Snow Bound Read online

  “Here, let me,” she said. She took the matches and drew one over the abrasive surface. Nothing happened. She struck match after match, but not one of them caught. A lump came into her throat. She wanted that fire as she had never wanted anything in her life. She gathered up the broken matches. Tony was biting his nails. “God,” he said. Then their eyes met and almost in unison, they exclaimed, “The cigarette lighter!”

  “The lighter works on batteries, and the batteries are still okay,” he said. They had just been running the radio. He pushed the lighter in, then they waited breathlessly until it popped. Tony took it out at once. It was glowing a beautiful, hot orange.

  “Wait a sec.” Cindy held one of the matches to the glowing coil. The match caught; it was like magic. She held the match to the paper twists. The fire flared in the oil can, yellow, acrid, smoky, but with a little glow of heat that sent them both huddling close. They had made a fire.

  9

  ISLAND IN THE SNOW

  Cindy took a tin box out of her carry-all and shook it. “And now supper,” she said. Tony had seen the tin before, but thought it contained some kind of personal stuff, maybe a sewing kit. It sounded like buttons. Cindy carefully pried open the cover, revealing mounds of chocolate chip cookies.

  Tony’s mouth watered. “Cookies! You had them all the time, didn’t you? And I’ve been starving. I bet you’ve been sneaking them!”

  “I haven’t touched them!” Cindy’s eyes became flinty and she pushed his arm away. “We’re sharing. We’re going to make these cookies last.” She pushed them into little piles, counting. “There are forty-eight cookies. Twenty-four for you, twenty-four for me. Six each tonight, six each tomorrow night.”

  “That only makes twenty-four,” Tony said.

  “I’m making provision for two breakfasts, just to be on the safe side. Six tonight, six tomorrow morning, six tommorow night, six the next morning—”

  “What are you, a computer,” he yelled. He pushed her hand away and dug into the cookies.

  “How many did you take?” Cindy cried. “Eight! Then you have sixteen left, that’s all. If you want to be a pig …” She took four cookies, clamped the cover shut, and put the box on her side away from him. “We should be sharing everything,” she said. “Fifty-fifty. Helping each other. That’s why I saved the cookies. If I hadn’t we wouldn’t have anything now.”

  “Don’t give me any of your speeches,” he muttered. Always preaching. The lady preacher. It was hard for him not to feel guilty. But he wasn’t surrendering the cookies.

  He was starved. In an agony of desire he immediately shoved two of the sweet-tasting rounds into his mouth. Down they went, soft, sweet, and dark. Nothing had ever tasted so good. He tried to make the other six last a little longer, but he couldn’t stop himself from gobbling every one. When he had none left, Cindy was still nibbling at her second cookie. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the way she took a tiny little bite, her mouth and throat working slowly, then another tiny little bite. It was driving him crazy.

  “What are you looking at?” she said, catching him watching her.

  “Nothing.” He turned and cracked open the window on top to clear some of the smoke. Then he lifted the back seat again and hauled in the rest of the newspapers. Under the pile he discovered half a dried up peanut butter sandwich. He pocketed it stealthily.

  They took turns warming their hands and feet over the fire. The smoke made their eyes water and often sent them into fits of coughing. They both worked at twisting the newspaper into tight spirals. The fire had to be fed continually. They’d soon need wood. Through the window Tony could see the dark line of trees at the edge of the field. He’d get wood if this damn snow ever stopped.

  From time to time he broke off bits of the peanut butter sandwich in his pocket and sneaked them into his mouth. He was hollow, hungrier than she was. She was chubby, didn’t need food as much as he did. He had to eat. The bread was gritty, hard, and tasteless, but along with the cookies it began to fill the aching emptiness inside him.

  They crouched over the fire, watching the ice thicken on the inside of the window. Outside, the snow fell relentlessly. The wind shook the car. The fire took the chill off the interior—but barely. From time to time Tony rubbed his arms or legs. Cindy had her feet wrapped inside the green Army bag and she offered to share foot room with him. “It really helps,” she said. His impulse was to refuse, to say he was just fine the way he was, but his feet had been stone cold ever since the engine stopped.

  So they sat close together, their feet in the sack, the blanket over their shoulders. Tony despised sitting cramped this way, so near her, but he was warmer. Already he could feel some of the cold and stiffness leaving his arms and legs. Only his face felt the nip of the cold. He could smell her hair and the lip gloss she had smeared over her face to protect it from the cold.

  He thought of his mother. When he was little, he and his sisters used to get into bed between his mother and his father. Tony would usually be on his father’s side, but sometimes he’d be next to his mother. He could smell her warm skin, feel her softness. She’d wrap him in her arms and rub her cheek next to his, kissing his neck till he couldn’t stop giggling.

  Time passed slowly. Tony eyed the cookie tin on Cindy’s side. Her socks dangled from the dashboard over the oil can fire, slowly steaming dry. His boots were tipped up near hers on the floor. When he moved, she warned him not to hit her feet.

  “You think your feet hurt,” he said. “I went hunting with my father last fall and I thought my feet were coming off. Man! My father and my Uncle Leonard, they’re so crazy for hunting they wouldn’t go back to the car to warm up for nothing! So I couldn’t go back. We were out for geese. It was raining and cold. I mean cold! We drove up somewhere around here and went into this farmer’s cut-down corn field; and just as we were walking into the field, a whole flock of these Canadian geese went honking up in the air. My father and my uncle were knocking off their shots, going crazy, shooting as fast as they could. The geese were screaming and honking and flapping around. Most of them flew off, but a couple of dumb clucks kept circling us. They didn’t have brains enough to get away.”

  “And you killed them?” she said.

  “Of course we killed them. That was the point. We gave them to this guy Fred Fields, because he has a freezer, and my mother can’t stand cleaning birds. Mrs. Fields said she’d make a roast goose dinner for everyone this winter. She hasn’t done it yet. Man, I’d like some of that goose right now.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cindy said. “Why would anyone want to kill animals or birds? Animals are so beautiful and perfect in themselves. They don’t harm anyone. Not geese. Maybe some of them are a little nuisance to the farmer, but they do good too, eating bugs and things. Why do you torment them? Why can’t you let them live in peace.”

  “You like to eat, don’t you?” he said scornfully. Men had always been hunters, right from the beginning, while women had stayed home. She could never understand the feeling of getting up before dawn, dressing quickly, gulping scalding coffee, being jammed in the station wagon with his father and the other men. The rough jokes, the heft of the gun in his hands, the sack of sandwiches they shared, and the thermos of hot, sweetened coffee, and then the thrill and scariness of the geese flying up, honking so madly in a frenzy to escape. Man, that was living!

  Dusk fell, and with it the wind died down completely. For long periods they were quiet, listening. The only noise was a crow in the distance, sounding like a rusty door hinge.

  When the snow stopped falling they both became aware of it at almost the same moment “It’s stopped,” Cindy said. “It’s really stopped!”

  Tony whooped. “Only one more night! Tomorrow we’re going to be out of here.”

  Cindy looked over at him with an expression of joy on her face.

  “It’ll be like a bad dream,” she said.

  10

  WHERE WERE THE PEOPLE?

  In the fading li
ght a crow appeared, black and feathered, its ragged wings blotting the evening sky. “He’s beautiful,” Cindy said.

  “They’ll be coming now,” Tony said. “Now that the snow has stopped, someone will come looking for us. By morning, sure.” His breath came in little white spurts.

  “Smoke signals,” Cindy said, making her breath puff the same way. “Frozen words. Maybe somebody will see them, like secret messengers. Did you ever wonder, Tony, what happens to the words you speak? Where do they go after you say them? If you could know how they travel, you could direct them to anyone in the world. Hello out there, world! We’re here! Come and get us!”

  Her voice echoed off the dark hills. Both of them listened intently for an answering sound. “Yell again,” Tony said excitedly. “I think I hear something.”

  They called together. “Hell-ooooo out there! Hello-oooo!” Each time, Cindy told herself that this time somebody would hear them. They called until it grew dark and their voices were hoarse. They kept the window open longer than they should have.

  “This is futile,” Cindy said, shivering. Tony rolled up the window, leaving it open a crack on top. It seemed incredible that nobody answered. Where were the people? Even though they had such high hopes for the next day, the prospect of another night in the car was depressing. They talked about the problems of keeping the fire alive through the night. If they both fell asleep, it would certainly go out. And how long would their paper fuel last? Already they were using the last of the newspaper for their miniature logs, which burned up shockingly fast. Cindy said if it came to that, she’d gladly burn her books. “My geometry book first.”

  “I’m going out and see if I can find some wood,” Tony said.

  “In the dark?”

  “You ought to get out of this car, too,” he said. “You’ve got to move, keep your circulation going.”

  “How can I, with my feet this way?” She could barely put her weight on them.

  “Don’t you even have to answer nature’s call?” he said.

  “I have the constitution of a camel.”

  Tony rolled down the back window on his side and rolled out of the car, head first. She watched as he made a path through the snow, until he disappeared against the darkness of the woods. Despite the cold, she kept the window wide open, listening for the sound of snapping wood. Not seeing Tony, she felt uneasy. “Tony? You okay?” she called.

  He returned carrying an armful of dead branches that he pushed through the back window. “I’m going for evergreens now,” he said. “For bedding.”

  This time when he returned with his arms loaded, he pushed the fragrant green boughs into the front on her side. Then he climbed back into the car himself. “I’m frozen.” He peeled off his gloves to warm his hands around the fire can. “The fire’s out!” he said indignantly. “You were supposed to keep it going.”

  She’d completely forgotten the fire. “Tony, your hands … I’m sorry!” It was a terrible thing to do. Hurriedly she pushed in the cigarette lighter. Tony held his hands around the can, then stuck his fingers into the ashes.

  “Cold,” he said, and threw the ashes into the snow.

  Cindy tore a piece of paper out of her geometry book and twisted it tightly. “The sum of the square of the hypotenuse …” Tony stared at her balefully. “Only being cheerful,” she said. “Adding a little gaiety to the proceedings.” His disgusted look made her feel like an idiot. She concentrated on the cigarette lighter. The paper smoldered against the orange coils. It was damp, but it finally flared up.

  “That battery isn’t going to last forever,” Tony said.

  Cindy fed in twigs, and the fire smoldered. The wood was wet and greasy. “This wood’s not very good.” She bent over the can, blowing gently on the fire. Her hands were cupped around the edge, feeding pages torn from her book. “We need a knife to cut shavings. Shavings would take.”

  Tony tried shredding a branch with the beer can opener. The nail file Cindy offered him worked a little better. “We’ll get it going now,” she said. She laid twigs across the top of the can to dry out, and worked on peeling another branch with her fingers. She held up her stumpy nails. “Now I wish I had sharp fingernails.”

  After a while they had a small pile of wood chips and slivers of bark, but when she put them on the burning paper the fire still sputtered weakly. “Don’t go out, don’t go out,” she whispered. “You can have my English book, whatever you want, beautiful fire. Stay with us, please little fire.” At Tony’s astonished look, she said, “I’m praying to the spirit of the fire.”

  “You take the prize. You better watch out, or the little men from the funny farm will come to take you away.”

  “Don’t you have any reverence? Any religious feeling?” She blew on the fire. It was taking now.

  “For a fire!”

  “Yes, for a fire. Why not for a fire? It means life, doesn’t it? The sun is fire. Without it, where would we be? I mean human beings, and all life on earth.”

  “You’re way too deep for me,” he said sarcastically.

  When the fire was burning, they arranged themselves in the front seat for sleeping. First they spread the evergreens like a carpet on the floor. The greens smelled wonderful and kept out some of the cold. Then they put their feet into the Army bag again. Cindy’s were still terribly tender and achy, and she warned Tony not to jar them.

  “You told me a million times already,” he said.

  Sitting side by side, they pulled the blanket around behind them and brought it around to meet in front, where, with a safety pin Cindy had found in her jacket, she pinned it together like a shawl.

  It was dark inside the car. The long night stretched before them. Only the tiny fire under their feet gave off a shadowy yellow light. Neither of them slept. They were too uncomfortable. “We ought to talk about things,” she said. “Get our minds off ourselves. Do you have a girl friend?” Tony shook his head. “I bet girls like you. You know, you’re very handsome. No, you really are. I go to school with a boy who looks something like you. He’s Italian, too—do you mind my mentioning your ethnic origins?”

  “Why don’t you stop trying to impress me?” he said. “All those five-dollar words. What’s wrong with saying things plain?”

  She didn’t think she was being artificial or offensive. “That’s just the way I talk,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Stiff, she thought to herself. She sounded stiff as ice. Why couldn’t she say things easily and naturally, the way she felt.

  “Tony,” she whispered a little later. “Are you sleeping?”

  He grunted and bent forward to feed the fire. Every time he moved she had to move, too. “I can’t sleep,” she said. “Do you want me to read your palm?”

  “I don’t believe in that junk.”

  “It’s just something to do to pass the time.” She took his hand and held it close to the light of the fire. “Look at the lines. What do you see?”

  “I see the number forty-one backward on my right hand, and forward on my left. What does that mean?”

  “That’s not the way you do it.” She showed him the mounts under each finger: Jupiter for ambition under his index finger, Saturn for seriousness under his middle finger, then Apollo for brilliance, and Mercury for practicality.

  “Where’d you learn that?” he said.

  “I was reading a book.” She showed him the Mount of Venus at the base of his thumb. “That’s your love mount.”

  “Stupid,” he said, but he was interested as she showed him his head line, his heart line, and his lifeline running from the base of his wrist to just under his first finger. “What does this stuff mean? What does it show?”

  “You’re going to have a long life,” she told him, “and several unhappy love affairs.”

  He pulled his hand away. “Gripes, what baloney.” But a moment later she saw him studying his palm. “Too bad you can’t tell when we’re getting out of this mess,” he said. “Then your fortune telling would be worth so
mething.”

  11

  THE HELICOPTER

  When he was sure that Cindy was finally asleep. Tony moved stealthily, unpinning the blanket, and reaching over her to lift her denim carry-all to his side. “Quiet,” he told himself, “quiet as a cat.” He got out the cookie tin and slowly pried off the cover. Saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth. Crazy, her holding the cookies out on him, he thought. And him so hungry he could eat a horse.

  He took a handful of cookies, not counting, telling himself they were his, anyway. Easing the cover back, he put the tin into the denim bag, which he placed back on Cindy’s other side, and then he pinned the blanket together with a smile of satisfaction. He ate the cookies one at a time, slowly now, having learned that from her, letting the taste collect in the back of his mouth, then slide smoothly down his throat.

  The next morning Tony heard a noise and woke up immediately. He’d been dreaming about his father showing him the moisture under the distributor cap. “That’s the reason the car wouldn’t start,” his father said. Tony awoke hearing engines in his head. Was the car engine running?

  Outside, he heard the clatter of an engine cutting the air. The next moment he had kicked free of the blanket and was rolling out the back window with Cindy just coming awake behind him, crying, “What is—What? What’s happened?”

  “It’s a helicopter,” he yelled, and he stumbled, fell in the snow, picked himself up, ran toward the sound waving his arms, yelling, “Here! Here! Here we are!” looking toward the sky, yelling hoarsely, dimly aware of Cindy behind him with the car window rolled down, crying, “Help us. Oh, please help us, please, pleas …”

  But already the sound was disappearing, the clatter of the engine receding and echoing over the hill. “I never even saw it,” Cindy said. “I only heard the motor I never even saw it.”

  Tony waited outside, stomping his feet, praying the helicopter would circle back, listening for the clacking, clapping noise. He searched the sky until his eyes watered, but there was nothing. The aircraft had disappeared. No noise, only the raucous cries of blue jays calling to each other in the woods. He felt sick with disappointment.