Title:

Between snow and ice

Sequel to:

Between roses and peppermint

Prequel to:

And sit a while with me
Twenty-one days
A few days more
Two seconds
End of days

Author:

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

Classification:

Fiction – based on the bible

Timeframe:

Winter 1939

Location:

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

Summary:

AU/ As the sequel to 'between roses and peppermint', this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading … to understand how things started in this story, you need to read 'between roses and peppermint'.

Disclaimer:

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn dorch Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

Rating:

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

Author's notes:

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

Warning:

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me – I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …


Breåk· … ·~ ~*~*~*~*~*~ ~· … ·Łine

Between snow and ice

Chapter one – the troubles of winter

Or – of God and cars

December 19th 1939, Tuesday – Whitechapel Mount, Indiana, Hathaway Academy

Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar

Going through his supply cupboard, he grimaced at the little fact that he was running short of not only paper and ink, but of quills, chalk and sponges too – not to mention several new test tubes he needed and one or another ingredient. The chalk, ink and the sponges, he could order from Indianapolis, no problem there, but anything else he would have to restock himself, and that meant a trip to either New Heaven's Valley or Whitechapel Mount City – and while he generally would prefer Whitechapel Mount City, seeing that unknown people in the larger city would less know and therefore less annoy him with stupid, idiotic and most annoying questions, babbling and other things, he'd go to New Heaven's Valley anyway as not only the stationery, but the drug store in the small town, too, had the better quality in things he needed.

The only question was – when he would go.

He could, of course, wait until Christmas holidays for his trip – and therefore until the small town would be swarming with snotty children, filling the grocery, filling the stationery, and filling any other shop he might venture in as they would surely refuse staying at home during a fine holiday afternoon, but wouldn't be playing outside in the cold and wet weather either – except of having a snowball fight, something that was just as annoying as were idiot children roaming the stores, just by the way. But generally, they'd meet in the shops, and that was something he wasn't really looking forward to.

In other words – he'd better go before the holidays started and while the little snots were still visiting school.

Hathaway's students had left school just this very morning, leaving for their homes, seeing that it was a boarding school they visited. While a regular school would be running until Christmas eve, a boarding school generally would dismiss the students into holidays a week early so that the children would have some time they could spend with their parents – never mind if they liked spending time with their children or not – and so the students had left Hathaway this very morning and only one of his own students had remained for Christmas Holidays, namely Johnny Constantin, a seventh grade student that was old enough to look after himself so that he could leave him alone for a few hours. Not to mention that the boy would meet with Charles Irving anyway, a seventh grade student from VanHarkins, and so he wouldn't have to worry overly.

Well – looking out of the window it was clear that he best went to town today, before the snowstorm would arrive, because he didn't really like the clouds that were gathering, and if he outwaited the storm, then maybe the holidays had already started. After all, they'd start in just two days.

So, turning away from the cupboard – and the window – he left his office, hurrying along the corridor, and he made a few mental notes for his visit in New Heaven's Valley, including the note that – should he meet Violet, he best reminded her at the chemists' congress in Indianapolis next month.

So, without hesitation he took his coat from the hook beside the door that led from his office to his classroom, put on the scarf and then he slipped into the garment, closing button for button while he stepped along the corridor that led to the stairwell and then to the main entrance hall of the school. He strode through the hall, left the building, and for a moment he held his breath at the cold before adjusting and lowering his head against the wind.

It was one of his favorite seasons, winter, because everyone hated it and so he'd long ago decided that he'd like it – not to mention the little fact that he actually didn't like summer.

The summer months were hot and stifling, and while most people preferred clothes with as little fabric as possible, he would never wear shorts or a sleeveless shirt, nor would he, by free will, do without his jacket – or his teaching robes, hot summer months or not. So, of course he preferred the cold of winter where he could wear clothes the way he liked without being viewed as buttoned up.

Not that he would mind other people's opinions, surely not, but that didn't change the little fact that he liked winter more than summer.

Crossing the parking lot and approaching the 1922 Lancia he huffed at the view of the old car that looked shabby beside the headmaster's new Studebaker President. Several dents and dints decorated the carriage, together with several scratches and maybe he should wash the car – maybe. He liked it the way it was, and he saw no sense in wasting time with washing his car that just had to bring him from one place to the other.

For a moment he took a deep breath, remembering the day he'd got it, seventeen years ago.

It's been a nice Saturday afternoon in spring, and it's been nice because it's been raining. He'd visited old Mrs. McAlister, just like each and every Saturday afternoon, enjoying a cup of tea and a nice chat together with the 72 year old lady, and providing her with what medication she needed – and yes, he actually had enjoyed both, the tea and the chat, seeing that Mrs. McAlister had been a very well educated woman with a great sense of humor. Her only weak point had been that she'd hated visiting the doc, or having the doc over, and so he'd taken over that part.

However, her son – who'd never visited her, by the way – had bought her the Lancia, seemingly doing something good to her, not realizing that the old woman had been nearly blind. He'd either not known, or he had just ignored it, and both had spoken volumes in his opinion, because had he cared more about his mother, then he'd known and he would have thought about his actions – but no, he hadn't cared about her, just like he'd never visited her, and so he had presented her with something that was just useless to her, trying to ease his bad conscience and nothing else.

"If only they'd ask before presenting me with things I have no use for." She'd said. "But no. They buy those things they like just to ease their bad conscience for not visiting, without using their brain. I have a telephone, you know? It would be just one call and just one question. 'What do you need, mom?' But no. They don't call because they know that they could get a piece of my mind for not visiting."

However, she'd asked him to take the car and to keep it. Of course he could have – like everyone expected of a man well raised – declined the offer.

"Certainly I can't do such a thing, Mrs. McAlister – no, really not … it is out of question … no … no … that's too big of a present, Mrs. McAlister and I can't … of course … if you insist, Mrs. McAlister …"

But he hadn't, because he had seen no sense in such gravelling behavior. She'd wanted him to have the car? Well, he'd thanked her, and he'd promised her to keep it in good condition. She'd made it official and still he'd visited Mrs. McAlister each and every Saturday afternoon afterwards – until she'd died – and she had never asked him to give it back.

Scowling at himself he started the engine and then maneuvered the car through the snow.

For a moment he scowled at the idiots who should be clearing the snow off the roads. Of course they'd not do their work properly and the way they should. But well, he was well capable driving in snow, like anyone else here, and so he didn't really mind. He'd maneuver the car through the snow to New Heaven's Valley, and then he'd maneuver it back home after he'd done his shopping, and for the remainder of the winter he wouldn't need to leave Hathaway again.

He'd ignore his colleagues celebrating Christmas – just like he'd ignore any other meal, invitation, gathering, sitting-together, or similar socializing events, and only for New Year's eve he'd go to the staff-room, shortly before midnight, to have two fingers of Ogden's finest together with Hendrik. That was all what he'd allow himself of socializing events. Maybe Hendrik would visit him during the holidays with a bottle of the golden liquid – or with two mugs of mead – and they'd have an evening together, but other than that, he'd have his rest and he'd have his peace for some time, until school started again.

He was looking forwards to the next few days.

Breåk· … ·~ ~*~*~*~*~*~ ~· … ·Łine

December 19th 1939, Tuesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

Viewpoint of Dunstan

It was strange, really!

And he was frustrated!

Never before had he done something like that – and he knew that he was late in doing what he was doing right now anyway – anyone else had already finished their preparations weeks ago, on the first Sunday in Advent while he was still busy with hanging angels and balls in different colors at the tree Jean had brought last Sunday.

Not that cutting a tree for Christmas would be something the boy had done at a regular basis in the past, surely not, it had been a first time for him, too – but that didn't change the little fact that he was busy with something that was just annoying, irritating and frustrating to no end.

If there were black balls for the tree – that would be alright with him.

And if there were black angels for the tree – that would be alright with him, too.

If the snow outside would be … black … that would be even better than the black balls and angels.

He'd deal with the coldness of winter, really, no trouble there – but who in God's name, had come up with white snow? And then all that red and gold trash people used for decorations! And that fluffy, fleecy, soft, candy and sweet thingy that was … Christmas itself!

It was just horrible.

It was horrible – and it was only four days away.

During summer he'd said – well, it's half a year until December. During fall he'd said that – it's still three months until Christmas, and even last month he'd said – it's still four weeks, there's some time left until then. And now, it was four days until Christmas and he wondered where time had gone – and more imortantly, why no one had forewarned him, why no one had informed him of the quickly approaching holidays that had caught him by surprise. he was completely unprepared!

If everything were cold and hard and black, then he'd like it much better, and he'd be able dealing with that most horrifying of all holidays much better, really – but white snow? And colorful balls? Golden angels?

And really, if his brother – not his twin but his older brother – were alive still, then he'd surely agree with him, too.

Frowning he stopped in his actions of decorating a Christmas tree, thinking, because it was a rare occasion that he was thinking of his older brother.

He still didn't know how – and especially when – he'd died.

He was often thinking of Kenrich, of his twin, and he knew exactly what had happened, when Kenrich had died – but it were rare occasions that he was remembering …

Kenrich had been killed on October 6th 1914, exactly two years after he'd left home and he knew it, because he'd felt it when his twin had died. He'd then gathered any information he could get his hands on, but he'd been unable going home for the funeral.

Too much time had passed since he'd left home, and too much had happened before he'd left home, too much had happened while he'd been away, too, and in the end he'd been unable going back home. Maybe because he'd feared he'd kill his father the moment he saw him, maybe he'd feared he'd tell his mother a piece of his mind, maybe … he didn't know what it had been that had kept him from going home, but the fact remained that he'd just been unable to.

He'd been travelling to Tonopah, and he'd gone to the graveyard, wearing a trench coat and a hat, and sunglasses, too, and he'd been hiding behind a tree, watching the funeral from afar, barely able to hear the pastor's words – but that hadn't been necessary anyway. He'd watched his mother, barely sober enough to stand without swaying and he knew that it wasn't the hurt that had made her grabbing his father's arm, but alcohol because he'd seen the anger in his father's eyes and the clear disdain in his brother's eyes.

Many people had come to the ceremony, and he'd watched his father speaking with them, playing the role of a loving father who'd lost his son – after he'd told the driver to bring his mother home, most likely knowing that she'd continue drinking once she arrived there, because that was what she'd always done … he'd hated his father for it, for his playing act, and for his willful ignorance – and for not caring about Lew, his only son left.

He'd watched Lew during the ceremony, of course he had, he'd been standing beside his father, after all and so it was impossible to not watching him, too. Lew had been standing there, still and rigid, stiff, just the way he remembered him, and he'd watched him leaving the ceremony the moment it was over. He'd left the graveyard without turning once, without looking back and without speaking to anyone – and somehow he'd known that Lew had left his home, too, on that very day.

Well, and he, Dunstan, he'd been home again when his father had died a few months ago – the last of his family.

Of course he hadn't known about his oldest brother being dead, too, when he'd arrived in Tonopah. He'd rather thought he'd meet him there, taking over his heritage consisting in several banks, companies and hotels worth several million dollars, but he'd been wrong and there had been nothing that could have given information about his brother's death – he'd been just … gone, as if he'd never existed, as if he'd been a ghost in his mind, only. No place of death, no date of death, no obituary, no grave, no nothing.

There hadn't been anyone there when he'd come – 'home' – except of the family lawyer who'd told him this and that, but was unable answering all of his questions … and still he didn't know what to do with all the money that would be rightfully his in less than five months.

And a few months ago he'd just been … a normal guy.

He'd been working as an analytical chemist for the police in Virginia until his best friend had died – and …

Shaking his head – and grimacing at the shiny red ball he held in his hands – he continued with this most stupid activity that was called decorating a Christmas tree.

He didn't want all of that, the money, the banks, the firms, and anything else that had to do with his father's imperium. He'd been living a life that had been simple, that had been fun, and that had been – easy, at least to some degrees.

Except of being an analytical chemist for the police department, he'd lived at Hopedale, one of the largest ranches in Virginia where Joshua and the twins lived together with their father and he'd helped as much as Mr. Vaughn's sons had helped. It's been a lot of work and it's been hard work, but it's been a good life anyway.

He'd been happy there, and he'd been free – the world had been alright … until Joshua had died.

Shaking off that thought he concentrated back on decorating that damn tree. Jean would be back home on Friday evening, and there was a lot to do until then – the tree had to be finished, the crib had to be built and of course he had to bake some cookies – and maybe a cake.

He wouldn't do that, were he living alone, but he wasn't living alone and so – for the boy's sake, he'd bite the bullet and prepare for Christmas.

Taking a look out of the window he frowned at the dark and heavy clouds that gathered in the sky, and he knew that soon, tonight or tomorrow evening at the latest, there would be a snowstorm racing over the area, and he frowned, because even though New Heaven's Valley was protected by several mountains, and even though winter down here was rather mild, bringing barely enough snow to last for longer than a few weeks, it had been snowing for days now and the small dale was already snowed in.

Just an hour ago Cole had closed off the streets uphill – any streets uphill – leaving the small town snowbound, isolated and cut off from the outside world, and only the chief with his firetruck was allowed to drive uphill, the sheriff with his winter truck – and of course Jean would be allowed, but Jean wasn't here, Jean was driving a heavy truck over the ice roads in north Canada, like each winter since 1932. He's been one of the first ice truckers worldwide, and he had to admit that the boy was doing a rather good job – according to the other truckers which were rather fond of the boy.

However, just a few hours, and then another snowstorm would hit the small valley, and he hoped that it wouldn't go north, or at least only then when Jean was on his way back home and had safely arrived the store where he could outwait the storm in the safety of the barracks.

Breåk· … ·~ ~*~*~*~*~*~ ~· … ·Łine

December 19th, 1939, Tuesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

Viewpoint of Gwyneth McFlaherty

She didn't even turn the ignition key in the lock, because she knew that surely the car wouldn't start just like that – and that didn't have anything to do with her faith in God or lack thereof, surely not, but with her knowledge that the ignition simply was … defect.

They'd been to Norman at the beginning of September due to the horn being defect, and he'd made it clear that the entire car was a wrack that would see the junk yard rather sooner than later, and so they had already been looking for a new car.

They'd found two, actually, an old 1919 Ford Model T and a 1938 Chrysler Imperial.

Anyone would now say that surely it was a stupid thing to buy an old Ford if you needed a new car, if you had been driving a junk car for several years now, but this particular Ford, it was one of the most beautiful cars she'd ever seen – if one could say that a car was beautiful – and even though she wouldn't generally care about her car, as long as it brought her from one point to the other, she'd actually fallen in love with this one.

Not to mention that the Chrysler was much more expensive, even though she had to admit that it was a really good car that would serve them for many years and that Horace McAlister would give them the money to good conditions. She also had to take into consideration that the car resided in Whitechapel Mount City while the Ford was from Dayton – and not to mention that the Ford was not quite running at the moment.

Plus – she had no trailer to get the Ford to New Heaven's Valley.

In other words, the logical decision would have been to buy the Chrysler, and for several days, for two weeks, actually, she'd been asking God about it – without getting an answer.

"Really, why won't you just tell me which car we should take?" She'd asked one day, out of pure desperation. "Thinking logically, we should take the Chrysler, of course, I know that, but the Ford is a great car, and it's a Woody, no less, Lord. A Woody, imagine! I'd really like this one, but what do you say?"

Anyway, she'd still not gotten an answer.

But the very next day she'd met with Rebecca Mc Guaire, and Rebecca had told her how she'd feared that her son wouldn't get a job, how she'd feared that the boy would end up on the streets – and she knew how much the woman had worried, because they had often been praying for the matter. And then the boy had been offered two jobs even , could choose which one he'd like, and suddenly she'd known that God wouldn't tell her which car she had to take, that she could choose which car she wanted and, thanking God for it, she'd made her decision.

Of course Morgan hadn't been too happy about it, but he'd nodded his head, telling her that one way or another they'd get the old Ford from Dayton to New Heaven's Valley, and one way or another they'd get the old Ford to working. Well, and if Morgan said they'd manage, then they would, one way or another, because Morgan, too, just like herself, surely had had a small discussion with God over it.

Putting in the second gear and having the car rolling down the street, she released the clutch, thanking God that the engine actually started as that, too, wasn't always working lately. For two or three weeks now the car sometimes just didn't work, even though she was always parking in a side street near their house where she could have the car rolling down to start it, and then Morgan and one of their neighbours – in most cases it was Leonard Henson – had to push it back uphill.

Not to mention that for months now they had to re-fill water into the radiator or the engine would run hot – that's actually been a problem before the ignition had died down, but seeing that the vehicle wouldn't survive the year anyway, Morgan had decided that he wouldn't spend any more money for it.

Well, and for at least three weeks now, the car was missing its turn signal, too … and still the old Ford wasn't ridable.

Carefully driving up the snow-covered and winding road that would lead to Whitechapel Mount City, she took a deep breath, remembering how the old Ford had made its way to New Heaven's Valley.

They had called the family in Dayton, and alone that had been a small adventure, because it's been a family with nine children – and each of them wanted to ask or say something, being fascinated by the telephone itself and by the selling of their old car, and the buying of their new car, too.

She had learned that there had been a small girl with the name of Deborah who was sad because the car had grown to her while her older brother, who'd called Deborah a crybaby, had been happy about the new Ford the family would soon be driving – even though it would be a somewhat old Ford anyway as the father, Mr. Blacksmith, couldn't afford a really new car.

And then there had been David who'd told both of his siblings off for making such a ruckus while their parents were trying to have a phone call over that large distance, and so she guessed that it was one of the older children, taking care of their younger siblings, a responsible thing to do, really.

Reaching the borders of the city she slowed down and then turned left into the road with the first large stores where you could buy anything in one house, the store offering so many things, it always made her head swarming if she ventured into one, the shops being scattered all over several floors. She didn't like those big stores and so she passed those houses without regarding them, and turned left with the next side road.

Well, the thing with this old Ford, it's been a small miracle.

Just the day before, Mr. Blacksmith had gotten an offer from an old car enthusiast, an offer that was high above what Morgan could pay for the old Ford, but after some time the family in Dayton had decided to give the old car over to them instead of making a lot of money.

"If God is involved, then who are we to say something else." Mr. Blacksmith had finally said and she'd been able to hear Mrs. Blacksmith taking a deep breath of relief at the other end of the circuit. Not really, of course, but in her mind. "I know someone with a trailer, I'll ask him for help." Mr. Blacksmith had then added, and she'd nearly not believed her ears. She'd thanked God that night for his courtesy and for his love.

She passed Hathaway, that school for difficult boys and turning right she passed the hospital, smiling when seeing Wohehiv's red Cherokee pickup, knowing that it meant that the Indian was at work today.

Well, that's been that and just a few days later Mr. Blacksmith had called them back, telling them that his friend, Mr. Whitmore, would of course help them getting the car to New Heaven's Valley, and now the old Ford was residing in Norman's garage for several days – and still it wasn't running.

Reaching the house where Elisabeth was living with her family, she slowed down, turned the car so that she could park downhill, and then she turned off the engine.

"You're still driving that old heap?" The young woman asked by greeting, approaching her even before she'd got off the car. "It seems a small miracle that it's still running."

"This car is held together by bits of wire and good intentions." She laughed, taking her purse and leaving the old car, patting the fender of the Elmore. It's been one of the least expensive vehicles on the market, back then in 1908, and she remembered how Morgan had bought it for 650 Dollars in the year 1912. Both, her husband and she, too, had gotten some money from their parents when they'd married or they wouldn't have been able to buy that car – that's been 27 years ago, in the year 1912, and it's been a good year.

Breåk· … ·~ ~*~*~*~*~*~ ~· … ·Łine

December 19th 1939, Tuesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

Viewpoint of Walter Sherman

"Any plans for today?" Jethro asked the moment they both were sitting down for lunch, sausages and scrambled eggs, and he nodded his head.

"Conner, Patrick and I will meet at Mrs. Mason's." He said, taking the fork and starting with the scrambled eggs. "Conner wanted to buy a paper blank for his bible studies, and Patrick and I said we'd come, too. After that we'll go to Pop's Soda Shoppe for ice cream."

"It's twenty points below zero and you're going to eat ice cream." Jethro huffed, but he knew that the man didn't mean it.

Jethro was a grumpy guy – at least if you considered all those nice people here in this small town – but he was alright. He'd taken him in, and he'd officially made him his foster son. He had a nice room for himself, with a bed and soft bedding, a cupboard, a desk and an armchair. He got three meals a day, five dollars a week and if he needed anything, he just had to tell his foster father and he'd get it – mostly at least. He guessed that there would be some things Jethro would shake his head, telling him that if he wanted that rubbish, then he'd have to save his money and buy it himself.

However, the most important thing to him was – he had someone who listened to him, who sat down for meals together with him, and whom he could talk to.

After he'd come to live with Jethro, in summer, the man had taken him to the nearby lake for camping and fishing, or they'd been climbing Little Bear's Peak. The man had made it unmistakably clear that should he find him climbing Mount Eagle or any of those mountains that were closed off, or should he find him climbing without his knowledge, secretly, or in winter, then he would be in trouble, and knowing that man, he better didn't get into trouble with him.

But he'd never before been to the lake with someone, or camping, or fishing, or climbing – he didn't mind the restrictions Jethro set him, really.

Sometimes they were just sitting together on the veranda, watching the sunset, watching birds, talking about this and that, and sometimes Jethro even took him to their meetings when they had a fire service drill.

"It's never too cold for ice cream." He said, shrugging his shoulders. "And we've all managed the math test today without mistakes and Patrick's getting ten cent for a good test." He then added, looking at Jethro, thoughtfully. "You know, they're really poor, Patrick's family, but anyway he's getting ten cent for a good test. That's great. I like his family."

"Yes." His foster father nodded at him. "The Joneses are very honorable people. Money is not important if it comes to decency and uprightness, and never mind them being poor, they're taking very good care of their children and the future of their children, making sure that they have a good education and making sure that they'll get a good job."

"What job would you want me to get?" He asked, carefully, watching the man curiously.

Of course he knew that his father had disowned him, but not only did he not care, he actually felt alright with it. He felt – free. He felt free here, in this small town – and he felt free here with his foster father. Lawyer Cor had said that it wouldn't be so easy, and that despite the disinheritance, there would be a legitimate portion his biological father couldn't deny him, but still, he didn't want that, didn't feel well with that.

"What job would you like to learn?" Jethro asked back.

"I'd like to become a lawyer, for the poor people." He said, knowing that most likely he couldn't become that, at least not so soon, because for that he would have to study, and Jethro would surely not pay for him visiting university.

"Well, if that's what you like, and if you're serious about it, then be it." Jethro said, and for a moment he couldn't help blinking at the man stupidly.

"Listen, boy." Jethro then said, apparently knowing his thoughts. "It is your life, and it is your future, and so it is of course your choice what you'd do with it. I've taken you in, and that's nothing that stops after meals, a bed and a few clothes, but that includes education and a visit at the university, too. I've taken over responsibility for you and that includes your education and your future life, too."

"Uhhh … 'k …" He said, feeling somewhat strange, his head – or his mind, he wasn't so sure about that – swimming for a moment, and he was sure that there was something in his throat that didn't belong there. His father wouldn't have allowed him to choose his profession, and he'd stopped paying for his education the moment he'd learned of his wishes.

He ate a few bites more before laying the fork at his plate and getting off the chair, murmuring something about being late for meeting with Conner and Patrick, and then …

"Walter." Jethro called him back just before he was out of the kitchen, and he turned, looking back at the man and in his mind there was something like – damn! I was too late! Now it comes … "My wallet's on the board in the parlor, take a dollar and pay the ice cream for Conner, Patrick and for you."

"Uhhh … 'k … thanks …" He stammered, big eyed, and then he hurried out, taking a deep breath the moment he was out of the house and on the street. He couldn't really deal with these things. He'd never had someone who'd told him to take money from his wallet, and he'd never had someone who'd given him money to pay ice cream for his friends either. He'd never had someone who'd told him to do what he wanted instead of to do what his father wanted, and he'd never had someone who'd taken his well-being and their responsibility seriously.

He'd forgotten his jacket when he'd left the house, but he didn't really care. It was cold, but he didn't care about that either. There was just a bit of snow falling at the moment, the flakes dancing slowly and softly towards the white ground, and the coldness he'd survive. Mrs. Mason's wasn't far away from Jethro's house, after all, and Pop's Soda Shoppe wasn't far away either. He wouldn't be in the cold for more than a few minutes.

He'd deal with the situation when he got home in the evening, or maybe Jethro had forgotten about it until then – or the man would just ignore it, knowing that he didn't like talking about it.

Breåk· … ·~ ~*~*~*~*~*~ ~· … ·Łine


To be continued

Next time in … between snow and ice …

The second chapter: a storm is approaching …

Author's notes:

A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ...

Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ...