Outside, the
storm showed no sign of letting up.
Snow
covered the ground now, and clung to the bare tree branches.
Already the line between lawn and driveway
had disappeared.
The dull gray daylight
barely penetrated the frosted panes of the back porch windows.
She switched on the light as she went for
more firewood, welcoming the warm yellow glow in the coldness.
Through the swirling curtain of snow, not a
shadow of the surrounding valley could be seen.
The house seemed to float in a cloud of white, disconnected from the
fields and the woods.
She imagined she
might be the only creature stirring for miles, and shivered with pleasure at
the sense of solitude.
Her reverie was
interrupted when the lights blinked off, then quickly on again.
Any time, she knew, she could find herself
without the warmth of the furnace, or the comfort of lamplight.
After depositing her load near the hearth,
she headed back to the kitchen, determined to have a hot meal while she still
could.
Craving a thick, juicy hamburger,
she settled for a sandwich of fried ham and melted cheese, promising herself
that ham would be off the menu for the next month, at least.
Eager to enjoy
the festive atmosphere, before the storm deprived her of the colored lights and
holiday music, she gave in to the temptation to curl on the couch and relax for
the next few hours.
Wrapped in a quilt,
the sound of English carolers filling the room, she thumbed through an old seed
catalog she'd discovered under Pop's chair.
It was like looking through a picture album of old friends.
Luscious red tomatoes, golden crook-necked
squash and deep purple eggplant, all so familiar she could almost feel them in
her hands.
Her father had tried his hand
at several areas of farming, he said, but his only talent seemed to lie in
growing vegetables.
During her childhood
and adolescence, his garden had provided produce to the market in town, as well
as several others around the county.
She’d spent many summer mornings and evenings following him down the
rows, first planting, then weeding, tying up trailing vines, turning fruit as
it grew, and finally picking each tomato, cucumber or bean at just the moment
of ripeness.
Several afternoons a week
were spent loading and transporting the carefully packed harvest, borne into
town in the bed of Pop's rattling blue pickup truck with the name of Valley
Rise Farm proudly displayed on the side.
Emily had
enjoyed the sense of importance as they drew up to each storefront and the
proprietor came out to choose from the baskets lining the truck bed.
She had worked hard and been rewarded for her
labor at the end of each month during the season with an envelope of cash, her
percentage of the profits.
Maybe, she
thought, drowsily leafing through the catalog, she might try to bring the
garden back to life someday.
She must have
drifted off in the warmth, before a sudden sound entered her vivid dream.
She had been standing outside the barn door,
her father beside her.
They had just put
Stubby the mule back in his stall after the first spring plowing.
He had accepted his rubdown and box of fresh
feed with docile gratitude.
Now they
waited, eyes twinkling, for the inevitable clatter of his hooves on the stall
door, his one-two salute, as if he wished to remind them that he had not been
totally reduced to such menial servitude.
He still had his mulish pride.
Laughing together, she and Pop had started walking back to the house,
arm in arm.
Sitting up
slowly, she realized it had been the thump of the seed catalog falling to the
floor that had startled her awake.
She
was stiff and chilled, and a glance around the room told her she was without
the light from the lamps.
The Christmas
bulbs on the mantel were dark.
The storm
had finally taken down the power lines.
Stirring the
fire, then lighting the oil lamp on the table, she saw the room begin to cheer,
but she shrugged on an extra sweater against the chill.
Her watch told her it was only a little past
one.
She must have dozed just long
enough to dream.
Poor Stubby, short for
Stubborn, had gone to live on a farm across the valley after Pop's stroke.
She wondered how he had fared with his new
family, which she recalled included several young children.
Did they ride on his broad back, swaying
behind his bobbing head as he pulled the plow through the hard ground each
spring?
She hoped they loved him as she
had.
Despite the mildly disgruntled air
he assumed, she believed he had enjoyed her attentions, as well as the service
he provided for them.
Would he remember
her if she went to visit him?
She was
considering such a visit when spring came, as she went to the porch for more
wood.
Through the frost-rimmed
window, she saw that the snowfall had slowed, though the wind still whipped the
tree limbs and spun little white cyclones across the yard.
Beyond the barn, just where the land dropped
away to the hillside, a moving shadow caught her eye.
A deer, or maybe a cow, strayed and lost in the
storm?
Stepping to the door for a closer
look, she tried to focus past the blowing snow.
The shadow moved steadily upward over the rise, until she saw what could
only be a human figure, trudging slowly in the general direction of the
house.
Head down, swaying slightly, as
if unbalanced by the force of the wind, he—or at least she thought it must be a
man—was dressed all in black, the windward side of his long overcoat etched
with white, and his bared head capped with snow.
There seemed to be something odd about his
stance, and then she realized one arm was crossed over his body, as if bracing
the other to his side.
In what must have
been only a few seconds, she tried to assess his size—not very tall; his
possible intent—obviously seeking shelter; and where he could have come
from.
He had to be coming from the road
below, but why would anyone have walked up a steep wooded hillside in a
blistering storm?
As she watched,
scarcely drawing breath, it seemed he raised his head and gazed for a moment
toward the house.
Then in a slow,
graceful spiral, he sank to the ground, disappearing into the snow.
If she had not been watching his progress
across the yard, she realized she would never have seen him from the house,
once he’d fallen.
Blinking, she wondered
for an instant if she might have only imagined him, if he had been a mirage in
the featureless white of the landscape.
But the pounding of her pulse told her otherwise.
Propelled by
some force outside herself, Emily bolted out the door.
Instantly, her loafers filled with snow, and
she struggled to make any speed to where he had fallen.
When she finally stood over him, blinking
snowflakes from her lashes, she faltered.
With a gasp that seemed to expel any remaining air from her lungs, she
froze, gazing down in horror.
He was
dead.
His skin was colorless, his lips
blue.
Blood smeared his left cheek and
matted his hair.
A dark, shiny stain
streaked the front of his overcoat.
For what seemed
an eternity, she hovered over the sprawled body, watching for any sign of life,
a hint of breath, any movement at all.
She was afraid to touch him, to confirm that he had indeed died right
before her eyes.
Then, just as suddenly
as she had launched from the house, she dropped to her knees in the snow.
Her fingers searched just under his jaw for a
pulse, finally detecting the surprisingly strong throb.
Scooping snow in her bare hand, she gently
touched it to his face.
“Can you hear
me?
Oh, please hear me!
You're going to be okay.
Just let me know you can hear me!”
She stopped herself.
She was babbling.
Trying again, she said firmly, “Open your
eyes!”
Mesmerized, she
watched as his lids fluttered, the faintest sweep of his lashes, and then his
lips parted.
In what was little more
than a breath, she heard the word “Light.”
Then once again his features relaxed into what could have been a death
mask.
She waited for more, trying to
pray but too stunned to form any coherent phrasing.
Snowflakes stung her bare skin, and at last
she grasped the fact that she was kneeling in the snow watching for some sign
of life while in truth his life might be slipping away.
Struggling to
her feet, she told him breathlessly, “You're going to be okay.
I'll be right back,” and turned toward the
house.
Her progress up the hill was
painfully slow, yet she felt as if she were flying.
Rapid thoughts formed a plan of action,
thoughts that seemed to come from a knowledge she hadn't known she
possessed.
She could see clearly in her
mind just what she needed to do.
Without
hesitation, she raced through the house, straight to the guest room, where she
pulled the white coverlet from the bed.
It was light, but strong.
It
could work.
Dashing back to the porch,
she stopped long enough to hunch into her coat.
Her knitted muffler fell to the floor, and she grabbed it up as she ran
out the door.
By now her feet
were numb with cold, and she stumbled in her rush down the hill.
She would have to take care not to hurt
herself, she warned.
She had to be fit
to care for him.
He was her
responsibility now.
She had to do
everything in her power to keep him alive until help came, however long that
might be.
Trying to calm
herself as she came closer, she braced for the possibility that he had died
during the minutes she'd been gone.
Kneeling again, she touched his face with her icy fingers, and was
rewarded with the faintest grimace.
“I'm going to
move you now.
I'll try my best not to
hurt you.
Just let me do all the
work.”
She continued to talk to him as
she spread the coverlet on the snow next to him, explaining every move.
She had learned
from the nurses who came to care for her mother the method of changing the
bedding without the patient ever leaving the bed.
Roll to one side; put the folded sheet under
the body.
Turn to the other side; pull
out the sheet.
She began to push him
onto his side and felt his left arm twist limply in his sleeve.
He groaned softly as she ran her hand into
his coat, gently probing his shoulder.
Something felt very wrong, out of place.
Broken collarbone, separated shoulder?
She drew back her hand, trying to think.
Would she do more harm by moving him?
What would it matter, if he froze to death here in the snow?
With greater care, she reached under him,
straining to lift him onto his side.
She
pushed the coverlet as far as possible beneath him, trying to avoid scooping in
too much snow, then rolled him toward her.
Side to side, she repeated the process, until he was finally stretched
full length on the quilt.
Going to his
feet, she lifted the bottom edge over his boots, then proceeded up each side
pulling the coverlet across him, until he was tightly wrapped within its
folds.
All the while, she talked to him,
reassuring him, and herself, that she knew what she was doing.
Turning the
corners at right angles so that his head was all that could be seen in the
cocoon of white quilt against the snow, she took off her muffler and secured
the bundle, tying it just above his knees.
Standing over him, she waited for her breathing to return to nearer
normal.
Her lungs were scorched by the
frigid air, her legs ached from kneeling in the snow, and her fingers were
painfully numb.
Rummaging in her
pockets, she pulled out her forgotten gloves and worked them onto her hands,
more for traction now than warmth.
With
one last resolute gasp, she went to the head of her burden.
Grasping the edge of the coverlet, she began
the journey across the lawn.
Walking
backwards, pulling gently, she managed a few feet at a time.
The conveyance held together better than she
might have expected, had she taken time to give it any thought.
Every ounce of energy was geared toward
forcing her legs to move steadily, her arms to keep pulling and her fingers to
maintain their grip on the thick twists of fabric.