"Dad, you're not listening." Jeff Henderson looked up from his laptop.
"Katie, I'm trying to get online." Jeff had retreated to the hallway, tethering his computer to the only phone line in the farmhouse. The modem's beeps and wheezes signaled his connection to the outside world.
"Yes!" he said. He turned to Katie, perched beside her grandmother on the living room sofa, a photo album open on her lap.
"I'm sorry we came to Tennyson without telling you or Mom," she said. "But now that we're here, could we pleee-ze stay and go sledding tomorrow? Grandma says there's a Frequent Flyer sled in the barn."
"That's Flexible Flyer, honey," Jeff laughed. "Tell you what, Katie. Let me finish my work tonight. You and your brother get to bed. In the morning, if we have time, I'll give you 15 minutes."
"That's bogus." Will, his cheeks pink with cold, protested from the kitchen doorway. Jeff had wondered how long it would take his son to come in from the cold.
"What's the rush, Jeff?" his mother said.
"Mom, I told you. I've got a very important meeting tomorrow." He stared pointedly at Will. "And these kids have school."
His mother looked out the window at the falling snow. "Your daddy's an optimist," she said. "If Grandpa can't make it home tonight from Wilford, you guys aren't going anywhere."
"Snowed in," Katie breathed.
Will nodded. "No school."
"Don't get their hopes up." Jeff loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. "I've got to get out of this suit," he said, heading upstairs. When he came back down, the kids burst out laughing. He had traded his suit for a pair of their grandfather's well-worn overalls, but was still wearing his dress shirt and tassel loafers.
He was heading back to his computer when the lights flickered and went out.
* * *
By an oil lamp's hazy light, Jeff watched his laptop dim and go dark. He slammed his cell phone shut. "No power. No battery. Out of range. Terrific."
"I'm not the one," his mother said, "who replaced our perfectly good phone with one that had to be plugged in. Just relax, Jeff." She patted the sofa. "Come down memory lane with us."
"Look at this wreath. It's bigger than Grandma and Grandpa," Katie said.
"That's the Radio City wreath," Jeff said.
"Who's the old guy with them?" Will asked.
"That's Pop. My grandfather," Jeff said. "Wasn't that the year I saw the Rockettes show, Mom?"
"That's right. 1962. We were lucky to make it that year," she said.
"Grandma, you're so pretty!" Katie said. "And Grandpa was handsome."
"He still is, as far I'm concerned." She snapped her fingers. "You know what? My stove's not electric. Who wants hot chocolate?"
"Me! Me!" the kids said.
"I've got leftover biscuits, too. All we need is some peach preserves to go with them. You boys fetch a jar from the root cellar."
Jeff led the way with a flashlight, grateful his mother had given him an opening with Will. One of his slick-soled loafers skidded on a cellar step. "Careful, Dad," Will said.
"I'm okay," Jeff said. "Thanks."
Jars of fruit and preserves, canned vegetables and stacks of old magazines crowded the shelves.
Jeff waved the flashlight across them, bent down and picked up a copy of Life, dated Nov. 9, 1962. He brushed the magazine off on his overalls. "Oh boy, this takes me back."
Will read the headline out loud. "Dealing With the Deadly Crisis, the U.S. and Its People Withstand the Nuclear Threat," he said. "Dad, what's that mean?"
"The Cuban Missile Crisis. We thought Castro was going to blow up the world. Talk about scared." Jeff roamed the cellar with the flashlight. "I tried to turn this place into a fallout shelter. I was almost your age."
"Cool," Will said.
"Not at the time, believe me."
Jeff put the magazine under his arm, plucked a jar labeled "Peach" and handed Will the flashlight. "Lead the way," he said.
Jeff was on the top step when he slipped again. This time, he lost his balance, and tumbled backward into the darkness.
