The Most Wonderful Thing

The temperature was eleven degrees Farenheight and steadily falling, the snow was coming down in flakes the size of silver dollars, and Cole was freezing his ass off. He plunged through drifts of snow that reached well past his knees and cursed the circumstances that had brought him to Minnesota in the first place.

His family had convinced him to leave Seattle after the break-up. “You have too many painful memories there,” his mother had said in a voice as smooth as the silk blouses she always wore. “You need a change of scenery.”

“Why don’t you come for a visit?” his uncle Allen bellowed over a crackling phone line a few days later. “A few days breathing in this Minnesota air and you’ll forget you ever had a fiancée!”

If Minnesota could do that, it was the land of miracles. Stupidly enough, though, he’d listened to them. Now here he was, caught in a blizzard in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Minnesota, two days before Christmas. His car had stalled at a crossroads about a mile or two back. The battery was dead and there wasn’t a living soul within miles who could give him a jump. He’d decided to leave the car in hopes of finding a farmhouse where he could call Uncle Allen and, hopefully, find somewhere to spend the night.

That decision, so rational in the fading warmth of his battered Toyota, seemed downright idiotic while stuck in a three-foot-high snowdrift. “Don’t they know what a snowplow is in this state?” Cole fumed aloud as he trudged down the gravel road. His voice seemed to get carried away on the blizzard winds. He doubted that he’d be able to have a conversation with a person two feet away, much less yell for help in hopes of someone hearing him.

He was ready to give up and turn back towards the car when he thought he saw a dim light through the snow. “A house?” he wondered, quickening his pace as best he could in the thick snow. As he slowly approached the light, he realized that it was a farmhouse – not a big one, but a house nonetheless. There was a light in the window.

“Thank God,” Cole muttered, even though he’d stopped believing in that particular deity years ago. He floundered through the snowdrifts as fast as he could until he reached the front door of the farmhouse. Panting from his exertions, he removed his leather glove and rapped on the door.

A few moments later, the door was opened just enough to allow a wrinkled face to peep out. “Yes?” the elderly woman said, a note of hesitation in her voice. “Can I help you?”

Cole, still puffing from the exercise, answered in gasps. “I – I’m sorry to – to bother you – ma’am. My car – broke down – a few miles back. I – I need a place – to stay.”

The door opened a few inches more. The old lady silhouetted in the light of the entryway was short, probably not over five-four or so. “Well, I don’t know,” she said, fingering the lace collar of her cotton dress. “I usually don’t let strangers in the house – but in this weather – ”

“Please, ma’am,” Cole all but begged, slowly catching his breath, “I’ve been walking for miles – there’s nowhere else to go. I promise I’m not an axe murderer or anything. Please.”

He waited as the old woman stood at the door for a few minutes longer, apparently debating with herself. Finally, she opened the door as wide as it could go. “All right. Come inside before your freeze to death!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cole said as he stumbled into the warmth of the house. Once inside, he stood motionless for a few seconds, willing feeling to come back to his body.

He figured it was a good sign when his fingers and toes starting tingling rather painfully. His hands were clumsy and awkward as they fumbled with the zipper of his coat and the lacings of his boots – the boots that, thankfully, his mother had had the good sense to buy for him once this trip to Minnesota had become a certainty. “You’ll need warm boots up there,” she’d admonished, and she’d been very right. Cole made a mental note to send her flowers in thanks.

“Why, you poor thing,” his new hostess said in a gentle tone. “You’re covered in snow and nearly soaked to the skin.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you wait here and I’ll see if I can find you some dry clothes.”

Accordingly, Cole waited, wondering where on earth she was going to find men’s clothes in anything approaching his size. At six feet, five inches in height, he usually shopped in specialty stores that catered to tall people. However, as the snow on his clothes melted and caused him to look like he’d just stepped out of a lake, he began to think that wearing one of the lady’s cotton dresses would be preferable to staying in the clothes he had on.

About ten minutes later, the old lady returned with a pair of jeans and a green flannel shirt, along with a pair of white socks. “Why don’t you try these,” she suggested, motioning to a door on her right. “There’s a bathroom right over there. Just put your wet clothes up to dry on the coat rack.”

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the small, rather cramped bathroom wearing clothes that fit as though they’d been made for him. He briefly wondered where she’d gotten them from as he draped his own wet clothing over the antique coat rack. He heard sounds of clattering pots and pans in another area of the house, and headed in that direction, figuring he’d find his benefactor in the kitchen.

As he walked down the narrow hallway, he noticed that the house had the same “old-people” smell that his grandma’s house had. He could never pinpoint exactly what the smell was, but it was in every home inhabited by elderly people that he’d encountered thus far. Something like mothballs and Doublemint gum, he guessed. The wallpaper on the walls was gold-patterned and looked like a relic from the seventies, as did the light fixture that had to duck under to avoid hitting his head.

He found the lady in the kitchen, just as he’d guessed, stirring a pot of something that smelled like chicken soup on her stove. Cole’s stomach growled loudly at the smell that was wafting through the room, but he forced himself to say, “Ma’am, you don’t have to go to any trouble – ”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted, brandishing a wooden spoon at him. “It’s no trouble. You sit right there at the kitchen table and have a bowl of soup.”

Her tone was so commanding that he dared not disobey, and sat meekly down at the kitchen table. It, too, seemed to be a leftover from three decades ago; the pale yellow Formica was badly chipped and stained.

When she set a bowl of fragrant chicken soup before him, complete with a cheese sandwich on the side and cup of steaming coffee, he had to restrain himself to keep from gulping the entire meal down in five seconds flat. “Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate the meal.”

“You’re very welcome, Mister…?”

“You can just call me Cole,” he quickly supplied, taking large bites of the sandwich.

“Cole,” she said, smiling. “And what would your last name be?”

He nearly choked on a spoonful of soup. “Um, I – well, if you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d rather not say.”

“Oh?” she said, a bit apprehensively. Cole suddenly realized that he was, after all, a stranger in her house. His reluctance to give a last name could be evidence that, contrary to what he’d claimed at her front door, he was an axe murder.

With a sigh, he said, “Well… actually, ma’am… my last name is Black.”

“Cole… Black,” she repeated. A hint of a smile appeared on her thin lips. “Cole Black?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, feeling his ears burn in embarrassment. “My parents had a… a rather unique sense of humor.” And a son who curses his name every day of his life, he added silently. To his surprise, however, she didn’t offer a smart aleck comment in response to his name – probably because she had manners, unlike the other louts he knew.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Cole Black,” the lady said with another smile. “I’m Rose Miller. Mrs. Rose Miller.” She placed an unconscious emphasis on the word Mrs., as though the title was an honor she’d received, like being crowned Queen.

He returned her smile with a rather relieved grin of his own, grateful that he wasn’t going to be subjected to a fifteen-minute-long speech on how funny his name was. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Miller,” he said, scraping the last of his soup out of the ceramic bowl.

She stood up and gathered up his dishes, taking them over to the old-fashioned sink by the stove. “Please, call me Rose. And by the way, Cole,” she said over her shoulder as she ran water into the sink, “my maiden name was Redd.”

Rose Redd. He had to repeat the name several times before it sank in. “You see,” Rose said, her eyes twinkling, “my parents had a unique sense of humor too.”

“I’m glad to know I’m not the only one,” Cole said, barely able to choke back a laugh. “Were you teased much?”

“Oh, goodness, yes,” she replied. “It didn’t help that my hair was a bright red.” She patted her snow-white curls fondly. “I suppose my hair was the reason my parents thought it would be funny to name me Rose, but I never heard the end of it at school.”

“Tell me about it.”

Rose put the last of his supper dishes away in her tidy cupboard. “How the other children would laugh when the teacher called the roll! I was always asked if I had a sister named Snow White.”

“Did you?” Cole asked, grinning.

“No. Her name was Marjorie. She had blond hair.” She quickly wiped the kitchen counter and hung up her dishcloth. Rose kept a clean place; there was no doubt about that. From what he’d seen of the house so far, it was spotless. She probably didn’t have anything else to do but clean, Cole reflected.

The talk of relatives suddenly reminded him that he needed to call Uncle Allen. A quick glance at his watch told him that he’d been expected to arrive at his house over an hour ago.

“Rose, would you have a telephone that I could use?”

“Of course, Cole. In the living room. Just follow me” She led him into a room that was slightly shabby but clean and cozy nonetheless. He found the telephone – thankfully, a relatively new touch-tone model, one of the few things in the house that wasn’t from thirty years ago.

Using his credit card, he called Uncle Allen and explained what had happened. After a twenty-minute tirade on why a person should never leave their car in a Minnesota blizzard, always carry a winter survival kit, and not let their battery run down in the first place, his uncle promised to send a tow truck for his car first thing in the morning – or, if it was still storming, as soon as the blizzard was over – and to personally pick him up from the Miller’s farm at the same time. Luckily, he knew where the house was, and he even was vaguely acquainted with Rose. That’s rural Minnesota for you, Cole thought as he hung up the phone. Everybody knows everybody else.

“So you’re going to visit your uncle?” Rose inquired from her rocking chair, where her hands were busily engaged with some sort of yarn work – whether it was crocheting or knitting, Cole couldn’t tell.

“Yeah. I just drove down from Seattle. Took me about three days,” Cole replied, idly glancing around the room. From where he was sitting on the couch, which was upholstered in a faded pink floral pattern, he could see an old television set, practically antique, complete with rabbit ears. Behind the television was a wide window, curtainless, through which he could see that the blizzard was still raging. On the left side of the set was Rose, and on the right hand side was – someone else.

Cole hadn’t noticed him when he’d come into the living room; he’d headed directly for the telephone and hadn’t seen much of anything else. The man was thin and elderly, stretched out in a battered green recliner, and apparently sound asleep. Sparse patches of gray and white hair were above his ears; his head was bald. There seemed to be something slightly odd about him, but he couldn’t put a finger on just what it was. As Cole’s eyes briefly rested on the man’s wrinkled face, he guessed that this was her husband. He wondered why Rose hadn’t introduced him yet. Maybe she didn’t want to wake the man from his nap, and would make the introductions just as soon as he awoke.

His eyes shifted to a picture of a rather handsome young man, about thirty or so, in a Navy uniform was proudly displayed on a small wooden stand next to Rose’s chair. When Rose noticed Cole’s eyes upon it, she spoke up. “That’s my son, Jonathan. He’s in the Navy. I’m expecting him tomorrow night – he just arrived home from Singapore a few days ago.”

“You only have one child?” Cole asked, walking over to get a better look at the picture.

“Yes,” she replied. “Albert – my husband – and I didn’t think we could have children. We tried for years, but eventually gave up hope. And then – Jonathan arrived.” Her kind blue eyes were sparkling at the memory. “I always consider him my gift from God. That’s why I named him Jonathan.”

“You must be very proud,” Cole said politely, observing that the young man in the photograph had the same blue eyes as his mother. The face was stern – a trait common in military photos, he’d noticed – but the eyes were kind.

“I am,” she smiled. “You remind me of him… your looks, for instance. Those are his old clothes you’re wearing. I thought that you two were about the same size, and I was right.”

Cole glanced down at the jeans and flannel shirt with a grin, somehow liking the fact that he could fit into Jonathan Miller’s clothes.

“I always wondered where he got his love of the ocean, though. From the time he was five years old, all he could talk about was being a sailor. He read everything he could about ships, the sea, and Vikings. The minute he graduated from high school, he enlisted in the Navy – with our blessing, of course. Albert and I always encouraged him to follow his dreams.” She sighed and looked down at the yarn in her hands. “But it does get lonely sometimes.”

“I’m sure,” Cole murmured, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced again at the sleeping man in the recliner…Albert, he assumed. Albert was still sound asleep and showing no signs of waking up.

“Enough about me,” Rose suddenly said, all smiles again. “I’d like to hear more about you. Do you like living in Seattle?”

Cole shrugged noncommittally. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“Do you have many friends there?” she pressed.

He shrugged again. “A few.”

“What about a young lady? With your looks, I’m sure they go crazy –” Rose stopped, sensing that she had said something wrong. Cole’s eyes had darkened in what was unmistakably pain.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said gently. “I’m being too nosy. A fault of mine, I’m afraid.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just – ” Cole stared out the window at the swirling snow outside. “That’s the reason I’m here, sort of. My fiancée – Cassie – left me for someone else and my family thought a change of scenery would do me good.”

“I see,” Rose said, sympathy written plainly on her face.

“He’s an investment banker. With an overbite.” Cole moodily stared at the hardwood floor. “But his name’s Robert Anderson, a nice, normal name, and I guess she liked the idea of being Mrs. Robert Anderson better than the idea of being Mrs. Cole Black.”

“She left you because of your name?” Rose inquired, putting her knitting aside and focusing her full attention on him.

“Among other things, but that was the main reason.”

“That’s terrible,” Rose said, properly appalled. “What an ungracious young woman.”

Cole almost smiled at that unusual, but appropriate, description of Cassie. “I guess it’s all for the best, but…” He stared out the window with wistful eyes. “I sure do miss her sometimes.”

“I know how you feel, but it is all for the best, dear. You need to find someone who loves all if you, including your name.” Her eyes took on a distant, faraway look. “Albert loved my name… he actually wanted me to keep my maiden name after we married, but that was almost forty years ago and things like that just weren’t done. And I have to admit it was nice not getting double takes from strangers whenever I introduced myself.” She laughed, a soft, reminiscent laugh. “He used to say that he was the luckiest man in the world… other people could only enjoy red roses during the summer, but he had his Rose Redd all year around.”

Cole’s eyebrows knitted together in a puzzled expression. Her husband used to say that? Why didn’t he now? He looked away to hide his uncertainty from Rose, and noticed some movement in the green recliner. The man, Albert, was apparently waking up. He shifted and stretched in his chair, yawning. His eyes, blue, like Rose’s, opened fully. Cole shifted uncomfortably as the man’s gaze turned to rest squarely on him. He expected an exclamation of surprise, or perhaps a gruff, “Who are you?” but to his surprise, Albert just smiled at him, as though he was an expected and welcome visitor.

The clothes. It had to be Jonathan’s clothes. Albert had to think that he was Jonathan, returned from Singapore early. Maybe his eyesight wasn’t so good, and he thought that the young man sitting on the couch, chatting with his wife, was his son. Cole wondered if he should speak up and introduce himself, since Rose apparently hadn’t noticed that her husband was awake.

Rose noticed Cole’s eyes fixed on the recliner and rose to her feet.
Finally, Cole thought with some relief. Now Rose would introduce him, and the misunderstanding could be cleared up.

However, as Rose approached the chair, she knelt by it and touched one of the arms, seemingly ignoring the man right next to her. “This was Albert’s favorite chair,” she said to Cole, smiling fondly. “He used to fall asleep in it every night. I’d have to wake him up and tell him to go to bed. He once told me that if there was room for two in that chair, he’d get rid of our bed!”

She laughed, and Cole, more mystified than ever managed a weak chuckle. Rose stood and, with her hand still on the arm of the recliner, turned to gaze out the window. “It’s nights like this when I miss him the most,” she said sadly. The man in the chair just watched her with a solemn face. “He died on a night like this… almost five years ago, just after Christmas. He died peacefully, in his sleep, and Jonathan and I were both here. At least he got to spend one last Christmas with me and his son.”

She turned from the window, brushing a tear from her eye, and apparently oblivious to Cole’s expression of shock. “Well, Cole, it’s getting late, and I should go to bed. Feel free to stay up as late as you like. When you’re ready for bed, you can sleep in Jonathan’s old room – it’s upstairs, the first door on the left.”

“First door on the left,” Cole mumbled, still trying to comprehend what he’d heard while attempting to convince himself that there wasn’t a man sitting in that green recliner, and it was all a figment of his imagination.

She patted him on the shoulder. “I know you’re still hurting, but I also know that you’ll find the right one for you someday – and when you do, it’ll be the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to you. Good night, dear.”

Cole tore his gaze away from the recliner, and was able to answer her in a normal tone of voice. “Good night, Rose. And thanks for everything.” He turned his eyes again to Albert, who was slowly rising from his chair. Albert shuffled toward Rose and kissed her on the cheek. Rose didn’t seem to notice a thing. He turned to look directly at Cole, and winked. Suddenly, before Cole’s disbelieving eyes, he disappeared.

Rose left the room, leaving Cole alone to try and figure out what on earth just happened. He rose from the couch and slowly approached the recliner. With a tentative hand, he gingerly touched the seat. It was cold, although someone had apparently just been sitting on it moments before. There were no depressions in the seat or the headrest, although there should have been if someone had just been laying in it.

The whole thing had to be a figment of his imagination. Had to be. There was no other logical explanation. Maybe it was the long drive today, or the cold, or maybe Rose had slipped a few hallucinogenic drugs into her chicken soup.

But even as his mind raced over these possibilities, he knew they weren’t true. He had seen a man sitting in this recliner, and that man had just disappeared into thin air. The events of the night slowly replayed in his mind. He had hung up the phone, started looking around the room, and noticed the man in the recliner. Although – there had been something odd about him. Something Cole couldn’t quite figure out. He closed his eyes, concentrating as hard as he could on the memory. Rose was knitting, the man was sleeping, the TV was silent –

Silent. That was it! Throughout the whole evening, Cole hadn’t heard a peep from Albert. Not a snore, not a grunt, not even the sound of him breathing. When he’d gotten up from the recliner, he didn’t make a sound. Experimentally, Cole slowly eased himself in and out of the recliner. Each time, it squeaked and creaked so noisily that he was afraid Rose was going to come down and inquire as to what all the racket was about.

Stupefied, he returned to his earlier seat on the couch and, staring at the recliner, sat deep in thought. He reviewed the night over and over in his brain, and each time he could come to only one conclusion: Albert was a ghost. For some reason, he wasn't visible to Rose, but he, Cole, could see him.

Cole had never believed in ghosts, God, angels, or the supernatural. He was eminently sane and entirely logical. If he could see it, hear it, and feel it, than it was real. This situation, however, was entirely outside his realm of believability. Yet it had happened just the same.

He remembered the old man's smile, and the wink he'd given right before he'd vanished. If Albert was indeed a ghost, he probably hadn't been sleeping at all that night. He'd most likely been aware of everything that had been said that night. He'd heard about the sorry state of his love life, and he'd heard Rose's tender stories of her life with him.

An afterlife was something else Cole had never believed in, but now he wasn't so sure. He almost thought, ludicrous as it seemed, that Albert had returned to his wife even after his death, and was content to live with her until she passed on, too. Was the afterlife so lonely without his wife that he couldn't bear to be apart from her? Was that why he 'd been here tonight?

That kind of love was beyond Cole's comprehension. He thought about Cassie, and their relationship together. He'd loved her, yes, but enough to spend the rest of his life and his afterlife with her?

To his own surprise, the answer in his head was a loud, resounding No.

And with that answer, he felt suddenly free. Let Cassie and her banker live their nice, normal little life. Let them live together, grow old together, and die together. And if one of them returned from the grave to spend time with the other, good for them. It was no concern of his.

I know you’re still hurting, but I also know that you’ll find the right one for you someday – and when you do, it’ll be the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to you. Rose was right. Cassie wasn't for him. The right one was still out there – somewhere. All he had to do was find her.

Cole rose from the sofa and walked to the window. The blizzard had stopped, and the scene outside was one of beautiful stillness. He stood at the window and watched the snow sparkle in the moonlight.