The First Hard Choice | The Last Normal Winter, Chapter Nine
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Claire stared at the words she had written.
What we can do.
It seemed like such a simple question.
A week ago, she would have known the answer.
If a neighbor needed something, you helped.
You brought a meal. You offered a ride. You checked on someone who hadn’t been seen in a few days.
That was how things worked in a small Vermont town.
But a week ago, Claire hadn’t been counting how many gallons of drinking water were left in the pantry.
She hadn’t been worrying about whether the electricity would stay on long enough to keep the freezer cold.
And she hadn’t been feeding six people from supplies she’d originally planned for two.
Tom sat across from her at the kitchen table.
“Well?” he asked.
Claire looked up.
“Well what?”
“What are you thinking?”
She tapped her pen against the notebook.
“I’m thinking we don’t know enough.”
“About what?”
“Any of it.”
Tom leaned back.
“We know people need help.”
“Yes. And we know we might need help ourselves.”
He didn’t argue.
That was one of the things Claire appreciated about him.
After thirty-eight years of marriage, Tom knew when she needed time to think.
Emily was standing at the counter, rinsing the breakfast dishes in a small basin of water.
She had started saving the rinse water for flushing the toilet.
Claire hadn’t asked her to.
That worried her almost as much as everything else.
Her daughter was adapting too quickly.
“What exactly are they asking people to do?” Emily asked.
Tom pushed the notice across the table.
“Check on neighbors. Report urgent needs. Help with transportation or equipment if you can.”
“Transportation?” Eric said from the doorway.
He had been outside looking over the generator.
“With what gasoline?”
“That’s the problem,” Tom said.
Eric pulled out a chair.
“We’ve got enough to run the generator for a while if we’re careful. The truck has some gas, but nobody knows when we’ll be able to fill it again.”
Claire looked at the notebook.
Fuel was already on her list.
It was written in capital letters.
FUEL.
As though writing it larger would somehow make more appear.
“Then we don’t volunteer the truck,” Emily said.
Tom looked at her.
“Someone might need a ride to get medical care.”
“And what happens when Lily needs something and we can’t get there?”
The room went quiet.
Emily glanced toward the living room.
Lily was sitting on the floor with a coloring book, carefully filling in the roof of a house.
Noah was beside her, sorting through a box of batteries.
Neither child appeared to be listening.
Claire suspected Noah was hearing every word.
“We’re not making any promises,” she said. “Not yet.”
She drew a line beneath the heading in her notebook.
Then she wrote:
Check on nearby neighbors.
That seemed manageable.
It didn’t require gasoline.
It didn’t require giving anything away.
Not necessarily.
By two o’clock, the sky had turned the flat gray that usually meant rain.
Claire stood on the porch and pulled her sweater tighter.
The air smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke.
The road was quiet.
It had been quiet for days, but she still wasn’t used to it.
Normally, a truck would pass every so often. Someone heading to work. Someone returning from the grocery store. A neighbor hauling firewood.
Now every engine made her look up.
Tom came outside carrying his coat.
“I thought I’d walk down to Ben’s.”
Claire nodded.
“Ask if he’s heard anything about the water delivery.”
“I will.”
“And whether the road into town is still restricted.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“I’ll ask.”
She gave him a tired smile.
Tom stepped off the porch.
Then he stopped.
“Maybe we should check on Mrs. Whitcomb while we’re out.”
Claire looked toward the trees.
Margaret Whitcomb lived in a small white farmhouse about half a mile down the road.
She was seventy-eight, maybe seventy-nine.
Claire had known her for more than twenty years.
Margaret had lived alone since her husband died.
She kept a vegetable garden, made her own bread, and refused to let anyone shovel her walkway unless the snow was deep enough to reach her knees.
“She’s probably fine,” Claire said.
“Probably.”
“She has a woodstove.”
“I know.”
“And she puts food away every summer.”
Tom waited.
Claire sighed.
“We should check.”
They told Emily where they were going and started down the road.
The leaves had begun collecting along the shoulders.
A few maples were still holding their color, but most of the trees were nearly bare.
Claire could see farther into the woods than she had a month earlier.
She didn’t like that.
The world seemed exposed.
Margaret Whitcomb answered the door after Tom knocked three times.
She was wearing a faded blue cardigan and holding a dish towel.
“Well, look what the wind blew in.”
“Afternoon, Margaret,” Tom said.
“We were checking on people,” Claire explained.
Margaret raised an eyebrow.
“Am I people?”
Claire smiled.
“Last time I checked.”
“Then come in before you let all the heat out.”
The farmhouse smelled of cinnamon and woodsmoke.
A kettle sat on the woodstove.
There were jars of dried beans on a shelf near the kitchen door, and a basket of apples on the table.
Claire felt a small measure of relief.
Margaret had food.
She had heat.
She was dressed warmly.
Maybe this visit would be simple.
“Have you heard anything from town?” Margaret asked.
Tom explained what he’d learned at the meeting.
Margaret listened without interrupting.
When he mentioned the drinking-water distribution, she set the dish towel down.
“Did they say how much?”
“No.”
“Or when?”
“Possibly this afternoon.”
Margaret shook her head.
“That’s not much use.”
“No,” Claire said. “It isn’t.”
Margaret glanced toward the kitchen sink.
“My well pump hasn’t worked since yesterday morning.”
Claire followed her gaze.
“You don’t have running water?”
“No.”
“How much do you have stored?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Some.”
“How much is some?”
“There’s a bucket by the stove. And a few bottles.”
Claire walked toward the counter.
Three plastic bottles stood beside the sink.
One was nearly empty.
The bucket was covered with a clean towel.
“Is that drinking water?” Claire asked.
“Some of it.”
“What does that mean?”
Margaret folded her arms.
“It means I’ve been saving the clean water for drinking and using what I can collect for washing.”
“From where?”
“Rain barrel.”
Claire turned.
“You’re not drinking that, are you?”
“No, Claire. I haven’t lost my senses.”
“I’m sorry.”
Margaret’s expression softened.
“I know you’re worried.”
Tom looked toward the window.
“Could someone get your pump working with a generator?”
“Maybe. But I don’t have one, and I wouldn’t know how to connect it safely.”
“Don’t try,” Tom said. “There are electrical hazards if it isn’t set up correctly.”
Margaret nodded.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Claire looked at the bottles again.
“Do you have family nearby?”
“My daughter is in New Hampshire.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Not since Thursday.”
“Does she know what’s happening here?”
“I imagine she’s got troubles of her own.”
Margaret said it matter-of-factly.
But Claire noticed the way her hands tightened around the dish towel.
“How much water do you have left for drinking?” Claire asked.
Margaret looked away.
“Enough for today.”
Claire felt something settle heavily in her stomach.
“And tomorrow?”
Margaret didn’t answer.
They walked home without speaking for the first few minutes.
The wind had picked up.
A crow called from somewhere beyond the stone wall.
Finally, Tom said, “We can’t leave her like that.”
Claire kept walking.
“I know.”
“We’ve got drinking water.”
“I know that too.”
“She can’t go without it.”
Claire stopped.
“Tom, I’m not suggesting we leave her without water.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“I’m trying to figure out how much we can spare.”
He looked at her.
“She’s one person.”
“And we’re six.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t help.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
Tom waited.
Claire looked down the empty road.
“We have no idea when the next delivery is coming. We don’t know whether our well will work tomorrow. We don’t know how long the generator fuel will last.”
“We have stored water.”
“Yes. Because we planned ahead.”
“And Margaret didn’t?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
Claire rubbed her forehead.
“I mean that every gallon we give away is a gallon we don’t have.”
Tom didn’t respond immediately.
She could tell he understood.
That made it worse.
“She’s our neighbor,” he said finally.
Claire looked back toward Margaret’s house.
“I know.”
At home, Noah was helping Eric carry firewood into the mudroom.
Emily had started supper.
The smell of onions filled the kitchen.
Claire went straight to the pantry.
She counted the drinking-water containers.
Then she counted them again.
They had filled everything they could while the well was working.
There were several larger containers, a collection of gallon jugs, and smaller bottles tucked onto the lower shelves.
There was also water stored elsewhere for washing and other household needs.
It had seemed like a reasonable amount when there were only two people living in the house.
Now six people needed to drink, cook, and stay clean.
Claire took out her notebook.
She wrote down the amount of drinking water they had stored.
Then she divided it by six.
She knew the calculation wasn’t that simple.
People needed different amounts. Cooking used water. Illness could change everything.
But the number still made her uneasy.
Emily came into the pantry.
“What are you doing?”
“Counting.”
“Again?”
Claire didn’t look up.
“We checked on Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“How is she?”
“Her well pump isn’t working.”
Emily glanced at the water containers.
“Oh.”
“She doesn’t have much drinking water left.”
“How much?”
“Enough for today, she says.”
Emily leaned against the doorframe.
“Are we giving her some?”
Claire closed the notebook.
“That’s what we’re discussing.”
Emily looked toward the kitchen.
“Mom, I know we should help her.”
“But?”
“But what happens when someone else needs water?”
Claire said nothing.
“Or when our well stops working again?”
“We’ll have to manage.”
“With what?”
Claire looked at her daughter.
Emily’s eyes were tired.
She hadn’t been sleeping well.
None of them had.
“I don’t want Lily going without water because we gave ours away,” Emily said quietly.
“Neither do I.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
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Claire wished she knew.
They discussed it over supper.
Tom wanted to bring Margaret several gallons.
Eric suggested trying to find out whether the town’s water distribution had actually started.
Noah thought they should bring water immediately.
“She’s old,” he said.
“She’s also perfectly capable of telling us what she needs,” Claire replied.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.”
Noah pushed a potato around his plate.
“She’s still going to need water tomorrow.”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Tom said.
Emily looked at Eric.
“Could we get her well pump working?”
“Maybe, but not without checking the equipment and having the right setup. And we’d need to decide whether using generator fuel makes sense.”
“Could we bring water from somewhere else?” Noah asked.
“Not unless we know it’s safe to drink,” Claire said.
“What about the stream?”
“For washing, perhaps, depending on the use. Not for drinking without proper treatment.”
Noah nodded.
Lily looked up from her plate.
“Why doesn’t Mrs. Whitcomb have water?”
“Her electricity isn’t working,” Emily said.
“Can she come here?”
The adults exchanged glances.
“She has a warm house,” Claire said. “And food.”
“But she needs water.”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Lily considered that.
“We have water.”
Nobody answered.
Lily went back to eating.
Claire looked at Tom.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t need to.
After supper, Claire went outside.
The temperature had dropped.
A thin mist hung over the field.
The chickens were already inside their coop, and the yard was quiet except for the occasional creak of a branch.
Claire walked to the edge of the garden.
The beds were nearly finished for the season.
A few stubborn kale plants remained.
The rest had been harvested, dried, canned, frozen, or stored.
She had always taken pride in being prepared.
Not because she expected the world to fall apart.
Because Vermont winters could be difficult.
Because storms knocked out electricity.
Because money sometimes got tight.
Because it felt good to know there was food in the pantry and firewood stacked behind the shed.
Preparedness had always meant security.
Now she was beginning to understand that security came with decisions she’d never wanted to make.
The kitchen door opened.
Tom stepped onto the porch.
“Getting cold,” he said.
“I noticed.”
He came down the steps and joined her.
“Emily’s worried.”
“She has every right to be.”
“So do you.”
Claire looked toward the house.
Warm light glowed through the kitchen window.
For the moment, the electricity was working again.
She didn’t trust it to last.
“Do you remember the ice storm?” she asked.
“Which one?”
“The one when Margaret brought us that pot of soup.”
Tom smiled faintly.
“Your mother was staying with us.”
“And we had no power for four days.”
“Five.”
“Was it five?”
“Felt like ten.”
Claire folded her arms.
“Margaret walked all the way up here with that soup because she knew Mom wasn’t feeling well.”
“I remember.”
“She didn’t ask whether we had food.”
“No.”
“She just brought it.”
Tom waited.
Claire looked toward the dark road.
“Things were different then.”
“Some things were.”
“We knew the electricity would come back eventually.”
“We assumed it would.”
“And the stores were open in town. And we could get gasoline.”
“Yes.”
Claire took a breath.
“We can’t help everyone.”
“No,” Tom said.
“But we can help Margaret.”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
They brought two gallons of drinking water to Margaret’s house before dark.
Tom carried the containers.
Claire carried a small bag with a few apples and a loaf of bread she’d baked earlier in the week.
Margaret opened the door and stared at them.
“What’s all this?”
“Water,” Claire said.
“I can see that.”
“And a little food.”
Margaret frowned.
“I told you I have food.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you bringing bread?”
“Because I baked too much.”
Margaret looked at her.
Claire looked back.
After a moment, Margaret stepped aside.
“Well, I suppose you’d better come in.”
Tom placed the water on the kitchen counter.
Margaret examined the containers.
“That’s a lot.”
“It’s two gallons,” Claire said.
“I know how much two gallons is.”
“Then don’t argue.”
Margaret gave a short laugh.
For the first time that day, Claire felt something inside her loosen.
“Thank you,” Margaret said.
Her voice was quieter now.
Claire nodded.
“We’re going to check whether the town’s water distribution actually happened. If it did, we’ll find out how you can get some.”
“I don’t want you wasting gasoline on me.”
“We’re not planning to.”
“And don’t go giving away all your supplies.”
Claire hesitated.
“We won’t.”
Margaret looked at her carefully.
“You’re worried about that, aren’t you?”
Claire could have denied it.
Instead, she said, “Yes.”
Margaret nodded.
“Good.”
Claire frowned.
“Good?”
“Means you’re thinking.”
Margaret rested a hand on one of the water containers.
“But don’t let thinking keep you from doing what’s right.”
Claire didn’t know what to say.
Margaret smiled.
“That’s enough lecturing for one evening.”
It was nearly dark when they returned home.
Noah was waiting on the porch.
“Did you bring it?”
Tom nodded.
“Two gallons.”
“Good.”
Claire looked at him.
“You think that was enough?”
Noah shrugged.
“It’s more than she had.”
He went inside.
Claire stood still for a moment.
Tom touched her shoulder.
“Come on. It’s cold.”
Inside, Emily was putting Lily to bed.
Eric had the radio on.
A local station was broadcasting an update.
The signal was weak, but the announcer’s voice was clear enough.
“…the planned drinking-water distribution has been delayed. Officials are asking residents to conserve available safe water and check on vulnerable neighbors. A new distribution time will be announced when supplies are confirmed…”
Eric turned down the volume.
“That’s not good.”
“No,” Tom said.
Claire went to the kitchen table.
Her notebook was still open.
What we can do.
Underneath, she’d written:
Check on nearby neighbors.
She picked up her pen.
Then she added:
Two gallons to Margaret.
She stared at the words.
It seemed strange to record something that would once have been so ordinary.
But now everything mattered.
Every gallon.
Every trip.
Every decision.
Emily came downstairs.
“Did you give her water?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Two gallons.”
Emily nodded.
She didn’t look pleased.
But she didn’t argue.
Claire closed the notebook.
“We’re going to need a better system,” she said.
“For what?” Eric asked.
“Helping people.”
Tom looked at her.
“What kind of system?”
“One where we know who needs what. And who can actually help.”
“Like the town asked?”
“Not exactly.”
Claire sat down.
“I don’t want people showing up here because they think we’ve got unlimited supplies.”
Nobody disagreed.
“But I also don’t want Margaret sitting alone without drinking water while we’re up here arguing about it.”
Emily pulled out a chair.
“So what do we do?”
Claire looked at the notice Tom had brought home.
“We start with the people closest to us. Find out who’s all right. Find out who isn’t.”
“And then?” Emily asked.
“Then we figure out what we can do without putting ourselves in trouble.”
Eric nodded slowly.
“That makes sense.”
Claire wasn’t sure it did.
Not entirely.
But it was better than doing nothing.
Later that evening, Ben’s pickup came up the driveway.
Tom went outside to meet him.
Claire watched from the kitchen window.
The two men spoke beside the truck for several minutes.
Then Tom came back inside.
“What did he want?” Claire asked.
“He heard we’d been down to Margaret’s.”
Claire looked up.
“How?”
“She called him on the landline while it was working.”
“And?”
“He wanted to know if we’d heard anything about the water distribution.”
“We just heard it’s delayed.”
“I told him.”
Tom took off his coat.
“He’s going to check on the Millers tomorrow. Their place is farther down the road.”
“Good.”
“He also said something else.”
Claire waited.
“Apparently word’s getting around that we’re checking on people.”
She felt an immediate tightening in her stomach.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Did he ask for anything?”
“No.”
“Did he say anyone else needed help?”
“Not specifically.”
Claire looked toward the pantry.
Then back at Tom.
“We need to be careful.”
“I know.”
She sat down at the table.
The notebook lay in front of her.
For years, she’d written lists to make sure her family had enough.
Food.
Water.
Heat.
Fuel.
Medicine.
Now she had started a different list.
Names.
Neighbors.
Needs.
And she wasn’t sure where the line belonged between the two.
Tom sat across from her.
“Do you regret taking Margaret the water?”
Claire thought about it.
She remembered the nearly empty bottles on Margaret’s counter.
The bucket beside the woodstove.
The way the older woman’s voice had changed when she said thank you.
“No,” she said.
And she meant it.
But then she looked toward the pantry again.
“I just hope we can afford to keep making the right choices.”
Outside, the wind rattled the bare branches against the house.
Somewhere down the road, another family was probably counting what they had left.
And tomorrow, someone else might come knocking.
