Page 5 of Please Send Snow
Michael gives me a real smile, and takes me through a door in the kitchen that leads to the back hall.
I follow him to another door with a little copper plate in the center. I’m expecting a room number, but instead it just holds two words that would almost be funny if they didn’t fit in so well with how the rest of my night was going.
BROOM CLOSET
2
MADDIE
Ibite back the tired little giggle that tries to burst out of my chest. I’m literally staying in a broom closet.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Another favorite of Dad’s. And even though I never really saw myself as very mighty, this is still a pretty big step down from the spacious and comfortable rooms my dad and I used to enjoy.
“Thank you,” I say, finally remembering my manners as Michael opens the door. “I’m just so happy to have a roof over my head.”
The words die in my throat as I look at the small windowless space where I pictured myself sleeping on the cold floor in a tangle of mops and buckets.
Fortunately, Michael has put a cot in here and set it up with a thick comforter, like the ones in the nicest rooms. There’s a bedside lamp that he must have brought in as well. It’s set on top of an empty milk crate, along with an alarm clock and a well-worn paperback copy of Charles Dickens’sA Christmas Carol.
Could it be the same copy I read obsessively the year we stayed here when I was ten? I must have yelled out,You there, boy, what day is it?and then replied,Why, it’s Christmas day!about a thousand times during that visit, until my normally patient parents actually asked me to stop.
True to the sign on the door, the mops and brooms are all lined up neatly along the far wall with the shelves of cleaning supplies and the sink. With it all on one side like that, I won’t have to look at any of it if I don’t want to. It’s clear that he did his best to help me forget I’m in a closet.
“Oh, Michael,” I say, feeling overcome. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.”
“Welcome home, Miss Foster,” he says with real affection. “I hope we can get you into better accommodations soon.”
Now that I finally feel safe, the fear and exhaustion of the last few days really come crashing down on me and tears prickle my eyes again.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I murmur.
“This town will never forget your family,” he says with a gentle smile. “And what your father did for us.”
“What he did?” I echo stupidly.
I know there’s a Foster’s Figurines factory here, but there are lots of those all over the place.
“My sister had a job at the soup factory,” Michael says. “Her husband had been too ill to work for a year by then and the whole family was relying on her paycheck. When the place got shut down, she told me they were going to have to move to the city.”
“The factory here used to be for soup,” I remember out loud. Most of the factories my dad owned were built just for his business, but the one here in the Poconos was different. It still had the soup company logos on the walls.
“You really don’t know this story?” Michael asks me, looking incredulous.
I shake my head.
“Well, your father heard about the factory closing,” Michael continues. “And he knew how much it would hurt this community. So he bought the building and started up production here. He even retrained the workers to paint his figurines.”
“Oh,” I say, a lot of things suddenly making sense at once. “Oh, wow.”
We always visited the factories regularly. It was important to my dad to know that the quality of the sweet little sculptures was consistent and the workers were happy.
Normally, the people who painted the figures were young, artsy types in jeans and ripped t-shirts who scowled as they worked and moved their paintbrushes with a flourish of authority. Looking back, I’m pretty sure they were all disillusioned art school grads who had pictured themselves doing something very different with their talents.
But here in the Poconos, the factory was smaller, and I remember all the workers as motherly figures, squinting and smiling as they brought the little characters to life. They would stop what they were doing immediately anytime my father stopped in and they would always come over to hug him or shake his hand,or ask his advice on shading or technique for a new piece.
They also remembered my name and knew exactly how old I was and what grade I was in. And someonealwaysfished a homemade treat or two out of their packed lunch to spoil me with.
