J e r r y s p I n e L l I
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Loser
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169
24 . Snow The flake rides in on the fringe of a northwest wind: sails high over Heatherwood before swing- ing toward the tarpaper roofs of the town, flies over Halftank Hill and Eva’s Hoagie Hut and the post office, makes a beeline down Willow Street and on to the grass and asphalt sprawl of Monroe Middle School, dances for a moment outside a second-story window, leaps the spouting and, as if finally tired of it all, falls upon the roof. In the classroom below, an eighth-grader looks up from the paper where he doodles. He sniffs. He cocks his head. He looks out the win- dow, squints, half rises from his seat. His eyes widen, he throws up his arms: “SNOW!” Within seconds the whole school knows. “It’s only flurries.” 170 “That’s just the start.” “Could be a blizzard.” “Snow day tomorrow!” “Pray!” By lunchtime it’s still flurries. The students crowd at the windows of the cafeteria, chanting, “Snow! Snow! Snow!” “It’s only flurries.” “That’s all it’s gonna do.” “It’s tricking us.” “It’s not sticking. Look. The ground’s dry.” By seventh period a new wind from the south blows the flurries away. The sky is white and still. “Rats!” By school day’s end wet fat flakes splat on the students’ upturned faces as they leap out of school. “Snow day!” “Snow day!” “Snow day!” Zinkoff loves school, but he loves snow days too, and tomorrow looks sure to be one. As he steps from the bus near his home, he sees that the snow is sticking. The sidewalk is already white. He 171 projects how deep the snow will be on Halftank Hill by tomorrow morning and he shouts, “Yahoo!” forgetting he doesn’t say that anymore. Since it is wet, the snow packs readily into balls, and snowball fights break out up and down the street and all over town. Front steps and car hoods are scraped clean as fast as the flakes can fall. Three-minute dinners are the rule. Take off your gloves, gobble something down, ignore your mother’s grumbling, on with the gloves, back outside, discover: The snow’s up an inch! It’s dark by now, and there’s something about snow falling under streetlights that makes a kid stop and look. But not for long. Snowballs fly out of the darkness, through the flake-falling tents of light, back into darkness. The first snowplows come rumbling through. Except it’s not a snowplow, it’s a tank, and that’s a bazooka in your hand. Bam! Zinkoff is winding up for a tank attack when he first notices the light going by a block away. Then another, flashing red, white and blue. Kids are 172 turning, throwing arms slack. Someone is running. He joins others heading for the lights. What could it be? Fire? Murder? Snow fights continue, but they’re rolling skirmishes now, snow scooped on the run. Over one block, down two, over one. It’s Willow Street. The nine hundred block. It’s lit up like a carnival. Police cars, emergency vehicles: a parade of them up the street, the snowy humps of parked cars pulsing in the swirling lights, people shout- ing, running, watching from the steps. Hiss of radio voices. The snow is trampled on the side- walks, rutted in the street. Zinkoff ricochets like a pinball off milling bodies. Through the glittering snowfall he spots the Waiting Man glowing in his window. He looks like George Washington. He hears fragments: “. . . lost . . .” “. . . little girl . . .” “. . . mother . . .” “. . . freeze . . .” “. . . frantic . . .” “. . . leash . . .” 173 It’s Claudia, the little girl on the leash. She’s lost. For some reason he’s not surprised. He imag- ines her sneaking off when her mother’s back is turned. He imagines her squirming out of the harness, flinging away the leash, throwing her arms in the air with a great “Yahoo!” and bolting into the snow and down the street, free at last, much as he did when he was first allowed outside alone. The lights cluster brilliantly up the street at Claudia’s house. He thinks he sees her mother in the mob at the front step. He hears someone cry out. He pulls off one glove. He has to do it one finger at a time; it’s not easy because the glove is icy and wet. The glove is wet because the balls he has been throwing have been more slushballs than snowballs, because slushballs as everybody knows fly truer and harder, the only problem being they sog up your woolen gloves with icy wetness which, funny, you don’t even notice until you stop throwing. 174 He pulls off the glove and reaches into his pants pocket and takes out his lucky stone, Claudia’s gift, the pink petrified clump of bubble- gum. He rolls it in his cold, wet fingers. He remembers a conversation with Claudia’s mother. He remembers her saying something funny about being run over by a chicken. He remem- bers her saying that if Claudia ever started com- plaining about her leash, they would have to have a chat. He wonders if Claudia complained, or did she just skip that and take off? He returns the lucky stone to his pocket. The lights are spilling across his eyes. He begins to pull his glove back on, but the glove is colder than the night air. He removes the other glove. He stuffs them in his coat pockets, then discovers there’s no warm place to put his hands. He takes the gloves from his pockets and stands there staring at his hands. He appears to be blushing in the red light spinning atop a nearby truck. He stacks the gloves neatly one upon the other and lays them on the top step of the nearest house. 175 He starts walking. A snowball hits him in the back. “Hey, Zinkoff! C’mon!” The other kids are still battling away. Snow warfare gains a new, thrilling edge when waged in the glare of police lights. Zinkoff walks on. It seems like the whole town is either on the street or staring from the windows. Everyone is carrying a flashlight. The night is lights and eyes. A toddler in ski pajamas calls from a doorway: “Mommy! Can I look too?” The mother yells, the door slams shut. The eight hundred block is a little less busy and bright but just as trampled. In the seven hundred block the light comes only from the windows. The search here is quieter: misted breathing, mur- murs, the squeak of boots in snow. Once again he is aware of the falling flakes. Two more blocks, and the sidewalk snow is untouched. He is alone. The words that have been inside him come out now in a whisper: I will find her. I will find her. He walks on. Download 0.63 Mb. Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
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