Our firewood was running low and our food supply was even more pathetic than usual. On Monday and Tuesday, Matt had gone to get us sandwiches at Dupont Market, which was one of the only places that was open. By Wednesday, I couldn’t stomach the thought of another one, so I made tomato soup from a can and threw some Goldfish on top. Matt poked at the little crackers as they floated around. “It’s storm food,” I told him. He gave me a skeptical look and went back to dunking the Goldfish with his spoon, letting them bob back to the surface.
My phone rang then and I grabbed it, happy for the distraction. It was Ash, calling to invite us over. “I know it’s a beast out there,” she said. “But I’ve got chili on the stove and Jimmy’s about to start drinking whiskey. Get over here and save me!”
I watched Matt playing with his crackers and answered quickly, “We’ll be over soon.”
—
We walked to the Dillons’ because there were almost no cabs out and the ones that were around had no idea how to drive in the snow. No one did. Cars crept down the street at fifteen miles an hour, fishtailing until they landed with soft thuds against the huge piles of snow.
None of the sidewalks were shoveled, so we walked in the middle of the street. It felt like we were in a ski town.
“It’s kind of pretty,” Matt said. We watched a man spin his wheels as he tried to get out of his parking spot.
“In Wisconsin, this would already be plowed.”
“In Wisconsin, this is just a dusting.”
“Very funny,” I said. We put our heads down against the wind and kept walking, listening to our breath and the crunch under our feet.
The Dillons lived in a gated community in Adams Morgan called Beekman Place, which was a development of town houses surrounded by a large stone wall that used to protect a castle. To get inside, you had to stop at a gate out front and have a security guard buzz you in. It didn’t feel at all like DC in there; it was more like a tiny secret suburb hidden in the middle of the city.
They’d started renting their town house from a woman in the State Department who was out of the country on assignment. But shortly after they moved in, the woman put it up for sale and they decided to buy it. “We just love it here,” Ash said. “It feels safer than the rest of the city.” She whispered this last part, as if she didn’t want anyone in DC to be insulted that she found parts of the city dangerous.
At first, the Dillons’ place looked similar to ours and that of every other thirtysomething couple we knew—Pottery Barn–esque carpeting and furniture, with some random flea market bookshelf and one expensive chair that you got as an investment piece, but didn’t really want anyone to sit in. But when you looked closer, you noticed that the Dillons’ furniture had a little more heft and their rugs weren’t the same mass-produced familiar patterns you saw in other apartments, but were actual Orientals. Ash told me that the furniture had been handed down from both families, but that she’d had to re-cover everything Jimmy’s parents gave them. “It’s some beautiful furniture,” she said. “But good glory does his mother love ugly fabric.”
It was always nice to spend time at their place, although when I returned home, our apartment seemed flimsier in comparison. I could almost feel the couch bending when I sat on it.
By the time we got there, I was excited to wait out the blizzard with the Dillons. We’d barely knocked when Ash answered the door wearing dark jeans and a low-cut red blouse with ruffles along the neck. She was barefoot and had on more makeup than I wore on my wedding day. (Ash was never without makeup, which fascinated me. She called it putting on her face and she did it every morning. Even if she was alone in the house, she had mascara and eyeliner on. At night, she’d smear Pond’s cold cream all over her face, letting it sit a minute before wiping it off, and the smell always lingered on her.)
I’d worn a long sweater, leggings, and huge rubber boots to make it through the snow. My hair was in a ponytail and I barely had any makeup on. Suddenly, I felt underdressed for Snowmageddon.
“I loved your snowball fight story,” Ash said without bothering to say hello. Ash commented on my blog posts more than anyone. Her screen name was sparklycowgirl, and I was always worried that people thought she was some sort of stripper. She was the only person (besides my mom) who read every single thing I wrote for the website. Not even Matt kept up with it all. Her comments on my stories ranged from “Girl, you’re so right about this!” to “LOL, I’m dying” to “We need to get drinks here ASAP!” It was so obvious from what she wrote that she was a friend of mine, and I was half afraid Ellie was going to say something to me about it. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop.
Ash was holding a drink as she ushered us in the door. As we stamped the snow off our feet, I could hear voices coming from the other room.
“Who’s here?” I asked.