by Jim Kelly
“Electric heat,” the man said. “Electric baseboard heat is the way to go. Better, cleaner, and cheaper than wood or oil. Trust me on this. You will never pay more than fifty bucks a month to heat this place. Even in the coldest months of winter. You got my word on it. You get a heating bill for more than fifty bucks, bring it to me and I will write you a check for the difference.” This was up in the mountains of Vermont, in late summer, probably nineteen seventy three or four, just after our first baby, Jamie, was born. Upfront cash deal from the get go with this new landlord. One check for first and last months’ rent. One for a damage deposit. Then sign a full year contract. No month to month option, full year or nothing.
This new apartment was one of four in a squat, flat roofed, brick box of a place built on the shore of a long, deep lake. The mountain range on the far side of the lake formed part of a sculpted natural corridor that brought storms all the way down from Canada. Landlord didn’t mention that when he showed us around, signed us up. A thunder storm gave us a hint, a taste of what winter might be like in the place. Out for a stroll on a Saturday morning. Calm blue sky, warm breeze, fat white clouds lolling. Jamie in an antique stroller looking up, looking around. Abruptly, out of the north, midnight dark sky moving our way. Coming quick. We ran for cover. Suddenly, stand up lightning, boom and crash thunder. When we got back inside, the power was out. Stayed out for hours. So, we’d been warned.
The next day, though, the next day was warm, bright, and fine. The good weather lasted well into the fall. We took walks round the lake, up into the pine tree forests behind the place, Annie and me. Took picnics out into wildflower fields, onto enormous sun warmed boulders along the lake shore. We took turns swimming, one of us watching Jamie, the other off and gone. There were only rowboats on this lake back then, so you could swim as far out as you cared without a worry. Money back then was tight. I taught at a local high school for peanuts. Annie worked in the dean’s office at a local college. More peanuts. If we wanted to eat, make the car payment, the rent, put gas in the car to get to work, we needed that heating bill, come winter, to be no more than the fifty bucks a month the landlord promised.
The first month we used that electric heat, we were cold all the time, no matter how high we set it. Often we wore sweaters and coats inside, puffed steam. Jamie we kept bundled up. Knit caps for his head, swaddled day and night. The first bill was for a hundred some bucks. I called the landlord. He didn’t call back. The next month, still cold day and night, our bill was for over a hundred and fifty some bucks.
“You got that in writing?” the landlord asked, smirking, when I walked into his office, showed him the bills. “Did I ever sign anything said I’d help you pay your heating bills?”
We found a place to rent two towns north. It was half an old house, but heat was included. This was Wednesday. A gas station just outside of town on Route 7, the main north, south road, rented U-Haul trucks. I reserved one for Friday morning. Our plan was simple. Get friends to help, load up Friday morning, make our getaway. Leave the landlord a little pile of unpaid heating bills but no forwarding address.
The blizzard started Thursday afternoon, went all night, all day Friday. The state police had closed portions of Route 7 by the time I made it to the gas station to pick up the U-Haul. Snow was piled and drifted everywhere, dumping down, heavy, constant.
“Can’t do it,” the guy said. “I can’t let you take a truck out into this. Too dangerous. I can refund your money if you like.”
Sometimes a good frown is all you need. Standing outside in the blizzard, blinking and blinking, blinded by fat, sideways blown flakes, I made out a dark shape moving my way. Mark, the big guy, Annie’s kid brother. He’d hitched down from college to lend us a hand. He was something to see. His dad’s dark wool, World War II Navy coat, collar up, went all the way down to his boot tops. Balanced on his head, a much too small trapper hat, the chin straps pointed straight up, useless. He was, just then, nobody you’d want to meet up with in a dark alley. All alone in a blizzard. He has thick eyebrows. Thick, dark, and quick to do what he tells them. Here’s how his frown works. The one that puts you on notice, lets you know you’re about to get your ass whipped. The right eyebrow hops up. Abrupt, menacing crescent. The left tilts, slants down. He squints your way, mouth set grim, says nothing. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he really was mad at you. Like his dad, he mostly uses the frown, the eyebrow theatrics, for laughs. You already know the rest.
Inside, looking down at the gas station attendant, the guy who wouldn’t let me have the truck, he does the frown, eyebrows, squint, the whole deal. “I’m the driver,” he says. “I need the keys to the truck.”
What things do we ever know for certain? Here is a short list of mine. Winters in Vermont get cold, sometimes below zero cold, and can stay that way for weeks. Snow, in Vermont, dumps down, piles up, sticks around until well into spring. Babies need to be kept warm. Landlords lie. When you need to skip out on a bad lease pronto, it is good to have a big guy along for the ride. A big guy who knows how to frown on cue.
Category: Featured, Nonfiction