Fasnacht Day
Tom Knoblauch had only just decided that for Lent he would give up all hope of an early Spring as well as any yearning for true love when a woman dodging a snow blitz crossed to safety over his threshold. Soft black hair fell in waves to fur-covered shoulders. Her face, olive-hued, was enhanced by bewitching dark eyes. She was sleek, feline.
“Meow,” he thought, dropping his bear claw to the desk.
“My headlights aren’t working,” she announced without introduction, “and the car is less than six months old. Clearly the bulbs are defective.”
He eyed the Prius with California plates, an anomaly in Linglestown on both counts.
“Unlikely to be the bulbs.”
He rose, pressing his hand to a napkin before extending it.
“Tom Knoblauch.”
“Clara Molina,” she responded grasping the offered hand with almost frightening efficiency.
“…It’s more likely the entire unit is faulty. This particular model’s had trouble. I expect there’ll be a recall and warranty extension soon.”
He handed her a copy of Ratchet and Wrench.
“Have a seat. See for yourself.”
Without a glance at the magazine, she stood firm.
“How much to replace the bulbs?”
“One fifty.”
“And the entire unit?”
“Seven fifty.”
Now there was a set to her attractive jawline that excited him.
“Why didn’t your husband bring the car in?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business.”
“Leave it and I’ll take a look. Not safe out there—I’ll give you a ride.”
He winced at the slamming door before plucking a slivered almond from his bear claw and popping it into his mouth.
When he next glanced at the window, the Prius was still there, its windshield buried by the blizzard.
She was slumped in the passenger seat, the owner’s manual draped across her lap.
***
The triage nurse took one look at the woman in white fur held in the arms of a man in oil-stained coveralls and dropped his cinnamon twist to the desk. Another nurse wrapped her chocolate eclair in bakery tissue, shoved it in her pocket, and scrambled for a wheelchair.
“Why is everyone eating donuts?” Muffled by Tom’s chest, the question sounded like the last wail of a dying animal and he pulled her closer as they inched their way to the scurrying team of medical professionals.
“Fasnacht Day.”
“What?”
“Shrove Tuesday. Day before Ash Wednesday. Marks the beginning of Lent, a season of giving up what is dearly loved or desired, something only a fool would forgo. Pennsylvania Dutch people love dumplings, strudel, shoo fly pie. In the old days, they’d give up lard, butter, maple syrup—everything in the pantry that went into their treats. These days, there are no pantries. Now we have Dunkin’ Donuts. Just Dunkin’ Donuts. We eat donuts to commemorate Fasnacht Day.”
She sank into a wheelchair.
“You’re strange, Mr. Knoblauch.”
Whether it was her catastrophic malaise or a genuine change of attitude he could not say, but something had occasioned a new thoughtfulness in her tone.
I could say the same about you, he thought but said nothing, the urgency of her situation having overtaken him.
The next thing she knew, Clara Molina was in a bed, wearing a scratchy bleach-scented white gown, with an IV planted in her arm, and a sheath of paperwork on a clipboard at her side.
“We’ll need you to sign these releases,” a nurse was whispering with a glance to the doorway where Tom stood with a doctor, “your husband can walk us to the OR.”
“Husband? Why do you people keep bringing up my husband?”
“Honey, you’re going into surgery.”
***
“Dissecting aortic aneurism,” the doctor whispered, “very difficult situation. Has she stopped taking any medication recently? Blood pressure meds perhaps?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said, “She’s not—”
“Who’s her physician?”
“I don’t—”
“Children?”
“Me? No.”
“That, believe it or not, Mr….”
“Knoblauch.”
“…Knoblauch… is a blessing at a time like this. We’ll do everything we can but you need to know this is a very very difficult situation.”
An extra “very” the second time.
“Oh, and Mr. Knoblauch, help yourself to donuts in the waiting room.”
***
Tom watched her wake at dawn.
“Why is your face dirty?”
He touched the cross of soot on his forehead.
“Ash Wednesday.”
“What is Ash Wednesday?”
“It’s a day to reflect and repent.”
“Are you reflecting and repenting on your attempt to chisel me out of six hundred dollars by misrepresenting the diagnosis of my failing headlights, Mr. Knoblauch?”
The term “chisel” surprised him. He shook his head.
“Is there someone I can call for you?”
“Shell Corporation sent me here to fill in at their Harrisburg campus while they searched for a new VP of Finance. I was headed back to the west coast—”
“Look. You’re gonna be in the hospital for another couple of days. Doc says you can’t go anywhere alone.”
“I keep thinking about donuts,” she said, “donuts are awful for you. Intelligent people who respect their bodies do not eat donuts.”
“I told you it was Fasnacht Day. The day before Ash Wednesday. Next, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. Ritualized acknowledgements of Biblical events.”
His hands were turned palms outward as though he were making a plea for understanding, which made her wonder if he’d been questioned before about the absurdity of consuming fat, grease, and sugar as a useless symbolic gesture.
She studied his face for any trace of irony but found none.
“You seem sincere.”
“You seem surprised.”
Her cynicism, unbalanced by any hint of humor or curiosity, disappointed him. He thought of the paperwork she’d filled out the day before and went in search of the triage nurse.
“Can you tell me if…did Clara write down any next of kin?”
“You, Mr. Knoblauch. You’re next of kin.”
***
On Saturday, he settled her in his late mother’s room with the wall of books, everything from Beatrix Potter to George Saunders, and the window looking out on the town square, the Eagle Hotel, and Knoblauch Auto Repair.
“I’ve kept you long enough,” she said, patting the phone at her side, I’ll call if I have any difficulty.”
Stunned by her brisk directive, Tom abandoned his plan to sit outside her room with Jay McInerney’s latest anthology and turned to the door.
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
“All these books…”
“My mother’s.”
Clara studied the titles closest to her bedside: Jane Eyre, Villette, Shirley, The Professor…
“We were rereading Charlotte Bronte—Mom’s call. For me, a bit of a chore. I’ve never trusted Bronte; always felt as though she relied on melodrama because she had no understanding of true passion. ‘Reader I married him.’—worst line in Victorian literature. Austen, on the other hand, understood that putting a lid on passion increased its heat. The early, restrained interactions of Elizabeth and Darcy led to an explosion of—”
She stared.
“I see. You thought I was a small-town idiot. Or something vaguely similar.”
The color rose in her neck and face and he feared he might have come too close to the truth.
“You’re not the first. Someone shows up here from time to time—maybe a distant relative died and left a house in their will; maybe someone’s father was revealed on ancestry.com and curiosity drew them to us. Typically, they take care of business, buy something quaint at the Antique Barn out on 22, and flee.”
“You don’t sound like a mechanic to me.”
“Second career. Taught freshman lit at the college for twenty years.”
Her face softened.
His heart constricted tight as a turnip.
***
On Sunday, she waited in a wingback chair, watching through the window. The church bells had long before ceased ringing, the snow had melted, and the fluted cups of freshly sprouted daffodils on the town square nodded in the air. The Eagle Hotel’s signage boasted a holiday brunch special including two dollar Coors Lite on tap. Across Mountain Boulevard, Knoblauch Auto Repair was locked up with a decisive “Closed” sign in the window.
Finally, he came running up the front steps and she heard him dash into the kitchen.
After counting to thirty, she tiptoed in, greeted by the scent of roasting pork.
“I hope you weren’t expecting ham,” he said without turning from the sink where he was paring yams.
“I wasn’t expecting anything,” she said, taking a seat.
“Good news,” he said, lowering the yams into a pot of water on the cooktop, turning on the gas, and wiping his hands on a towel, “that recall came through. Won’t cost you a nickel to fix those lights.”
“I guess you could say you told me so.”
“I’ll get on it tomorrow. Doctor said you’re all set for the drive back to California.”
“Great,” she said, “be out of your way within an hour.”
“Not staying for Easter dinner?”
The bedroom door closed with as much resolution as she could manage.
***
He threw a slotted spoon into the sink and stormed into Clara’s room.
“By all means, do come in.” She shot him a frosty look as she struggled to stuff her white coat into a shopping bag.
“Why’d you make me next of kin?”
She studied his boiling face.
“Why did you ask me why my husband hadn’t brought in the car?”
“That’s obvious.”
“How is it obvious?”
“Wanted to know if you were single. Why’d you make me next of kin?”
Tossing the shopping bag on the bed, Clara shielded herself with the white coat.
Reflect, he thought, please, please reflect and repent.
The white coat fell to the floor.
“Didn’t want to give you up for Lent.”