Warmth

"Oh, boogersnot!" Cheryl Adams shouted, mindful to restrain from cursing with her six-year-old daughter, Candace, present.

"Boogersnot!" Candy repeated then laughed gleefully.

This was no laughing matter to Cheryl, however. It was minus eighteen, a hard wind blowing. Driving snow. At Candy's behest, Cheryl had stopped on their way home from the vet for hot chocolate at Morty's Donuts -- that faithful New Hampshire standby -- and locked her keys inside the Mercury Cougar. Now here they were, faces numb and teeth chattering, waiting for Triple A to arrive.

Cheryl had decided against waiting in the warmth of Morty's because a customer had given her the creeps. The tall, lanky fellow in the weathered brown sport coat and faded jeans amused Candy when he sat at the table next to her and her mother and, smiling, pretended to remove the thumb of his left hand in an act of legerdemain, but Cheryl knew better. The guy was a grade-A weirdo, and he was still in there. Was, in fact, staring out of Morty's foggy window at the pair.

He waved at Candy. Cheryl grabbed her daughter's arm before the child could reciprocate the gesture.

"I don't like that man, Candy," Cheryl said. "Ignore him."

"He looks kinda funny, but overall I think he's got a good head on his shoulders," Candy replied, tracing the letters of her name into the increasingly thick layer of snow blanketing the parking lot with her boot. As if in response, the man inside Morty's doffed his greasy Florida Marlins cap and feigned a rococo bow. Then he shrugged. Parents. What can you do?

Cheryl blew into her fists and looked anxiously at the barren stretch of highway. At home, Jake was probably in the midst of preparing his acclaimed jambalaya, the stereo pumping out Prince's greatest hits, maybe Bill Withers's, the music's volume too loud for him to hear her calls, her husband too delighted by the high he got when cooking up a storm for his two angels to check his half dozen text messages, each one reading the same: call me you fucker.

"Count of Monte Cristo!" she non-blasphemed, "will that cork socker get here before we freeze to death?"

"Mommy, let's go back inside. I have to pee."

"Do it out here, behind the car."

"But I can't wipe."

"Hold it, then."

"Is Munchin going to die?"

Munchkin was their fourteen-year-old schnauzer.

"No, honey. He's just sick. He'll get better."

"But he's pretty old."

"So's Grampy Wallace, and he's still ticking."

"Do you think Munchkin can live as long as Grampy Wallace?"

"Maybe. Stranger things have happened. Stop picking your nose and put your mittens back on."

"Pull my finger."

Cheryl looked up from her daughter to see the Morty's patron hunching slowly toward Candy like a predatory shadow. His left hand was extended at the child, a bony index finger pointed at her head like an icicle.

"Go on, pull it," he urged, flashing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

"Stand behind Mommy," Cheryl told Candy. The little girl heeded her mother's command.

"Mister, I don't know what your game is, but you just leave us alone. Triple A is on its way, and there are enough customers inside Morty's to come out and kick your ass if I scream. Beat it and stop scaring my kid," she said.

The man stood pacific, like an Indian statue in a cigar shop. Then he said, "Lady, I don't think I scared your girl. I can see I frightened you, and I'm sorry for that, but I don't think I spooked your kid."

Nerves aflame, Cheryl responded, "Maybe not, but you obviously have no sense of social norms. I find you unsavory, and as a parent I'm asking you to please go away and leave us the hell -- heck -- alone. Can't you do that?"

"Can and will," the man said with a defeated smile. "Again, sorry I scared you. I'll be on my way."

He started walking westward, in the direction of the Super 8 motel two and a half miles down the highway. Before he stepped foot out of the parking lot he turned around and blew a kiss at Candy. Cheryl flinched.

"Your dog isn't long for this world, kiddo," he said, "but you'll get a new one after him. You'll name him Happy, and you'll love him as much as you do poor old Munchkin, maybe more. One day, Happy will die, too, and you'll be similarly heartbroken, but a new dog, Cranston, will fill that lonely gap. And after Cranston, Kool-Aid, and after Kool-Aid, Mr. Muggle. Don't feel too bad about old dogs. They come and go and fill our lives with happiness. All the best, Candycane!"

And with that he sauntered into the blizzard and disappeared.

"I can't wait to see Happy, Mommy," Candy said, her hands ardently clutching her coat's breast. "I bet he's to die for!"