Snow Bound Page 3

  “Yes,” he said, following her as she backed out to the street, but the moment she was gone he went the opposite way. For the next hour he went over all the streets he’d covered already, without finding a trace of the dog. He was really cold now, stamping his feet and blowing on his fingers. Stubbornly he refused to give up the search. The longer it went on, the angrier he became. They hadn’t even waked Tony to ask him if he knew some place for the dog. No, they’d simply kicked the dumb mutt out into the night because he made a little noise and woke up the landlords. As if Tony cared about the Bielics, always worrying about their house. When Mr. Bielic came upstairs to collect the rent on the first of the month, he would look at the floors and the walls. A little crack in the plaster and he had a fit. “Oh, ho, what’s this, Mrs. Laporte!” He’d stretch his lips and shake his finger playfully, but he meant it. His precious house meant more to him than anything. More than a dog, for sure. And Tony’s father had fallen right in with him. Tony’s blood boiled every time he thought about it. His dog out in the snow, just because he’d made a little noise! What right did they have? It was his dog, nobody else’s. Hot rage swept over him. Rage at his parents. It was the dog, but it was more than the dog. He didn’t want to go home. He’d never go home. Once he let himself go, thinking this way, there was no bottom to the feeling of betrayal.

  He went back to the gas station. Frank was in the garage. “Is it cold!” Frank said. “Find your dog yet?” Tony shook his head.

  “Too bad.” Frank blew his nose in a red handkerchief. “Anyone who works on a day like this has gotta be crazy. Right, kid?”

  “Is my mother’s car ready yet?” Tony asked. “I thought I’d warm it up if it was ready. Have you got the key?” He watched Frank take his mother’s set of keys from the grease-stained key board behind the cash register.

  “Put them back when you’re done,” Frank said.

  Tony pocketed the keys and walked out to his mother’s car. He was too young for a junior license, but ever since he’d been old enough to reach the pedals, he’d been driving cars around empty shopping centers and in the country around his Uncle Leonard’s place.

  He slid in behind the wheel. The seat was like ice. He liked his mother’s car, especially the rounded, old-fashioned bumblebee look that cars had back in the late forties and early fifties. He preferred it to the new look-alike cars. The car started hard, sputtering and coughing, but once the engine caught, it idled down quietly, and quickly warmed up. Tony backed it to one of the gas pumps and filled the gas tank. He went inside and told Frank to charge it. Then, while Frank was busy with another customer, Tony got back into the car and drove out of the lot. He was past his house, turning right at Townsend before his heart quieted down.

  During the time he had been looking for Arthur, another plan had been forming in his mind. He had the car. For what they’d done, he’d give them something to worry about. He’d show them that they couldn’t push him around and get away with it.

  He turned off Townsend and down Sand Street into a more residential section. He was a little nervous at first. He’d never driven in the city before. Not that he had any doubts about his driving ability. He knew he was good.

  Without hesitation, he swung on to Interstate 81 leading north to Canada. His Uncle Leonard lived near Watertown. That was where he’d go. Uncle Leonard was his father’s youngest brother, a bachelor everyone in the family called Perry Como because he looked like the singer and liked to play golf. His uncle was always doing interesting things. He lived in a trailer and had a boat. Tony had been fishing and hunting with him many times, and he always had rod or gun ready for Tony when he came. His uncle would be glad to see him. Didn’t he always tease the family, telling them he’d take the boy to live with him any time they got tired of him? Well, now Tony was tired of them. After what they’d done to his dog, he didn’t want to live at home again.

  Tony began to feel really good for the first time. He felt bad whenever he remembered Arthur, but he was thinking of other things, too. Tony expected his uncle would bawl him out for driving without a license, but once he was there Uncle Leonard would have to be impressed with the perfect trip he’d made.

  Driving the car did something for Tony. He loved driving and became completely involved in the road and the feel of the car in his hands. The heater was throwing good heat, the radio was on, and he kept to a smooth, steady fifty-five miles an hour, keeping all the way to the right in case the troopers were out. He felt free and wide-awake, forgetting everything but the car and humming along with the radio. Even the snow that had begun to slide across the windshield like sand didn’t dampen his mood. It was a cold, dry snow, the kind that blew off the road as fast as it fell.

  Every once in a while Tony glanced sharply in the rearview mirror. When he was sure that nobody was behind him or coming toward him, he swerved suddenly from one lane to the other and then back to his own lane again. The car behaved perfectly. Tony slapped the wheel and whooped. He could do anything he wanted with this car. If only his friends could see and admire him. It brought to mind a daydream of his—rescuing someone from great danger. He’d thought of it more than once. Jumping into a car that was rolling out of control, a school bus, maybe … There’d be all these terrified kids in it. He’d know just what to do. Grab the wheel, turn off the ignition, pull out the emergency brake! He’d read about a boy on a school bus doing exactly that when the driver had a heart attack. This kid had brought the bus to a safe stop and saved about thirty lives. He was a real hero. Tony would do the same thing if he ever had the chance. He’d act decisively; he wouldn’t be the least bit afraid.

  Maybe someday he’d have a chance to do the same thing on a plane. What if there was a crazy hijacker who was holding the hostess and the pilots as prisoners. They had tried to disarm him, and he’d shot both pilots. Killed one, but the other, bleeding badly, was still conscious. Tony had seen that once on television. He imagined himself on that plane, this time with the hijacker dead (the pilot had shot him before he, himself, died) and everybody hysterical. Tony would come forward and coolly take the controls. The wounded pilot would tell him what to do, and he’d bring the plane down smooth as cream.

  Newspaper reporters would mob him, the TV cameramen shooting over the heads of the crowd. Probably the President would call him at home that night. “Tony? This is the President of the United States. I just want to tell you what we as a nation owe you for your bravery in the face of terrible danger. I want to say thank you for all the people of the United States. It’s citizens like you who—”

  Tony glanced at the instrument panel. He was going eighty miles an hour. He let up on the gas and again drove more carefully, keeping to his own lane. The traffic was light as he moved steadily northward. Between breaks in the music and advertising, the announcer kept giving snow warnings, telling people not to travel unless absolutely necessary.

  For some time the snow had been driving against the windshield, hammering the windows in an endless, hypnotic barrage. Tony was afraid that he’d forget the road or go too fast again. When a state trooper passed him, giving him a long look, he made a quick decision and turned off at the next exit to use the old state highway 11, which roughly paralleled the Interstate. He’d often heard his father comment that the troopers didn’t bother with Route 11 traffic now that they had the Interstate to patrol.

  He turned on the headlights and peered ahead, thinking of his uncle’s surprise when he saw him. He passed the hitchhiker before he registered what he was seeing—a muffled figure on the road’s shoulder. It was a rotten time for any guy to be on the road. Tony stopped, shoved the shift into reverse, and backed up, blasting the horn.

  The hitchhiker pulled open the door and slid into the front seat, bringing in bundles and blowing snow. Tony nodded to him as he shifted into first and started forward again. The hitchhiker pulled down the collar of his jacket and brushed snow off his arms and shoulders. He took his mittens off and kneaded his fingers in front of the
warm air blasting in from the heater. Then for the first time he spoke. “Hi. I’m Cindy Reichert. What’s your name?”

  4

  CINDY TAKES THE WHEEL

  The minute Cindy was in the car and warming up she started talking. A regular talking jag. She was that glad to be inside after being out in that snow. With the falling snow piling up on her shoulders and hair, creeping up over her boots, she’d begun to imagine herself buried under a mountain of snow. She’d still be standing there next spring, to be discovered when her frozen head slowly emerged from the thawing snow. Yes, she was glad to be inside! That little heater in the car threw the warmest warmth she’d ever felt. This was probably the nicest car she’d ever been in. She sat back and patted the cushions. “This car is old, but really beautiful,” she said to the boy driving. “You must be happy driving this car.”

  “You’re going to Malone?” he said. He’d already asked her once. She nodded. “Well, I’ll take you as far as Watertown, even though it’s out of my way.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  He glanced at her. “You’re lucky I picked you up. A lot of people don’t pick up hitchhikers. Especially girls.”

  “I know and I appreciate.” Cindy was being rapidly cooled off by his manner.

  “I can’t see girls hitching. How come you’re hitching anyway? Your parents mustn’t care much for you. My father would whip my sisters good if he ever caught them doing that.”

  “My father doesn’t whip me, and he doesn’t know I’m hitching. This is my own idea,” she replied coolly. The thought of her father whipping her was ludicrous. What sort of family did this boy come from?

  “You must be really stupid,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you very much!” Her luck hadn’t changed at all. He was like that boy in the bus station—one of those good-looking, egotistical boys who thought they could say anything to a girl and get away with it. Probably spoiled rotten by his good looks. The excitement, the gladness she’d felt on finally getting a ride—all of it was gone now.

  The car tunneled through the snow, the headlights illuminating snow and more snow piling up on the road, on fences, bushes, and fields. She really had the worst luck when it came to hitching. First the teacher pervert, and now this conceited know-it-all. It was enough to make her swear off hitching forever.

  She reached into her denim bag and got out one of the chocolate bars she’d bought at the bus station. She pulled off the paper. “That smells good,” he said. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

  She shared the chocolate bars and the bag of Fritos with him. He finished the Fritos, tipping the bag up to catch the last crumbs before handing her the empty cellophane wrapper. “Thanks,” he said. The feeling in the car was a little more companionable after that. He didn’t seem as obnoxious. He told her his name was Tony.

  “You really haven’t eaten anything else, Tony?” she said. “Why don’t we stop?” She pointed to a diner at the edge of the road, its neon sign casting a pink glow in the snow-filled air. “Let me buy, to pay for the ride.”

  “Anything I want?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “You don’t have enough money to pay for what I could eat.”

  “I’ll take a chance,” she said.

  The parking lot was half full of cars and trucks. Tony ran ahead to the diner. When Cindy caught up to him he was standing outside the door, peering in through the steamy windows. Cindy looked in over his shoulder. The diner was crowded. A plump waitress in a white uniform with a lacy handkerchief pinned above her breast pocket was talking to a couple of troopers in gray pants and gray jackets. They were hunched over the counter, and their wide black belts and the guns in their leather holsters were plainly visible.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” Cindy said. “It’s cold out here.” She opened the door, feeling the diner’s heat on her face. One of the troopers turned and looked at them.

  “It’s too jammed in there,” Tony said abruptly. He pushed her aside and ran back to the car. He was going without her! She ran after him, getting snow down her boots. She was barely in the car before he had it on the road again, going so fast he was skidding and sliding across the road.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Why’d you run like that? Is that some kind of trick? I thought you were hungry!”

  “I changed my mind, okay? Bug off. You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice! My stuff was in the car.”

  “You want out?” he said.

  “Out where?” The diner had disappeared behind them. Around them there was nothing but the bleakness of the road. Cindy didn’t know what to think about this boy now. Friendly one minute, hostile the next. Had he been scared of the troopers? She glanced over at him. Was he too young to be driving? How old did you have to be to drive in New York State? Looking at him again, she didn’t think he was old enough to have a license in any state.

  “You’re too young to have a driving license, aren’t you?” she said. “Do you even have a learner’s permit?”

  “What are you afraid of? I can drive.”

  So she was right. “You shouldn’t be driving without a license.” Something else occurred to her. “Did you steal this car?”

  “Steal it!” His voice shot up. “It’s my mother’s. Listen …” He began talking excitedly about a dog he’d found that his family wouldn’t let him keep, and how he took the car and wasn’t going home again. All this at the top of his lungs.

  “All right,” she said, “don’t get excited, watch the road. I don’t want to end up in a ditch.” She rubbed the fog off the inside of the windshield with her hand. She was sure now that he was too young, even younger than she was. It had been a mistake getting into this car, but then hitching today had turned out to be one mistake after another. She promised herself that as soon as they got to someplace civilized she was getting out and not hitching again, even if she had to call her father to come and get her.

  The driving was getting really bad. Gusts of snow flew into the windshield, making it impossible at times to see anything. Tony sat forward on the edge of his seat, peering ahead, both hands gripping the wheel. Cindy was doing the same, wiping his windshield when it fogged over, being careful not to say anything to distract him or start him yelling again.

  A snowplow, huge and ghostly, lurched toward them, red lights flashing, spattering the car with a barrage of sand and salt as it passed. Ahead, a long line of cars were piled up behind another snowplow which was slowly clearing the road. They were crawling along, and it made Tony impatient. He hit the wheel.

  “We’ll never get anywhere this way!” Suddenly he turned sharply off the highway and down a side road.

  “What are you doing?” Cindy asked. “Where are you going?”

  “Taking a short cut. You want to get to Watertown, don’t you?”

  “A short cut. What do you mean by that? You didn’t tell me anything about a short cut. What was wrong with the road we were on?”

  He didn’t reply. He was leaning forward concentrating on his driving. “In a few miles, watch out for a little white building with a green tin roof. That used to be a country school. Once we see that, we turn right; and then we only have to go over a hill and down over two bridges and turn left, and then turn right again. That’s Little Black Creek Road, and we’ll be heading straight into Watertown.”

  “You made it all up,” Cindy said. It sounded so unreal to her, like something out of a fairy tale. “I don’t like this,” she said uneasily.

  “You want to get to the bus station, don’t you? That’s what you want, isn’t it? So just let me do the driving.”

  The bus station. What she wouldn’t have given to be there! She thought of its crowded, steamy warmth, the candy machines and phones. But what was the use of thinking of it? She sat back, telling herself it would only be a little longer. “As long as you know where you are,” she said.

  “I know this country lik
e the back of my hand,” he boasted. He told her that he, his father, and his Uncle Leonard had hunted rabbit, pheasant, and deer all through these hills. He was going to his uncle’s as soon as he dropped her at the bus station. “I’m going to live with my uncle from now on,” he said.

  “Okay,” Cindy said. “Fine. I understand.” She didn’t want him to talk. She wanted him to concentrate on his driving. The wind was buffeting the car, and there were times when they couldn’t see the road. Ever since he’d turned off the main highway, Cindy had begun to feel that theirs was the only car on the road. They seemed to be the only people crazy enough to drive in such weather. Once she grabbed his arm because she thought he was going off the road. “You’re on the wrong side!”

  He jerked his arm away. “I saw it. You don’t have to worry. I’m doing it on purpose. Riding the center.” A little later he said they’d passed the schoolhouse and had turned right, going over the hill. “Keep a lookout for the first bridge,” he ordered.

  She didn’t see any of the things he was talking about. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, but her heart was in her mouth. The wind was driving snow in great sheets, piling drifts across the road so high that at times Tony had to weave to one side and then the other to keep going ahead. On Cindy’s side of the car the land dropped away like the side of a cliff. She sat tensely on the edge of her seat, unable to speak. The car was fishtailing down the hill.

  “There’s a bridge at the foot,” he said. “The one I told you about.”