Christmas with Tucker (12 page)

“What do you want me to do, Grandpa?”

“I want you to pull into every house you pass and clear their driveway for them. Most of the farmers have small driveway blades they pull behind their tractors, but with the maintainer you can do in two minutes what would take them all day. Next, get off and knock on the door; try to make sure everyone is getting along all right. Offer them anything they need from our supplies and try to collect back their extras in exchange, including empty milk bottles, so we can refill them.” He hesitated and looked up at me. “Can you do this, George?”

I hesitated for just a moment. Tired and unaccustomed to working so hard for so long, I needed a break. My grandmother’s words were still lodged in my mind. This was getting to be very hard work and still I couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t someone else who could do it better than me. It seemed
to me that my grandpa and I had to do all of the work for the entire county. While I wished my dad were here to help, I knew what he would tell me. It was our job to take care of the roads. It was our duty to help our neighbors.
Just climb back up on the maintainer, George, and clear the way
.

“I’ll do my best.”

“We need to move faster, George, before things get worse. I have a few tricks saved up for big storms. First, let’s bring up the blade and leave three inches of snow on the road. Cars can push through a few inches and we can move faster the less snow we have to push. You should be able to stay in third gear that way. Next, we’re going to clear one lane on all the major roads. We’ll come back and clear the other lane later.”

“That way the emergency trucks can at least get through?” I asked.

“That’s right. But here’s what you need to do. We’re creating a lot of one-lane roads. The problem is when two cars meet, no one is going to want to yield the right-of-way for fear of getting stuck. There will be problems.”

“So, what do we do?”

“First, I want you to ask everyone to stay off the roads for forty-eight hours and give us a chance to get both lanes cleared; essential and emergency driving only. Next, every quarter mile or so, you’ll need to back up and create a wide space, like a turnaround, where two cars can squeeze by each other.”

“I can do that.”

“You can follow a half mile or so of what I did last night and get a better idea of what I mean. George, there are two priorities today—things you have to do.”

“What?”

“First, you’ve got to get the road cleared into town so the fuel
truck can get out here and deliver us more diesel. We’ve got only a two-day supply left.”

“Okay. What else?”

“There’s insulin in the box for Mrs. Slater that I picked up from Dr. Richardson last night. She has to get it today. She could get real sick without it, maybe even die. Do you remember where she lives?”

“Crossing Trails Road.”

“That’s right.”

My grandmother handed me a bag lunch and a thermos. She kissed me and said, “Be careful, George.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I said these words as much to convince myself as to convince her.

On that cold December morning, I set out clearing the roads my grandfather had outlined on the map, stopping at each house along the way. My first stop would be the hardest of all. Frank Thorne’s house.

WITH THE MAINTAINER
in second gear, I pulled into the driveway. From the placement of the tire tracks in the snow, it looked like his truck was stuck. As my grandfather had requested, I graded his driveway, such as it was, parked the maintainer, and mustered my strength to knock again on that old front door to make sure Thorne was not in dire need of supplies.

Tucker immediately started barking, but I could tell it was not an anxious or cautionary bark. He knew it was me and was just excited. I knocked again, but still there was no answer.

I opened the door slightly and was greeted by Tucker trying to push through to the porch. Though I wasn’t an experienced dog owner, I recognized the whines of a canine that needed to get outside and do its business. After a moment he came running back to me and I opened the door again, letting him back into the house. He was jumping up and down excitedly. It seemed that he was missing me as much as I was missing him. I leaned in across the threshold. “Mr. Thorne, are you home?”

The house was dark and the morning light was not strong enough for me to see well. I pushed Tucker aside and stepped
in and gave my eyes another second to adjust to the dimness. I tried again. “Mr. Thorne, are you here?”

I heard a wheezing noise. By the door, there was a small table with a lamp on it. I found the knob and tried to switch it on. Thorne had lost power, too. The only light came from the dying fire in a potbellied stove.

Even in the shadows, I could tell the room was dirtier than it had been the last time I was there. Frank Thorne had not let Tucker out and the dog had left a mess or two of his own, which added to the stench. No wonder he’d been so desperate to get outside. On the sofa in the corner, not far from a window, Thorne looked up with a half-dazed stare. “What do you want, boy?”

I felt myself quiver.

“Go ahead, boy, spit it out.” He seemed impatient.

“Mr. Thorne, my grandfather asked me to stop by. I mean, I’m grading the roads. We’re taking shifts because of all the snow. I graded your driveway for you. He wanted me to stop in and make sure you were all right and see if you needed anything. I’ve got some extra milk and eggs, if you need any.”

He struggled into a sitting position. “I am too sick to eat a thing. Come over here, kid.”

As I approached, I realized how icy cold the room was, its only heat source the dwindling embers in the stove. No wonder he was sick. I tried to navigate around the mess on the floor. When I got closer, I could see that Thorne was trembling.

“I got that note of yours. So you want my dog?” His tone was scornful.

Of course I wanted Tucker, but I didn’t like the way he asked the question. “I think I could take real good care of him.”

“That dog is the only thing I got that is worth a plugged
nickel to me.” He looked around and waved his arms. “This ain’t no palace.” He called to Tucker. “Come here, Red.”

To my surprise, Tucker wagged his tail and went to Thorne’s side. The sick man ran his hands through his coat and talked to him affectionately. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

He looked up at me. “I tell you what, George; you drive that maintainer up to Wild Tom Turner’s place, on Blackberry Hill, and you tell him that old Frank Thorne is in a tight spot and needs two bottles of his best …” He hesitated and added, “Medicine. You bring that back to me and then we’ll talk about my dog.”

He pulled his blanket around him and said, “How ’bout that, kid?” He coughed and collapsed back into the sofa. He was definitely sick with something, but I wasn’t sure if this was the alcohol or something else.

“I’ll think about it,” I said quietly. I’d never heard of Wild Tom Turner or Blackberry Hill and I wondered if it was worth it.

“Don’t think too long, boy. While you are thinking about it, throw a couple of logs into that stove.”

I spotted some kindling and opened the stove door and tossed it in. It was not enough to make much difference. “Do you want me to bring in more wood?”

“Ain’t more, unless you’re going to chop it. You just bring me my medicine and old Frank Thorne can take care of himself.”

Having work to do and feeling uncomfortable, I turned to walk out. “Goodbye, Mr. Thorne.” However hard it was to leave Tucker behind, I was glad to be out of there. Bending down before opening the door, I pulled Tucker close to me and whispered, “One way or another, I’ll get you out of here.”

When I stood up and turned back around to face Thorne, I
couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the picture of my dad and Thorne. It still made no sense: the man I respected the most and the man I respected the least in the same picture.

I climbed back onto the maintainer and headed east. Having so much work to do helped to reduce the number of times a day I thought of running away with that dog.

All of our neighbors were grateful to see me, and they wanted me to come in and get warm, but I told them that I did not have time. They all wanted to know what they could do to help. I explained about the food and the staying off the roads, and they handed over any extra food or supplies they could spare—matches, bacon, flour, lanterns, and more.

I pulled into the Fisher driveway next. Hank Fisher knew everyone in the county. It occurred to me that he could confirm the suspicions I’d been trying to push to the back of my mind. “Mr. Fisher, do you know a man named Tom Turner who lives someplace called Blackberry Hill?”

He was quiet and looked at me in a perplexed way. “Now, tell me this, George, why do you need to know that?”

“Frank Thorne asked me to pick up some medicine from Mr. Turner and deliver it back to him.”

Hank Fisher rubbed his mustache like it itched something terrible. His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to make a decision. “George, I guess you’re old enough to know this, so I’ll tell you straight. Wild Tom Turner is a lot worse than Thorne. Stay away from him. Let Thorne run his own errands. The medicine that Thorne wants is alcohol.”

I figured as much. I knew this was not something I should do for Thorne. On the other hand, if he was going to drink anyway, maybe it wouldn’t hurt anything for me to help him out, particularly if doing so might bring Tucker back to me.

Doubting that Mr. Fisher understood my dilemma and what was at stake, I climbed back onto the maintainer and continued my work, trying as best I could to put Thorne’s demands out of my head.

A boy driving a maintainer loaded with food and supplies must have been a strange sight, but each house where I stopped held friendly and grateful people who somehow knew me even though I did not know them. Invariably, they asked about their neighbors and wanted to know if there was anything they could do to help me or anyone else.

As the day progressed, I was reminded that the citizens of Cherokee County were one of a kind—generous, compassionate, and self-sacrificing. I was proud to be one of them, and I knew it would be hard to leave this community—my community—behind. I pushed Minnesota out of my head again, as I had done so many times in the last few weeks, and wondered at the number of people who wanted to lend a hand to their neighbors. Many offered to take a turn on the maintainer, but I knew that things would have to get much worse before Grandpa would accept help from anyone who wasn’t a McCray.

Many folks, hardy as they were, seemed frightened by the extreme weather. For some, my grandfather and I were the only contact they had with the outside world that week. Whether friend or stranger, they all wanted news and information, but most of all they wanted Grandpa and me to know how much they appreciated what we were doing for them. Several commented that it was so quiet without television, radio, or phones and that all they had heard for days now was wind and snow blowing up against their windows—that, and the welcome sound of the giant maintainer in their driveway.

As I did my work, trying to properly grade the road, thoughts
of Thorne and his proposition turned over in my mind, though Mr. Fisher’s reaction gave me second thoughts. Still, what harm would it do if I got a couple of bottles for Thorne? If I didn’t, he would find someone else to get them for him. If I did, maybe I could get Tucker back.

On this, my third full day on the job, I worked straight through lunch, pulling off bits of my sandwich as I watched the road, and by 3:00 that afternoon, I was a little ahead of schedule.

If I went west six miles and two miles north to Crossing Trails, maybe I could get the road cleared for the dairy truck, but there was Mrs. Slater to worry about, so I decided not to risk it. She lived to the east, so I headed the maintainer in her direction, pushing snow out of the way as I went.

I had my eyes open, wondering if fate might put Tom Turner in my path. Like most people looking for trouble, I quickly learned that it is seldom hard to find.

There was no answer when I knocked on Mrs. Slater’s door, and I wondered if she was staying with neighbors. After knocking again and waiting, I circled around the house and tried to look in some windows. I could see Mrs. Slater, who lived alone, lying on her sofa. Considering the medicine more important than her nap, I rapped on the window. She stirred and turned her head to the noise but didn’t get up, so I rapped again. She looked confused.

I went around to the back door, which was unlocked. I stepped inside.

“Mrs. Slater. It’s George McCray. I have your medicine.”

“Please come here.” Her voice was weak, like she was sick.

I found Mrs. Slater perspiring despite the cold, and a little shaky.

“Do you have my insulin?”

Digging into my pocket, I gave her the small glass vials. “Yes, right here.”

“Thank goodness you made it. I was all out.”

After inoculating herself, she said she was feeling better. I went out to the maintainer and brought her back some milk and other groceries and promised that either my grandfather or I would look in on her again soon. She gave me a big hug and just would not stop thanking me.