“I can’t take another day of this, I swear,” Rose Wetzel said, to no one in particular. Her oldest child, Marty, the one whose red hair matched hers, was sitting at the kitchen table perusing the sports pages while he ate cold cereal.

“Ma, why don’t ya tell Dad to break down and buy an air conditioner?”

“That’ll be the day.” She brushed crumbs from the table into her hands. “Your father won’t budge.” She looked at the clock. “You better get moving, Marty. You’ll be late for work.” Marty, home from college, had a summer job in a shirt factory. He didn’t mind the heat so much, because his job allowed him to spend most of his time in the factory’s air-conditioned front office.

He looked at his mother, a trickle of sweat already forming on her temples. “I’ll talk to Dad tonight. It’s Friday, payday, right? He’ll be in a good mood.”  He hurried to the front door, passing his still sleeping younger siblings. The two boys, fourteen and sixteen, were stretched out on the floor.              

On really hot summer nights, James and Rose Wetzel would hang bedsheets to cover the doorways; one that led from the living room to the dining room and the other that led to the kitchen. Then, James would turn their three-speed fan up full blast. Rose slept on the couch, her long thin legs stretched out so that her feet touched the arm of the chair. Mr. Wetzel and the three boys took to the carpeted floor, sleeping on still more sheets that they placed over the carpet.

No one got much sleep on those nights. Even with the fan, the temperature was still hot enough to make everyone sweat. So much so, that their bodies stuck to the sheets. The only break came between four and six in the morning, when the air temperature dropped enough so that the fan was actually blowing cool air on them.

That Friday promised to be another scorcher, unusual even for July in northern New Jersey. Yet, the temperature had topped 100 degrees for the sixth day in a row. It was 1970, and, with the exception of the upscale suburban neighborhoods, not many homes were air conditioned.

Certainly James Wetzel, a hard-working, portly, accountant, supporting a wife and three children, wouldn’t dream of buying a window unit, let alone central air conditioning. “We have three boys to put through college,” he would point out. “It’s not just the cost of buying an air conditioner,” he said. “It costs money to run it. Adds up you know.”

Rose had had this conversation with her husband many times. “But, James, it’s sweltering in this house. I can’t even cook a decent meal for you and the boys.”

“We have the fan. That’s the best we can do right now.”

Rose, who grew up in Phoenix with her sister and widowed mother, hated hot weather. Perhaps, it was all those years living in a single wide trailer. Her mother used to buy a block of ice when she could get it. She’d throw it into a bathtub full of water and let her two girls soak until bedtime. During the early years of their marriage, when the weather got especially hot, she used to tease her husband, saying, “Bring home a block of ice tonight.”

She’d met James, 25 years ago, while he was stationed at an Army-Air Force base near Phoenix. He was from New Jersey. Sometimes Rose wondered if she’d married him just to get out of the oven that Phoenix was. He was a good husband and father, just frugal, sometimes to the point of distraction.

That afternoon she stood in front of the window fan; her face close to the blades. “I wish I had that block of ice right now,” she said aloud, her voice chopped by the whirling fan blades. She was certain she wouldn’t survive another night in that God-awful heat. She went into the bathroom and took a quick sponge bath. Then, after she put on a sundress and sandals, she opened her sock drawer and pulled out an envelope. She counted the tens and twenties she had secretly stored away for emergencies. She’d made a decision.

That night when James got home from work, she had a special supper ready for him, steak and mashed potatoes. She’d baked a peach pie too, which made the kitchen extra hot. Exactly what she’d planned. While the pie baked, she sat and watched the early news, sitting as close as possible to the fan. As soon as they sat down to eat, James said, “Wow, what’s this? It’s not Saturday night, is it?” He smiled, anticipating his first bite. Then he looked up, worried. “I didn’t forget our anniversary, did I?”

“No, silly, it’s next week,” Rose said. She was still wearing her sundress. She put generous portions of potatoes on each of the younger boys’ plates. Marty was late, perhaps overtime, she thought.  

“What’s the occasion then?” James asked. “You’re wearing a dress and perfume.”

“It’s Independence Day around this house.”

Before James could say anything, Marty walked through the front door. Out of breath, he barely made it to the kitchen without dropping the huge box he was carrying. “I know I’m a week early, but I got you guys an anniversary present.”

Mr. Wetzel, who wasn’t wearing his glasses, squinted at the lettering on the box. “What do you think you’re doing with that thing? Turn around and bring it back to the store, Marty.”

Marty put the box down on the floor. “Nope. We’re not spending another night trying to sleep in a sweat box, Dad. It’s Friday and I got paid today. We’re keeping it.”

“Who died and left you boss? We’re not keeping it. Some gift. The electric bill will send us to the poorhouse.”

Rose laughed. “Maybe we should start packing then.”

“This is no laughing matter, Rose. We can’t afford an air conditioner.” He turned to his son. “How much did that contraption set you back?”

“About a hundred bucks, but it’s worth it.”

“Worth it? How do you figure?” Mr. Wetzel asked.

Marty shrugged and shook his head as he sat down to eat. A father and son operating on different wavelengths.

Rose shook her head. “It is worth it James.” She stood up and gave Marty a peck on the check. She left the kitchen and walked into their bedroom. She was tearing up. She had a rule; never cry in front of the children. Her mother cried often and it never failed to frighten Rose.    

Mr. Wetzel jumped up and followed his wife into their bedroom. As soon as he opened the door, he saw a box similar to the one Marty had dropped on the kitchen floor. Rose used her apron to wipe a tear. “Happy anniversary, James.”

“What is this? Damn it, Rose, did you know Marty was buying an air conditioner, too?”

“Of course not. But I’m glad he did.”

“Why is that, if I may ask?” He was struggling with his composure now, not sure whether he wanted to escalate his rant about money, or laugh. Either way, he knew Rose. He was defeated.

“I bought this one so we could put it in the living room for the boys. I thought we’d move the fan into our bedroom. Now we can put an air conditioner in both rooms.”

James smiled. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. One of the things he loved best about Rose was her ability to reign in his dogmatic tendencies without raising her voice, or criticizing him, even when he deserved it. She was a strong woman. “A block of ice would have been cheaper,” he said. She kissed him. “Let’s eat dinner. The food is getting cold.” They laughed.

For the rest of that summer, the Wetzel family enjoyed sleeping in the cool air.