“Ha,” he laughed. “Dance…if that’s what you want to call it. Kids don’t know how to dance anymore. But the hot fudge sundaes haven’t changed.”

When they’d finished eating James helped with the dishes, just like he done every night with Joyce. He and Elinor hopped in the old red Ford and drove to town, to ‘Puffs’. It was Friday night and the parking lot was mostly full, pickups cruised around the lot. Teens hung out in groups, some dancing to the music that blared from the loudspeakers suspended from the corrugated overhang. James found a parking spot between a brand new Mustang with two pretty blonde girls and a big Dodge Ram pickup, with two pimple faced boys in it.

“Nice truck, old dude,” the passenger in the pickup said.

“Old dude….” James sputtered, “Why you….”

“James, stop. I think he was giving you a compliment,” Elinor said reaching over and taking his arm.

A girl on roller-skates rolled up to the truck. “Hi Mr. Freeman…Hi Mrs.….” She froze as her eyes landed on Elinor. “I’m sorry Mr. Freeman…I forgot.” Her face dropping.

“It’s okay….Janie, is it?”

“Yes Sir,” she answered meekly.

“This is my sister Elinor. She’s here to help for a while…Two hot fudge sundaes please…big ones…with lots of hot fudge. Enough to put ten pounds on me,” he said, smiling up at the girl.

He felt Elinor squeeze his arm again at his attempt to ease the girls discomfort at her faux pas, at the expense of his own discomfort, his own pain.

Shortly she retuned with two of the biggest hot fudge sundaes they had ever seen, loaded with an abundance of hot chocolate.

“On the house, Mr. Freeman…compliments of Puffs.”

“Thanks Janie,” he said taking them from her, handing one to Elinor.

“So…is this how’s it’s going to be? People giving me free stuff just because Joyce died,” he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice as he watched Janie skate away.

“James, no…she’s just being nice. Don’t be like that.”

“I suppose,” he said, breaking the crust of hot fudge and scooping the sweet vanilla ice cream in his mouth. “I suppose.”

They sat and ate their sundaes, his mood improving with each spoonful, watching the kids have fun, dancing, laughing, teasing each other. Finally, a song played that Elinor thought they might be able to dance to.

“Can you still jitterbug…like Mama showed us,” Elinor asked, eyeing him mischievously.

“Old dude,” he quoted, “Let’s show em how it’s done Rigby,” he said pushing the door open on the truck.

The song wasn’t exactly big band swing music, but it was close enough. He led Elinor to the crowd of teens dancing. They parted as he and Elinor walked to the center of the group. He put his hand on her waist, taking her other hand in his they began to dance. It wasn’t a perfect jitterbug from the ‘40’s, more of an east coast swing, their Mom had taught them when they were teens, but still a jitterbug in it’s own fashion. All those dancing stopped and moved back forming a circle around them. Yelling and motioning to others to come and watch. He led Elinor into an underarm turn, and then a reverse turn. She laughed missing a step, but the memories coming back. The kids started applauding and cheering them on. James getting more elaborate with the steps as his memory came back.

“Go old dude,” he heard from the crowd.

He led Elinor into a free spin, taking her hands when she came around and going immediately into a double underarm. The crowd cheered again, laughing and clapping. The music ended, but not the cheers.

“Again,” someone yelled. “Play it again.”

The same song started over at the cheering of the crowd. James looked at Elinor, nodding his head. She nodded in return, laughing.

“Show me how, old dude,” the pimple face teen said, standing there, holding the blond girls hand.

James looked up at him, a slow smile crossing his face.

“Three steps out, three steps back, rock step,” James said, showing him the steps.

Before long, the parking lot was full of kids attempting the new dance, laughing and cheering. Twenty minutes later, James pulled Elinor out of the crowd.

“This ‘old dude’ has had enough,” he laughed, trying to catch his breath.

“Thank you James…thank you for the memories,” she said hugging him.

The drive home was pleasant, both of them humming the tune, chatting about the old times, their youth.

Three days later James took Elinor to the small airport, where she would take a connector flight to Omaha, and then on to California. He hugged her close, not really wanting her to go, but she needed to get home, take care of her own business.

“Til soon,” she whispered in his ear, kissing him on the cheek.

He took her face in his hands, his eyes sad and lonely, pooling with tears.

“I love you Rigby,” he said, kissing her mouth quickly, “now go.”

He turned her, pushing her toward the door and the plane. He didn’t see her walk through the door, as he walked away, nor did he see her turn her head back to him, a single tear running down her cheek.

He stopped at Harpers bar instead of going home. He was in need of a good stiff drink.

“A Bud and a shot,” he said to the bartender.

“Sure James, on the house,” the bartender said.

“No damnit, take my money,” the anger flashing in his eyes, as he pushed a twenty across the bar. “And keep em coming.”

Six hours later, James finally made it home. This was the drunkest he had ever been. He collapsed in bed, still dressed, vomiting on the pillow, unable to make it to the bathroom. He was amazed the next morning, as he clean up the mess, amazed that he had even made it home. He head ached like it never had and his stomach churned, trying again to invert itself.

Over the next three months, he busied himself for the coming Nebraska winter. The winter would be hard, as it always was, blowing across the sandhills of Cherry County, the temperatures dropping to below zero for days at a time. With 4,000 head of Herefords on the open range he needed to make sure he had enough silage, enough hay to keep them going through the cold. They would congregate at the wells and he needed to make sure all the heaters worked or the water would freeze. The coyotes would be on the prowl as well, looking for a meal of prime beef. He kept the Winchester 30/30 in the rack of the back window of the four-wheel drive pickup. The old red ford would never make it through the snowdrifts that were to come. As the temperatures began to drop, he started carrying a half-pint with him, just to keep warm, he told himself.

The dishes piled up in the kitchen sink, and the trashcan overflowed with empty TV dinner trays. James continued to busy himself as the snows began to fly, the half-pint becoming a pint, then a full quart, as the freezing weather moved in. A blizzard rolled across the hills one November night and he had to take the tractor out to make it threw the four feet of snow.

He kept in touch with his daughter, and with Elinor, telling them he was fine, the winter was hard as usual, but he would make it. That he was getting ready to put up the Christmas tree, just like he and Joyce had always done. Beth begged him to come and see them for Christmas, but he declined, saying he had to much work to do. He bought gifts for her and her husband, and several for the baby, mailing them off a month ahead of Christmas.

Elinor suspected he wasn’t fine, she could hear it in his voice. She knew him too well for the lies to be convincing.

James brought the Winchester in the house to clean, he had shot several coyotes and the rifle needed cleaning. He laid to on the coffee table in front of the couch, breaking it down, running the rod through the barrel, sipping at the quart of whiskey sitting there, Christmas music playing on the radio. Once it was clean, he reloaded it, leaning it against the edge of the couch, looking over at the tree.

It was Christmas Eve and the tree was just the way Joyce had always decorated it, with red bows and twinkling colored lights. He picked the bottle up to take a drink, but it was empty. He looked at the bottle, the tears welling in his eyes.

“Goddamn you,” he screamed, throwing the bottle against the wall, smashing it into a hundred little pieces. “Why,” he screamed at the ceiling, his anger turning to rage.

He stumbled to the Christmas tree, kicking at it, ripping at the bows and the twinkling lights until they went out. His rage consumed him as the tears flowed down his face. The tree completely destroyed he collapsed on the couch, sobbing into his hands.

“Why goddamn you….why did you take her…you son-of-bitch,” he wept.

His rage, the depression overtaking him, the loneliness flowing through like the bitter wind outside, biting gnawing at his core. He wiped at the tears, turning his head, his eyes falling on the 30/30 leaning beside him. He reached down, cocking the lever, pushing a round into the chamber. He placed the butt of the rifle on the floor as he placed his mouth over the muzzle, his finger going to the trigger.

The phone rang, and he sat there, posed, letting it ring. The answering machine kicked in finally. It was Elinor.

“James…are you there?....It’s me, Rigby….Well I just wanted to call and wish you Merry Christmas and…and tell you that your loved….Well, ok…Merry Christmas…I’ll call tomorrow…and don’t forget to call Beth…she loves you too.” CLICK

His finger slid off the trigger as he let the rifle fall to the floor, the sobs racking his body.

“Let me go James…there is another that loves you now. Let me go so I may rest in peace.” Joyce’s voice whispered in his mind.

Was he hallucinating now, he wondered? He stood and stumbled to the bedroom, collapsing on the bed, falling into a deep sleep.