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Back Dead of Winter Save as PDF
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After a brief stop at Schmear’s Deli for coffee, half of a turkey Reuben sandwich and light conversation with owner Ben Breitler, I pointed the Olds 442 in the direction of home and gingerly accelerated that way. (A big-block, 350-horsepower engine powering rear-wheel drive isn’t exactly ideal for Michigan winter driving.)

Parked in front of Carmela and Sylvia’s house was a two-year-old white Chevy Tahoe with a temporary plate. The only reasons I took note of it were the bumper sticker that read, i was here before you, waabishkiiwed! and the bejeweled dream catcher that was hung over the rearview mirror.

After parking the 442 in my shed, I went over to Carmela and Sylvia’s to stick my nose into the business of whose SUV was parked out front.

Sylvia answered the door wearing a pair of those disposable rectangular sunglasses optometrists give patients who’ve had their eyes dilated. She pointed a rigid forefinger at me, and in her version of an Austrian accent, she said, “I’ll be bach!”

Then she laughed and invited me in.

“So, what’s up, Sylvia?” I said.

“Oh, we’ve just had the most wonderful day, Mr. Snow! After we picked up Carmela’s new hearing aids, we got our eyes checked! And I’m getting a new hip!”

“You’re excited about that?”

“Oh my goodness yes,” Sylvia said, gesturing for me to join her on their sofa. I demurred. “I was, of course, apprehensive at first, but Lucy convinced me a brand-new titanium hip would make me unstoppable. Like a cyborg!”

“Like the Terminator.”

“Yes! Exactly!” she said. “Now, you know how much we love Jimmy. It was great when he lived with us. But I have to say—we absolutely love Lucy! She doesn’t pull punches, but she takes wonderful care of us. Like—you know—family.” Then, without my having to ask, Sylvia said, “Did you see the car out front?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“We got that for Lucy!” Sylvia clapped and bounced in her seat like a six-year-old girl seeing her candle-lit birthday cake for the first time. “My son-in-law manages a Chevy dealership, so we got it dirt cheap. He had his mechanics go over it three times, stem to stern.”

“I didn’t think she had a driver’s license,” I said.

“Yes, she does,” Sylvia said. “Well, honestly—no, she doesn’t. I mean, she has three, but you know—they’re fake. But the car’s in my name, and once she does have her license—her real one—it’s hers!”

“Where are they?” I said. “Carmela and Lucy?”