Help Wanted (20 page)

After Paul came back inside, she asked him to help her batten down the bird.

Obediently, he pressed his finger on the string Claire had laced around the legs so she could tie the knot. He then grabbed a pin while she tried holding on to the rest of the bird. As he pushed on it, the bird started to slip out of her hands. It would've ended up on the floor if Paul hadn't braced himself against the pan.

After a couple of tries, they were both laughing so hard that they considered leaving it as it was before remembering that the grill lid wouldn't fit over it if they didn't pin the legs down. It took five more minutes before the two college-educated adults were able to successfully hog-tie the turkey.

Claire left it on the counter until the coals were ready, then washed her hands and set about making a German coffee cake using her mother's recipe. She always associated its buttery cinnamon-infused aroma with the memory of waking up on holiday mornings as a child. After putting it in the oven, she took out her large Crock-Pot and gathered the ingredients for the stuffing, humming the entire time.

After his shower, Paul brought the paper to the kitchen table and spread it out before him to read during the quiet time before the boys came downstairs. With her back to him, Claire began dicing celery stalks and an onion on the cutting board when she heard him exclaim, "Man, I don't remember the last time I was able to sit down and read the paper front to back."

Stopping mid-chop, she stared at the cutting board.

Front to back?

She turned to face him. "I'm sorry—before you do, could you get the folding table from the basement? I hate to wake up the boys before the coffee cake is ready."

Paul looked up at her. "Yeah. Sure."

As soon as was gone, she pulled the Lifestyle section of the paper and crammed it into the recycling bin, making a mental note to retrieve it later.

When he returned to his seat, he was none the wiser.

By the time Claire had finished mixing the ingredients for the stuffing and transferring it to her Crock-Pot, the coffee cake was done, and she removed it from the oven to cool.

Five hours later, the temperature in their backyard had risen to a high of sixty-eight degrees, and the turkey was browning nicely on their trusty charcoal grill. Paul, Claire, Kate, Paul Senior, Burt, and Louise sat around the picnic table, talking, joking, and relaxing, watching the boys shoot hoops in their short driveway while enjoying the warmth coming off of the grill.

"I just don't know what to make of this weather," Burt exclaimed.

"It's global warming," Kate concluded.

"Oh, it's just a late Indian summer. That's all," Louise said.

"Well, whatever it is, it's not going to last," Paul's dad announced. "They're talking bad storms tonight followed by a good couple of inches of snow."

Paul raised his water bottle and made a toast. "To crazy Chicago winters!"

"To crazy Chicago winters," they all chimed in. 

When Paul got up to check the temperature on the turkey, Louise looked at her youngest daughter and asked, "You're sure there's nothing I can help you with, honey?"

Claire smiled. "No, Mom. Everything's taken care of. Relax."

By the time the elegant taper candles on the dining room table were reduced to waxy stubs and the plates were long cleared from the table, everyone remained immersed in conversation while the two youngest boys enjoyed a game of pin-the-feather-on-the-turkey in the family room. Paul, Luke, and Marc listened intently as Burt and Paul Senior reminisced about their days serving in Vietnam. Louise and Kate gave a detailed account of their shopping trip at the Magnificent Mile a few days earlier to Claire. When Claire and Paul's eyes met, she smiled, and he winked.

At three o'clock, during a brief lull in the conversation, Paul announced, "I say it's time for dessert and football."

Claire asked Kate if she thought her apple pie needed to be warmed before serving, but before she could reply, Burt said, "No, if Katie made it, it will taste just as good at room temperature."

Turning to Paul Senior, he added, "I almost snuck down during the night to steal a piece."

"You better not have. Did you or did you not hear Dr. Sawyer tell you that you're prediabetic?" Louise snapped. She then turned to Paul Senior and announced, "His doctor told him he has to watch his sugar, but does he? No."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

Kate cut her mother a biting look and said, "Mom. It's Thanksgiving. If Dad wants pie, I'm givin' him pie. Now what kind would you like?"

Mildly miffed, Louise replied, "Pumpkin. With whipped cream."

Claire, stationed at Kate's elbow, exclaimed, "Of course. What's pumpkin pie without whipped cream?"

When Paul went to round up the two younger boys, she brought the pies to the table along with plates, forks, and the obligatory can of whipped cream.

As Kate cut the pies, Claire eased slices onto the plates. "Ok, who wants what?"

After each piece was ready for distribution, Claire shook the can of whipped cream and sprayed it generously onto the pieces of pie. She then turned to Jonah, who opened his mouth wide, and she sprayed some into it. 

Louise made a face and protested, "Claire!"

"Oh, please, Mom. Dad did that to us all the time, didn't you?" she asked Burt, who pretended not to hear her.

"No," Kate interjected. "He used to have us hold out our finger like this"—she held her index finger out like a pretend pistol—"and he covered it."

For that, Burt, now smiling, took full credit. "That's right."

Claire sprayed a dollop of whipped cream into Tomas's open mouth next, then turned and squirted some on Marc's nose.

"Hey!" He began laughing, then dipped his finger in the cream covering his pie and flicked it at Luke, who was sitting next to him. It landed on his cheek. When Paul let out a laugh, Luke scooped some off of his plate with his fork and flung it at him. Not reacting in time, Paul's chin got coated.

"Ok, smart guy." Burt took a glob of his and covered Luke's nose with it.

"Boys," Louise cried. "Stop being so—oh!" Jonah had launched a dollop that landed on her cheek.

At this point, Claire stopped laughing long enough to tell everyone that her cheeks were beginning to hurt.

Paul's dad sat quietly chuckling to himself at the end of the table opposite his son. "Ah, this is what I'm thankful for."

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him quizzically.

He put his two hands on the table in front of him and said, "Family. I am thankful for my family."

He then took the can of whipped cream and sprayed it directly into his mouth.

*   *   *

Claire was sitting on the 5:40, the most crowded of the trains heading out of the city, watching as it filled up with commuters eager to get home. She couldn't take her eyes off of a young man with dark hair, clutching a backpack in his lap, his eyes darting all around him. She hadn't seen him before. For that matter, she rarely saw students of any age taking that particular train from downtown.

Before the doors closed and the train pulled away from the platform, a conductor made his way down the aisle. She grabbed his arm.

He turned, looked down at her, and asked, "Can I help you?"

She pulled him down closer to her and whispered, "Don't look, but there's a guy over there with a backpack on his lap, and he's acting really odd. Suspicious. Aren't we supposed to report people like that?"

The conductor quickly stood up, made his way to the door, and picked up the phone. Claire, certain she and everyone else on the train were in danger, got up and started making her way for the door. Just as she passed him, the man with the backpack followed her out. As they both went down the stairs and onto the crowded platform, he grabbed her arm from behind and whispered in her ear, "Listen to me. I'm strapped with explosives. I'm going to blow this entire station to bits. Now, just keep walking, and do what I tell you to do."

Claire calmly did as he said.

No one noticed as the man led her, against the rush of hundreds of people, off of the platform and within yards of a policeman restraining a bomb-sniffing dog. When they stopped in the middle of the station, he dropped the backpack to the ground and yelled something in a language she didn't understand while opening his jacket with his free hand to reveal the explosives. He then pulled Claire in front of him again as a shield.

People began screaming and scrambling all around her. The dog began barking wildly. His keeper handed him off to another as he crouched down behind a trash can and drew his weapon. Within just a few moments, Claire spotted sharpshooters lying silently on top of the engines parked on the rails before them. She saw special-force squads infiltrating the crowd, and when the man strengthened his grip on her and pulled her closer to him, she felt his hot breath on her ear as he seethed, "Prepare to die, you miserable person."

Still not afraid, Claire shouted out to the snipers as loudly as she could, "Shoot him! What are you waiting for? Shoot him now!"

Confused by her reaction, the man cried out, "Stop it. Stop what you are saying."

With her back to him, she let out a laugh and said, "I'm not afraid of you, pal." And with that, she raised her knee and stomped down hard on his foot. When he doubled over in pain, he released his grip on her, and she ran directly to the police officer who had been restraining the bomb-sniffing dog. He grabbed her and pulled her down onto the ground as the sharpshooters took advantage of their now-easy target. She shut her eyes tightly against the bright light of the barrage.

The next thing she knew, she felt arms wrapped securely around her and a body lying against hers.

"Shhhh. You're shaking all over."

"What happened?" she mumbled.

"Everything's fine, babe," he whispered. "You had a bad dream."

"Ok, good." Feeling Paul stroke her hair, her breathing returned to a deep rhythm as the storm her father-in-law foretold began to blow outside.

*   *   *

When Claire began blinking in the morning light, she struggled to remember what day it was. Lifting her head, she saw that the digital clock was dark. Getting out of bed, she pulled back the drape enough to see a thick blanket of snow covering their small patch of yard. She quietly went downstairs to check the thermostat in the living room.

It read fifty-eight degrees. Worse yet, the coffeemaker had not turned on. Diving back into the warmth of her bed, she pulled the blankets up and rubbed her now-cold feet against Paul's toasty ones. He groaned.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm freezing. The electricity's out."

He opened his eyes. "What? Why?"

"It snowed. Just as your Dad said." She huddled against him.

Tugging her closer to him, he said, "Come 'ere. That was some dream you had last night."

"What dream?"

He pulled away from her enough so he could look in her eyes. "You don't remember? Seriously?"

She stared at him. "No. What?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. Maybe I was the one dreaming. Did you call the electric company?"

"Not yet. I got it." Reaching for her cell phone, she looked up the number and dialed it. On cue, she punched in their phone number, listened to the message that played back to her, and hung up. "Automatic message. At least four hours to restore power."

"Oh man. What are we gonna do about breakfast?"

"Ugh. How can you think about food after yesterday?"

"Not for me, the boys. They'll be up soon. And you. Without coffee. I don't think I'm up to that today."

"Oh stop. I'm not that bad."

He looked at her again. "Feeling ok this morning?"

"Yep. I'm fine."

"Good."

For a quiet moment, they looked at each other. Then, almost on cue, they both said, "Cozy Cup."

Paul nodded and continued, "I think there was a coupon in last Sunday's paper. Give 'em a call and make sure they're open."

On hearing that their favorite breakfast dive did indeed have power, they dressed, roused the boys, and got everyone bundled up. Paul, Luke, and Marc manually opened the garage door, then shoveled enough of the driveway to pull out the car while Claire bundled up the younger two in their boots, coats, hats, and mittens. As they drove to the restaurant, they saw only two other cars and a snowplow.

"Is there anything we need from the grocery store while we're out?" asked Paul.

"Nope. I think we're good," Claire responded.

As they drove along, the neighborhood seemed deserted. Although the plows had done well keeping up with the snowfall, few establishments looked as if they were open.

"I feel bad for the stores. I'm sure they were banking on this being a big shopping day."

Claire envisioned her sister lying on her couch in front of her fireplace, surfing the net on her laptop. "I'm sure the online shoppers are snuggly warm and spending like crazy."

The Mendez family crowded into the entryway of the Cozy Cup and watched as the waitress poured a round of coffee for the customers sitting at the counter. When she was finished, she made her way over to greet them.

"Welcome. Boy, that was some storm last night, huh? Did everybody have a nice Thanksgiving? How many do we have today? Six?"

Claire didn't hear a word she said. Her attention was riveted on Paul, who had started reading an article that was pinned to the bulletin board just inside the doorway. When she saw what he was looking at, she pulled him away by the elbow exclaiming, "Come on. The boys are starving."

Annoyed, he responded, "All right, but I want to finish that on the way out."

"Oh, we get the paper at home. You can read it there."

"Be sure to," Peg said as she led them to a big corner booth. "Words to live by."

Claire slipped into her seat and started helping Jonah remove his many layers, thinking of how nice it would be to not have to hide the fact that she was the author of the Plate Spinner column.

And Paul would finally see that job satisfaction was worth more than a fat paycheck.