Chapter 4

It was nearly 6'clock when Janice officially logged out of the Visitor's Center. The sun was setting without fanfare, a cold and pale disc lost behind heavy gray clouds. Cold bit at her nose and the tips of her ears and the first wind-driven flakes of snow gleamed and blurred her vision. She hurried the distance to the taxi stand on New York Avenue, replaying her dialogue with FDR, snatches of a conversation more perplexing than interesting. The insinuation that she was perhaps, not doing all she could for her country was quietly infuriating. If only she hadn't been so passive, so uncharacteristically starstruck. "What were you thinking?" she growled, her breath pluming in the brisk night air. A young couple approaching her from the opposite direction put their heads together as they shared a joke, pushing the punchline out from between their teeth where it hung briefly like a dialogue balloon in the Sunday funnies. She thrust her hands into her pockets and hunkered down in her coat as they passed her without further word...because it's dangerous to confront people who talk to themselves! She chuckled, anger and self-recrimination slipping from her body like a useless second skin. Presidential advice aside, speaking every thought aloud was just the kind of behavior that could earn a body serious time in the rubber room.

Minutes later, she stood alone beneath an island of light, watching rush hour traffic make cautious, but inexorable progress down the slick, shiny black macadam. Just as she was contemplating the poor insular quality of silk stockings in sub-freezing temperatures, the distinctive green and white chassis of a Checker cab parted a gauzy veil of snow to pull to the curb, splashing her ankles with a breath-snatching spray of slush and water. Janice sucked in a breath over her gritted teeth. Sonofabitchthatscold! Before the driver could emerge to assist his passenger into the cab, Janice flung open the door and settled into the deep leather seat. "How are ya?" she said, grimacing as she shucked off her wet pumps. Willowy Doris Day warbled Sentimental Journey over the radio as Janice stated the obvious. "C-cold out there!"

The driver grunted and turned in his seat to address her. "Where to, Miss?"

Three syllables that preceded the solo version of Name That Dialect, a game she and Mel enjoyed playing in restaurants, theatre lobbies and anywhere else crowds would gather and converse. East Coast. New York...maybe New Jersey. I'd bet a nickel. "Corner of Prospect and 35th," she replied as she chafed her hands together; she'd lost a glove somewhere between the White House and the taxi.

"Prospect and 35th, gotcha." He turned down the flag on the meter and spared a glance over his shoulder before merging with traffic. "Hey-ah, you mind the music, Miss?" His fingers skimmed the dials on the radio as he regarded her reflection in the rear view mirror. "You want I should turn it off?"

Teaneck. Southside. Janice smiled. "No, it's just fine. I like Les Brown."

He responded by turning the volume up just slightly. "I prefer Artie Shaw myself. He makes some sweet noise. That too loud f'you?" When she didn't immediately object, he put both hands on the wheel and turned his attention to the business of navigating the predictably heavy DC traffic. The photo ID badge on the seatback identified the driver as Anthony Nowicki, CDL#DC595, anything else would have been redundant as he was the chatty sort and his mouth kept pace with his rapidly moving meter at the rate of three factoids per eighth of a mile. By the time the taxi turned onto the freeway, Janice knew his bowling average, the name of his wife and two children and the address of their little bungalow-style home...in Teaneck, New Jersey. He drew a breath half an hour later as the taxi pulled to the curb on tree-lined Prospect Street. "That'll be two and a quarter, miss," he announced.

Janice squinted at the meter and reached for the money clip in her hip pocket. She didn't carry a handbag as a rule. It was just one more thing to lose, or leave behind. "You made good time," she said as she peeled off three one dollar bills into his outstretched hand.

Tony Nowicki took the money, correctly assumed that no change was desired and smiled appreciatively. "Here, lemme get that door f'you." He was out of the car before she could protest. As he opened her door, the streetlights came up, illuminating the sidewalk and the shops adjoining her brownstone. "Nice neighborhood. You got a deli," he said, as he spied the multi-colored awning above a window display of knishes, apple strudel, potato pancakes and fresh-baked breads, all framed by a garland of miniature flags. "That a German flag in the window?"

"Looks to be." After slipping on her wet shoes, Janice joined him on the pavement, giving the building a passing glance. The owner and his adult son had only recently come over from Cologne where they had operated a thriving bakery, until arbitrary and unreasonable laws forced them to close their business, and eventually flee the country altogether. "I don’t particularly care for kosher myself, but I have a friend who’s developing a real taste for it," she said as the elderly owner emerged from the building, a large bucket clutched to his chest. They had only spoken once before, briefly; his English was non-existent, and her German was rudimentary at best. Their mutual deficiencies made for a short conversation. She struggled unsuccessfully to recall his name, settling instead for an ambiguous, "Ev’ning." The storekeeper turned at the sound of her voice, smiled, gave the cabbie a neutral glance and went straight back to the business of salting the sidewalk in front of his store.

Nowicki tore his gaze away from the storekeeper and dug into the pockets of his pea coat, presenting his fare with a business card. "You call me you need a ride, okay?" He closed the car door behind her. "Nobody knows DC like me. I own the cab so you call that number, you're gonna get me and nobody else."

"That's good to know," she replied, pocketing the card without looking at it. "Thanks again." Nowicki tossed a salute off the corner of his cloth cap, returned to his cab and pulled away from the curb with unseemly haste. Janice did not linger in the blue fog of exhaust, but turned on her heel for home where a stiff drink, a hot shower and a soft body awaited her. So single-minded was her quest for these creature comforts that she did not hear the storekeeper greet her from his place on the sidewalk. He was at her side, fingertips grazing her elbow before she was aware of his presence; she was laughing at herself when his name came unbidden to her lips. "Mr. Keppner, hello…Gutenabend," she said, correcting herself; she reached for elaboration and managed a clumsy translation. "Sie überraschten." Two bright spots of color on her cheeks and a hand clutched over her heart completed the picture of a woman out of her depth.

In a voice hardly more than a whisper, he said, "Guten Abend, Fräulein," and bowed in a gesture of chivalry that seemed out of place on the streets of Georgetown. "Bitter kalt, ja?"

Janice chafed her hands together to show that she absolutely understood. "Ja sicher, es ist sehr kalt." Okay, think, Janice, don‘t just be a parrot! This is first year German. You can do this! "Wie geht es ihn heute??"

The old man seemed encouraged by the polite inquiry of his health. "Gut, danke. Wo ist ihre Handschuh?"

Janice was lost until he touched her hand…her cold, naked hand. "Oh. My glove…verlegt," she replied with a shrug.

"Ich erwartete soviel Schnee nicht." he said, casting his gaze upward. He spread his hands, palms up in the falling snow. "Das erinnert mich an zu Hause."

Snow…snow and something about your house. Aw hell! There were dozens of regional dialects in Germany alone, and to her dismay, she neither spoke nor understood any one of them well; until tonight, she did not consider that to be a failing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the deli owner’s son, no doubt cautious from experience, watching her from his place in the opened doorway. She wished he felt comfortable enough to join them for his English was better than her German. At last, she threw up her hands in an extravagant gesture that served to augment her imperfect grasp of a foreign language. Smiling apologetically, she responded with the second phrase hammered into every student in Sister Agnes’s Rudimentary German class. "Das tut mir leid. Ich habe angst mein Deutsches…oh, what’s the word…?" Polly wants an adjective. "Lousy, Janice, your German is lousy!" She laughed self-consciously. "Mein Deutsch ist sehr schlecht ?"

He touched her arm and smiled. "Lassen Sie sich nicht entmutigen."

"Oh, but there’s plenty to be discouraged about!" She squeezed his hand and they laughed together. "Now, I hope you’ll excuse me." She hitched her bare thumb over her shoulder and searched her memory in annoyance for just the right words. "Mein freund wartet das abendessen." She watched his eyebrows come together in a frown and for a moment, she feared she had offended him in some way. "Abendessen...supper...is that right?" she asked delicately.

He held up his hand, indicating that she should wait. "Moment mal. Habe Ich etwas für dich."

"Wait?" She pointed an ungloved index finger towards the sidewalk as a chill skittered the length of her spine. "You want me to wait here." The storekeeper nodded briskly.

As his father brushed past him on his way into the deli, the young man in the door let a combination of curiosity and courtesy draw him to Janice’s side like a whitefish on a baited hook. "Miss Covington, hello." His English was impeccable. "How are you this evening?"

At last! Words I can understand. Bless you. "Cold, Mr. Keppner, cold."

Yoel Keppner wound the loose ends of his scarf about his throat, across his very prominent Adam’s apple. "Please, I hope you will call me Yoel."

"Okay. Yoel. Where do you think your father’s got to?"

"Oh, that." He cast a glance over his shoulder. "I think he has something for you. I saw him putting aside some things earlier."

"I wish he wouldn’t do that. How am I going to learn to live on hamburger when he supplements my diet with strudel and knishes?"

"It is a cruel irony indeed that your home is too close to our kitchens," replied Yoel with a grin.

Janice laughed. "I think it’s your kitchen that’s too close to my home!" She shivered and wriggled her toes, icy blocks inside her shoes. Presently, the older Keppner emerged from the deli carrying a carefully sealed wax carton which he placed in her gloveless hand. Janice closed her fingers securely around the rigid carton, sensitive to the liquid movement of its contents and the vague warmth of melting wax against her exposed skin. With a whiff of cracked black pepper and a heady chicken broth, the carton gave up the last of its secrets. "It smells wonderful."

"It’s just chicken soup. Papa makes it fresh every morning." He could read her indecision like a book. "It will only go to waste."

"Vergeudung nicht, wünschen nicht," she said, trotting out one of Sister Agnes’s more noteworthy epigrams. She smiled graciously. "Danke. Sie sind sehr freundlich."

Issac Keppner tugged his son’s coat sleeve and announced with unmistakable pride, "Kennen Sie meinen sohn - Yoel?"

Yoel leaned into his father’s ear. "Wir haben Vater begegnet."

Issac Keppner dug an elbow into his son’s ribs and smiled pointedly at Janice. "Unverheiratet."

"Papa!" Yoel Keppner was mortified.

"Single," Janice reiterated with a raised brow. "What a coincidence."

Issac, ignorant of his son’s distress and encouraged by Janice’s receptive smile, spread his arms out to encompass the store and street front. "Ein tag, alles ist dieses seins."

"A dowery, too," Janice quipped, enjoying Yoel’s predicament.

Yoel sighed. "Papa," he said, leaning heavily on the first syllable. "Please, forgive my father, Miss Covington. I think he does not understand that America is not like the old country; one cannot just arrange marriages on a street corner."

"I wish I could string together more than five German words at one time." Janice looked Issac Keppner in the eye and squeezed his hands. "I would tell your father that if I wasn’t already spoken for, nothing would please me more than to be his daughter."

Yoel looked from Janice to his father, who clearly understood the tone, if not the sentiment, and he knew at last that he was in the company of a friend. "Thank you. I will tell him for you. But for now, we should let you be on your way. You look very cold."

"It’s the wet shoes," she replied with a downward glance. She backpedaled across the walk, one step for every word out of her mouth; it seemed both polite and expediant. "Thank you again for the soup. It’ll be just the thing to take the chill out of my bones. Gutenabend."

"Key,key,key…" muttered Janice as she walked cautiously down the dimly-lit footpath at the rear of her brownstone. She had misplaced the key to the front door weeks earlier, and since then had taken to coming and going via the French door in the garden, as Mel called it - a six foot square area of flagstone pavers…not a blade of grass, green or otherwise to be seen. Anyone else might have generously called it a patio, but Janice found something sweetly optimistic in Mel’s plans for tomato plants and window boxes of flowers and fresh herbs. If anyone could coax life from stone, it would be Mel.

At the back door, light and sound bled faintly through the panes of glass; it was Mel’s habit to play the radio, sometimes at full volume, when she was alone in the house. As Janice fit her key in the deadbolt and turned the knob, the sound resolved itself into horns and strings and the soulful vocals of Ella Fitzgerald proclaiming her affections for her lover Come Rain, or Come Shine…a beautiful melody flawlessly performed, but Janice preferred scat to syrupy sentiment. And Ella’s scat was peerless.

"Hello in the house!" Janice called out as strings swelled and vocals died. She shucked out of her coat, peeled off the single remaining glove and dropped both it and her keys in a red wingback chair against the wall and made her way to the kitchen. Mel was standing with her back to the door, in stocking feet, moving to the music while her hands busied themselves with something at the butcher’s block; she was singing, too, a sassy counterpoint to Ella’s lead.

You're gonna love me, like nobody's loved me Come rain or come shine We'll be happy together, unhappy together Now won't that be just fine

Standing in the doorway, watching Mel’s well-rounded backside roll and sway to the rhythms of a Mercer-Arlen melody, Janice gained a whole new appreciation for sentimental love songs. She left the chicken soup to cool on the counter beside a stack of unopened mail and crossed the kitchen. With the gentlest of touches, she weaved her arms around her lover’s waist, feeling the satisfying weight of Mel’s body, beautiful and fluid as it melted into her breasts. "Mmm, you smell so good..."

Mel’s hands, dusted with flour, closed over Janice’s. "That’s the ravioli." She shivered as she felt a train of soft kisses across the back of her neck, behind her ear, to her throat. She squeezed the hands tighter across her waist and said, "Welcome home, baby."

"Is this what I’ve been missing all those times I came home late?" Janice’s lips, pressed to supple flesh, felt the throb of a strong pulse. "A floorshow?"

Mel turned in the embrace, slid her hands down Janice’s sides, to the soft swell of her hips. "Encore’s at 8 and 11."

Janice conjured a gravelly, "Hubba, hubba," and tilted her chin up for a kiss, anticipating a breath-snatching lip-smacking exchange -- and got a moist peck on the jawbone instead. "On the cheek?" A beat wherein she held Mel at arm’s length. "What am I? Your grandmother?"

Mel wiped her hands on her apron, raining flour and little ropes of dough upon the linoleum. "I was tryin’ to be considerate." She snapped off the radio in the middle of a sales pitch for Borax flakes. "I don’t want you to catch my cold."

"I’ll take the risk," replied Janice as she moved once again into Mel’s embrace. "So - give already."

Mel tossed her glasses onto the counter and, pleasantly resigned, took Janice’s face in her hands. In such close proximity, her lover’s eyes were no more than two shimmering green pools, her lips a fuzzy pink blossom framing a slash of white, but her desire was knife-edged and unmistakable. Their bodies trembled where they touched - thighs, hips and breasts - fitting together as naturally as puzzle pieces. How marvelous, she thought, after all the many intimate moments, that each woman could be so thoroughly moved, so undeniably aroused by the thought of a simple kiss. "Just remember," Mel said, "You asked for this."

Janice’s lips parted in anticipation, but her eyes remained open. Kissing with the eyes opened was, in her opinion, the sensual equivalent of making love with the lights on; it was more intimate somehow. Mel held her face by her fingertips and gently kissed the corners of her mouth. In the heartbeat between coherent thought and mindless lassitude, Janice noted the unnatural heat present in her partner’s touch. She shivered and sighed, putting her arms around Mel’s neck to draw her closer.

No coaxing was necessary, however; this kiss had momentum. Mel played the tip of her tongue languidly across Janice’s lips, dipping briefly into her mouth to dance with its counterpart before withdrawing. And then she gave Janice what she dearly wanted -- she kissed her squarely on the lips, warm and wet, of sufficient, but not extravagant duration…and the world…as someone wiser than she had once said…cracked open.

END CHAPTER 4>/p>