Alright, so this a story. It's called "Snow Day." It has its fair share of flaws. But, more importantly, it has strengths. I could point to the flaws. Plenty o' those, as with most things. Feel free to make suggestions; it's only the second draft. You know, the first great question when you're writing is this: Why did I write this? Followed up by: Why not something else? It's haunting, thinking of what might have been. I couldn't point to the strengths. But I'm confidant that they're there. I wanted this to be a little Raymond Carver-esque, so the voice is deliberate. It's languid. It's bleak. It's close to all of us. I mean, compare it to the voice used in my "cover-letter-esque, uh, letter." Here, you're picking through grayish rocks. There, well, things are a little more colorful. Anyway, I'll shut up and stop stalling for time. This, for the moment, is what I have to offer:
Snow Day
It was morning, and there were great big piles of snow in the boulevards from where the plows had come through. The sun was coming down through the trees and made long shadows in the streets and on the snow-covered lawns. A black-capped chickadee was singing in the trees. There were other birds too, more distant. The sidewalks were canyons.
School had been cancelled for the day, although the snow had stopped and the sun was out. Joey had stayed up late the night before, hoping that whoever it was that made the decision would hurry up and make it, but he didn’t. He hardly ever did. He waited, so Joey could never go to sleep without doing his homework or taking a bath or laying out his clothes for the next day on the bedside chair.
When his school wasn’t announced on the radio, he’d grumble and stomp his feet as his mom saw him out the front door. Blue Earth, the voice on the radio would say, Red Wing—neither was right for Joey.
“I can’t believe they didn’t cancel,” he’d say under his breath. He’d stick his bare hands in his coat pockets.
“Do you have your gloves?” his mom would call after him.
“Yeah, I’ve got ‘em,” he’d say. His fingers would already be cold.
“Let me see them.”
“Mom, I’ve got ‘em.”
“You’ll freeze without a scarf,” she’d say.
At the bus stop, Joey and his friend Dan would complain about how it was too windy or too icy or too cold, although they’d never admit to being cold. Joey and Dan were both in the fifth grade.
“It’s supposed to get worse,” Dan would say. After a while he’d say, “I’m not cold.” They’d both speak through dense clouds of vapor. The kid from across the street would kick the street sign. But the bus always came, its beacon-light flashing. It never skidded or crashed. They always hoped it would.
Joey was lying in bed. The sun was coming through his curtains and through the louvered shutters outside. His clock was on his headboard, and his clothes were hastily laid out on his bedside chair. The report he’d been working on the night before lay open on his desk, unfinished. Six-thirty passed, nothing. The light touched his eyelids and he shut them tighter, pulling the covers up over his head. The light was pink and purple so early in the morning. Six-forty, nothing. The shadowed louvers crept toward the floor. Six-forty-five. The click click click of the second hand was agonizing. It seemed to slow with each passing minute, but the minutes passed all the same. Joey was waiting for his mother’s call. He hadn’t set his alarm. He could smell his breakfast. Bacon, dry toast, and eggs. The toast was burnt. He liked his eggs dry, but his dad always made them runny. He said they were dry, though. Joey’s mom was coming up the stairs. He balled up his fists and pressed them against his head. He yawned. He turned and stretched in the covers. He could see that the sun was out and that it wasn’t snowing anymore.
His mom knocked on the door. “Honey,” she said.
“I’m getting dressed,” he said through the door.
“Weren’t you listening to the radio?”
“No. I forgot to set my alarm.”
“Well, school’s cancelled. I just heard. They must have been slow this morning. Dad’s already making breakfast.”
Joey, who’d been dragging himself out of bed, fell back and buried his head under his pillow.
“Joey, did you hear me?”
“Heard you mom. Going back to sleep.”
“Well, dad’s already making breakfast.” She knocked a few more times and opened her mouth to say something, but then she turned and went back downstairs.
An hour later Joey got up and went downstairs for breakfast. He was wearing plaid boxers and a plain white tee-shirt. His dad was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper and drinking cold coffee. There were plates out with crumbs. “You missed breakfast.”
“Dad, it’s a snow day. We haven’t had one all year.”
“Alright, fair enough. Can I make you something?”
“Are you staying home too?”
“Didn’t mom tell you? The whole city is damn near shut down.”
“Language!” Joey’s mom said from the next room.
“So you and mom are both here today?”
“We are. So, can I make you something? How about eggs? Mom and I ate most of them, but there are probably a few left.”
“No thanks, dad.”
“Well have yourself a seat here, and we’ll find something.” Joey’s dad got up and cleared a few plates. “How’s that history report of yours coming along? You look in those books I took out from the library?”
“I looked. Haven’t really started, though.”
“But you’ve picked your state, right?”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to do Virginia. There were some pretty cool old pictures. General Lee and his horse and all, and some of the battlefields.”
Joey’s dad was rummaging through a cabinet, looking for something. “Do you know the name of Lee’s horse? Did you read that?” A few plastic cups came tumbling out of the cabinet. “Ah, damn!”
“Language!”
“No, what was its name?”
“Traveller was his name. I’ve been looking for this whisk.”
“Cool,” said Joey. He started upstairs to take a shower while his dad fumbled with the plastic cups.
“Did you want those eggs?”
When Joey got out of the shower, his dad said it was time to shovel the driveway. Joey put on his heavy coat with a zipper and snaps up the front, and boots that laced halfway to his knees. “Dad, when are we getting a snowblower? Dan has one, and we take forever.” They both grabbed shovels out of the garage. The snow was about seven inches deep, on top of frozen slush. There were drifts on both sides of the driveway, and the wind was still up. Little swirls passed in the street. Ice scrapers and snowblowers could be heard throughout the neighborhood. Joey’s dad went and shoveled out around the mailbox. Joey started in on the sidewalk.
“Don’t need a blower, son. This will keep you healthy.” Joey’s dad heaved a shovelful of snow onto a boulevard pile. The snow fell into the street.
“This is hard, dad. Can’t mom come and shovel?” Joey just pushed the snow around. He got caught on crack in the sidewalk.
“You want your mother to shovel? This is heavy snow. It’s wet.”
“No, I guess not. I guess I don’t want mom to shovel.”
“She’ll make the cocoa. She’s good at that. Anyway, we only have two of these.” He held up the orange, hard-plastic shovel. “One for me, one for you, pal.”
“We have a scraper.”
“Don’t try to get out of this.” Another shovelful of snow tumbled into the street.
“Okay.”
The driveway was clear by ten. Joey was inside drying his hat when there was a knock on the door. He ran to it and flung it open—he always answered the door. Dan was standing on the porch outside.
“You done with your driveway?” he said.
“Yeah, me and my dad finished a little while ago.”
“Who’s at the door?” Joey’s mom asked from the next room. She was folding napkins and putting them away in the sideboard.
“It’s Dan, mom. We’re gonna go outside.”
“Have you and your father finished shoveling?”
“Yes, mom,” Joey said. Dan stood patiently on the porch, looking out into the yard. He took a step and leaned up against the railing. “There’s a lot of snow,” he said.
“Why don’t you stay inside and do some homework? Dan can do his over here too. You can do it together.”
“We’re going outside, mom,” Joey said.
“So what do you want to do? We’ve got the whole day.”
“I don’t know,” Joey said. He had on his snow-pants and a new pair of mittens. He was pale, even against the snow. “We could build a snowman. Where’s that sled of yours?” Dan’s mom had an old sled with metal runners and wooden planks for a seat.
“I don’t want to sled. It’s not good snow. Let’s build a fort.”
The two made their way into the yard, and noticed the sounds of blowers and scrapers had stopped. “It’s so quiet,” Dan said. He looked at his boot-prints. “Look at where we aren’t,” he said. Joey picked up a handful of snow and threw it into Dan’s boot-prints.
“Now where aren’t we?”
“Very funny,” Dan said. “Let’s build our fort in the boulevard. Those are the biggest piles. I could stand up under there, I bet.”
Dan and Joey set to work. Joey started out by kneeling on the sidewalk and punching a hole in the side of the pile. Loose snow from the top fell down and patterned his dark hat. Dan leaned up against the pile to pack the snow. “How many rooms?” he said. He squatted and started helping Joey, scooping instead of punching.
“What?” Joey’s wool mittens were wet, but he wiped his face.
“How many rooms in the fort, I mean. Last year we made one with three.”
“Yeah, but that was in my backyard. There’s not enough space up here. Probably just one, I guess.” Joey started scooping, too.
By twelve, Joey and Dan had dug into the middle of the pile. Dan, the smaller of the two, could fit inside. “I’m almost through to the mailbox. Should I turn around?”
“Come out for a break,” Joey said. He and Dan sat in the sidewalk and leaned up against the pile snow they’d dug out. A neighbor in ski-goggles came by with his dog. The boys sat and caught their breath. They were quiet for a little while.
“So, I’m supposed to write an essay about a state,” Joey said.
“What, like a report?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I guess that’s what it’s like.”
“For geography? I think we’re doing that next week. What state are you gonna write about? Can you choose?” Dan said.
“Yeah, we can choose. I’m doing Virginia, I think.”
“Why?” Dan said.
“I guess they’ve got red dirt. Metal or something. And my grandpa’s buried there.”
“Oh, yeah? Where? I hear they’ve got a lot of people buried there.”
“What kind of a thing to say is that? People are buried everywhere,” Joey said.
“I don’t know,” Dan said.
“Anyway, it’s the big cemetery. I forgot the name. It’s where all the Civil War guys are.”
Another neighbor passed with her dog. The dog looked cold. Joey and Dan shuffled their feet and looked up into the sun.
“I though that was, uh, in Pennsylvania. That was in history last year. There was a whole unit on it.”
“No, I think it’s Virginia. That’s where General Lee was from.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right.”
“Anyway, that’s where he is, my grandpa. He’s not from the Civil War, though. He was in World War Two.”
“They’re all the same,” Dan said.
“Let’s go inside,” Joey said. “My mom will make us cocoa.”
“You know,” Joey said, after he and Dan had had cocoa and had warmed themselves by the fireplace, “our fort is kind of like their forts.”
“Which forts? Ours is still just a hole. It needs windows.”
“Like forts in the Civil War. Do you still have your cap-gun?”
“No, my mom took it.”
“Let’s make snowballs, then.”
Joey and Dan set to work making snowballs, and packed them neatly in their fort. Joey went around to the back of his house and broke down the icicles which had been hanging there and getting bigger for a month. “These are our swords,” he said, laying out half-a-dozen in the snow next to the fort.
“I made a window,” said Dan. “See?” He climbed inside the fort and stuck his face out. The window faced Joey’s house. “It’s dark in here.”
Joey made a move to say something, then went to his open garage to rummage around. He came back a minute later with a tapered candle and a small box of wooden matches. “It’s from church,” he said. He stuck the candle into the base of the window and lit it. The candle flickered, then settled down. Dan’s face brightened a bit. Dan climbed out and ran to get his mother’s old sled. “We’ll use it as a door,” he said as he came back. Joey ran inside and dug a red-and-white cloth napkin out of the sideboard. His mom was somewhere else. “These were for Christmas,” he said as he slid down the driveway on his boot-bottoms. He skidded to a halt and grabbed one of the icicles. “This one can be a flag pole.” The icicle was like smooth glass. Joey stuck its tip through the corner of the napkin, then planted the icicle next to the fort. “C’mon,” Dan said, “Let’s get in.” Both boys crawled into the hole, and Dan pulled the sled up behind. They were careful not to sit on the snowballs.
“Pretty good fort, huh?” Joey said.
Joey’s dad was standing in the garage. He was wearing a coat over his bathrobe, which he’d put on after shoveling, and galoshes over his house slippers. He’d been watching the boys for a half-hour, taking drinks out of a small glass that he held around the rim with his fingertips. He tapped the glass with his forefinger, making the oily liquid slosh and wash up the sides. “Careful, boys,” he called down the driveway. His throat burned a little and he coughed. He could see the boys in the fort by the light of the candle in the window. He took a few steps closer, pulling at his coat with his free hand and flicking clumps of slush from his galoshes. “And watch it with that candle, huh? Where’d you find it? Joey, did you ask your mother if you could light that?” He saw a small blue mitten reach out from behind the door and toss a snowball. It landed in the middle of the driveway. Joey’s dad frowned, took a drink from his glass, and went back inside.
“So what do we do now?” Dan said.
“Well, you know,” Joey said. “We fight.”
“Who do we fight?”
“Whoever. You know, enemies.”
“Oh,” Dan said. He thought for a minute. “Who are the enemies?”
Before Joey could answer, the boys heard the sound of metal scraping against concrete. The ground shook. They hurriedly pushed aside their makeshift door and scrambled to their feet. Half a block away sat an idling plow with its blade on the street and its amber beacon-light flashing and spinning. They could make out the driver unfolding a map in the cab.
“I didn’t think they’d come through again,” Joey said. “The street’s pretty clear.”
“Maybe he’s lost.”
“Lost? Those guys don’t get lost.”
“He’s got a map.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Joey said. “Grab a few of those snowballs.” Dan crawled back into the fort. “Yeah, c’mon. Hand me a couple.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“We’re gonna pelt this guy.”
They boys each palmed two snowballs. They walked up the street. The big-block diesel throbbed and churned.
“Okay. You ready?”
Dan nodded. “Ready,” he said.
Joey wound up with his right arm and sent a snowball flying. He hit the front tire. A little stuck, but most fell away. The driver slid over on the bench and peered down from the passenger-side window. He smiled and waved. He slid back over. Dan wound up and threw, but didn’t make it past the gutter.
“That’s no good, Dan. Watch this.” Joey tried again, but the snowball broke apart once it left his hand. Dan dropped his other snowball on the sidewalk. The driver didn’t pay any more attention to them.
They walked back to Joey’s house. Joey’s mother called out from the garage. “Your mother called over, Dan,” she said. “You should head home. Your dinner’s almost ready. Yours too, Joey.”
“Okay, mom. Just a minute.” She went back inside.
“So,” said Dan, “was that the enemy?”
“What, my mom?”
“No,” said Dan, “the plow. Or the driver, maybe.”
“Oh,” said Joey. “No, I don’t think so.”
It snowed overnight, and the plows came through again. Joey could hear them, and he could see colored lights play against his louvered shutters. He awoke to a faint glowing on his headboard. Six-thirty. He could smell his breakfast. His mom was coming up the stairs. “Get up, son. School today, as usual.”
He ate his runny eggs and ran upstairs to grab his homework off his desk. He stuck his bare hands into his coat pockets as he hurried out the door. They were already cold.
“Mittens,” his mother called after him.
“Got ‘em.”
He passed the fort at the the end of the driveway. The roof sagged a little, and the red-and-white flag was dusted with snow. The candle had burnt down and melted the snow at its base where the wax pooled. The wick was wet. It couldn’t be relit. Joey looked at the fort with something like pride. Dan was running up from the bus-stop.
“How’s it look?” he said, panting a little.
“Still looks pretty good.” Joey said. He brushed some snow away from the icicles with his hand.
“Look,” said Dan, gesturing to the street-side of the boulevard. “The plow came pretty close.” There were grooves like chevrons in the street that ran up the curb and into the boulevard. “I think he nicked your mailbox.”
Joey could see the bus coming three of four blocks down the street. Its stop-sign was folded out from the side. A few kids got on, and the sign swung back. “Bus is coming,” he said. The boys shouldered their heavy bags and set out down the sidewalk. The sun was getting higher, and there were birds in the trees.
“Why are there birds?” Dan said.
As Joey opened his mouth to speak, the boys heard a snap and a hiss from underneath the bus. Joey could see a hose dragging on the ground, writhing like a snake. Most of the kids at the bus-stop leapt back in time, but the boy who kicked the street sign didn’t look up. He had on a thick hat and earmuffs.
“Birds?” Joey said.
A frantic mother who’d been waiting with her son ran to the nearest house to call the police. The bus driver was kneeling in the street with his hands on his head. The street sign was bent over at an odd angle, and radiator fluid was pooling in the snow. The kids on the bus were crying and screaming, and the kids at the bus-stop were all running home, yelling for their parents. Joey and Dan stood still. They hadn’t made it to the bus-stop.
In three minutes, there were five police cars and two ambulances crowding the intersection. The school sent another bus, but no one got on. An officer ran up to Joey and Dan, and asked if they were okay. Some of the other kids were coming back with their parents.
“Can you boys tell me what happened?” the officer said.
Joey and Dan were speechless.
“It looks like it might have been the brakes. Did you boys see or hear anything out of the ordinary?” There was a gun strapped to his belt. Joey’s parents were running down the sidewalk.
Joey started to cry. Dan dropped his bag and looked back at the red-and-white napkin hanging limp above the fort.
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