3.
 It was night when he climbed in the car—it did smell faintly of himself in there; could use airing out, but the temp was dropping and now was not the time. He drove to a church parking lot, pulled in next to some other cars by the rectory door, and climbed into the back. He pulled the little torn curtains over the station wagon's rear windows, not that anyone would peek, and then got into his long johns. He put on the rest of his clothes and crawled into his sleeping bag—good expensive mummy bag he'd bought from a former mountaineer. Former, because the man had fallen from a cliff and was paraplegic. Actually the wife had sold it to Tom behind her husband's back, hating it and everything connected with, oh well. Tom rolled to one side and then the other, pulling his spare blankets under the sleeping bag, and around it like a volcano. Anything to conserve heat. He opened the milk and drank half; greedily; he had to stop himself from downing it all. Then he opened the plastic bag and breathed deeply the smell of the bakery. He always did that because it reminded him of his mother's kitchen. That was long ago and never to return. He reached in and tore hunks of the insides of the loaf, so that the brown crust hung in bracelets on his wrist. He mashed the bread in his palm and bit off chewy mouthfuls, groaning with relief as his hunger abated. The bread would swell gently during the night, soaking up his stomach acids, sending long telegraphs of wellness and fullness to his brain. It would build strong bodies twelve ways while he slept.
Sated, he stared at the last lingering fans of violet and orange light in the western sky. As the night settled in, Tom's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. If he had dreams, he could not remember them when he awoke, not even to say whether they were peaceful or tortured. He thought he heard someone screaming: "A.J.! A.J.!" Several times during the night, he opened one eye as the car was buffeted; he thought it was teenagers and wished they would go away because he was so tired.
He awoke with a start. It was still night. The glow on the dash read 4:30. Was that Central or Mountain Time? He couldn't remember if he'd changed the dial. It was cold in the car; of course. He pushed the curtain aside and wiped copious fog off the window. He was amazed to see that the windows on the outside were rimed in frost. Thick snowflakes glued themselves in tiny incremental bits to the growing sediment all around the car. Oh Jesus. He pushed the sleeping bag away, shivering. It was so-o-o cold. Needed to g-g-get the car rolling, the heater on.
Easier said than done. Hopping up and down to keep the chill in the seat springs from numbing his rear end, he kept trying the ignition. Plenty of spark. The car whined and whined. There was a bang and black smoke fanned away from the sides, where the exhaust pipe should have been. At last, she started up. Skidding slightly on an inch of snow blanketing the flat and sacred ground of the parking lot, he backed the car out. The heater would cut in soon, he hoped; he'd replaced the core twice and couldn't afford to do so again. But soon he'd scratch together a little money again. He found a paper cup filled with peanut shells on the seat beside him, under the newspapers and tissue box. He rolled down the window, tossed the shells out, and scooped up fresh snow from the car roof. He found the bread bag, glad to see there were plenty of round crusts to eat. That would keep him going a while longer.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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