her shoes into a carrying bag, and pulled on her moon boots for the walk to the parking lot. When she got to the car, she’d have to take off her moon boots, too bulky to drive in, and put her shoes back on.
The lounge was deserted. All the teachers were back in their classrooms and Ellen felt almost as if she were doing something illegal by leaving before the final bell had rung. She should be starting her reading class about now, printing new vocabulary words on the board for the Larks. Ellen had three reading groups, and despite their euphemistic names, everyone in her class knew that the Bluebirds were the fast group, the Robins were average, and the Larks were slow. She was thinking about Billy Zabinski as she let herself out the front door and walked to her car. Mrs. Percy wouldn’t have a speck of trouble with him. She was his grandmother.
It was strange turning onto the highway at twelve-thirty on a weekday. Ellen inched out carefully to pass a Northern States Power truck and glanced in her rearview mirror to make sure there was plenty of room before she cut back into her own lane again. This would be a very bad time to have an auto accident. She was still a little dazed by the news.
Exactly seven minutes later, Ellen pulled into the carport at the Elmwood Apartments and got out to plug her car into the socket on the post next to her parking place. Without her electrical engine heater, the oil would thicken and the water in her radiator would freeze in the subzero temperature. The first time Ellen had used it, she’d forgotten to pull the plug in the morning and had trailed the extension cord down the highway, to the amusement of everyone else on the road. By now the whole process was part of her daily winter ritual, but she still double-checked.
Ellen trudged up the stairs to her second-floor apartment and unlocked the door. Her familiar apartment seemed suddenly strange to her, the wall hangings and furniture and plants she’d chosen so carefully now alien, as if she were viewing them through the eyes of a stranger. There was a name for that phenomenon, the opposite of déjà vu. She’d memorized it once for a psychology class, but she couldn’t remember it now.
In an effort to clear her head, Ellen walked down the hallway to the guest room. She’d rented a two-bedroom apartment so she’d have a place to work on her dolls, and the room was filled with her life-size creations. The hobby had taken hold when she was still in high school, something to keep her occupied while the prettier girls were going out on dates.
Her very first doll was propped up in a chair. She’d sewn nylon stockings together and stuffed them to make a doll big enough to wear one of her mother’s old dresses. It wasn’t a very professional job, but Ellen had kept it for sentimental reasons. Over the years, she’d made dolls out of any material she could find. One from an old patchwork quilt found in a thrift store reminded her of the illustration on the cover of her favorite children’s book, L. Frank Baum’s Patchwork Girl of Oz. Scattered all around her guest room were dolls made of velvet and silk and chintz. There was even one made of durable canvas that she’d propped up in the passenger seat as company on her long drive to Minnesota.