Snow Bound

by Harry Mazer

  Sometime after midnight the dog started to whine. Tony slept through the resulting commotion. He heard about it the next morning from both his father and his mother.

  The dog’s whimpering had waked their landlords. Mrs. Bielic, a stout woman whose cheeks quivered when she walked, was a very light sleeper. She heard the dog at once and woke her husband. They lay there together listening to the creature running back and forth in the cellar. They assumed immediately that the dog belonged to their tenants.

  After fifteen or twenty minutes of listening to the dog yipping and racing around the cellar, Mr. Bielic finally got on the phone and called the Laportes.

  “Can you imagine how I felt?” Tony’s father demanded the next morning as he faced his son. “Bielic wakes me up in the middle of the night and tells me my dog’s in the cellar. I didn’t know I had a dog in the first place!”

  “It ruined our sleep, and on a work night,” his mother added.

  “You’re just lucky you weren’t thrown out in the street with that dog,” Mr. Laporte said.

  “You mean he’s gone?” Tony couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean you threw him out?”

  “That’s what I mean,” his father said. “And when he tried to come back, I chased him halfway down the block in my bare feet. That dog’s just lucky he ran faster than I did, because I would have killed him.”

  His father might have said more, but he had to drop his wife off at Tex-Lite that morning before he went to work himself, and he didn’t have that much time. “Will you hurry up, Bev!” Her 1951 Plymouth, which she usually drove to work, was in the Broadway garage being greased and oiled. “Let’s go, slowpoke, or we’ll never get across the Boulevard.”

  Mrs. Laporte pulled on her snow boots and told Tony to eat a good breakfast. “Make sure Evie gets something hot,” she called to Flo. Normally she would have started them all toward the breakfast table before she left, but this morning without her car and with her husband yelling, she couldn’t take the time.

  Tony followed his parents to the stairs, talking defiantly. “I’m finding Arthur and bringing him back,” he said. “I’ll keep him right in my room.”

  “That’s what you say, big mouth, but that’s not what I say,” his father yelled up the stairs. “I’m not having my sleep interrupted by no dog, so forget him. The way I moved him out of here last night he’s never coming back.”

  “You’re not the boss around here,” Tony said furiously. “You can go straight to hell!” But fortunately his father had already gone ahead to warm up the car.

  His mother turned at the bottom of the stairs. “There’s no use getting upset over a dog, honey. If you find him you’ll only have to give him up again.” She buttoned up her coat and pulled on her gloves. “Tell your sisters to wear their boots to school.” The car horn sounded impatiently. She opened the outside door. “Maybe we can get you something else.” Then she was gone.

  Tony stood in the cold hallway, letting his bare feet freeze. “What are you doing out there, Tony?” Flo said. “Come in and shut the door. You’re letting in cold air.”

  Tony didn’t reply. He didn’t feel the cold. He felt stunned and furious. Arthur was his dog. He’d found him and taken care of him. He loved that dog. He had planned to train the dog to sniff out bombs in airplanes and public buildings. Together they’d go all over on assignment. Maybe it was daydreaming, but it was his dream. When he thought of his dog being driven out of the house in the middle of the night it made him furious. They had no right!

  He went inside and dressed quickly. Heavy socks, lined boots, sheepskin winter jacket. He stuck a pair of gloves in his pocket and went out to look for the dog. Flo called after him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. “You know what Mom says. You have to eat something hot in the morning.”

  Tony didn’t reply as he pounded down the back steps. He wasn’t going to school till he’d found his dog.

  2

  CINDY

  On Tuesday morning when her grandmother brought Cindy Reichert to the bus station it was already snowing. A gently falling curtain of white that set Cindy’s mind adrift. When her grandmother insisted on leading her like a child into the bus station, Cindy protested, saying (but only in her head) I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

  The weekend with her grandmother that she’d looked forward to so much had been a total flop. The communication, the closeness she’d dreamed of—talking, cooking, doing the simplest things together (the things she’d never done with her mother)—none of it had materialized. Grandmother of course had her three dogs, but that wasn’t the problem. Even when she and her grandmother had been together, Cindy felt miles away, living alone, locked inside her own head.

  The bus station was mobbed. A blast of stale-warm air, cigarette fumes, crowds of travelers. Grandmother Reichert gripped Cindy’s arm, steering her this way and that until she found an empty bench. “Lucinda, you sit there.”

  Nobody but her grandmother called her Lucinda. That was her given name, but no one else used it. To her father she was Lucy. To the kids in school, Cindy—even though she wasn’t the Cindy type. Cindys had round, pert friendly faces. She had the round face, all right—she was a little too round in all particulars—but she definitely wasn’t the friendly type. Picture the corridors of Hendrick Hudson High. The usual mob scene: kids, screams, curses, shouts of jubilation. But wait—one girl walks alone. Cindy Reichert, the school loner, treads softly through the happy hordes, a girl lost in thought, holding her precious books to her bosom, a smile fixed on her face. Alone, forever alone.

  Sometimes, even in the midst of people, she thought of herself as a spook from another world, drifting like smoke through open windows—a visitor and a stranger, an observer who saw and recorded everything and touched no one.

  “Lucinda, sit down on this bench,” Grandmother said. “Are you listening? Sit. I’ll see if the bus is going to be on time.” Grandmother often talked to Cindy as if she were a child. It was exactly the way she talked to her three dogs. Simple, direct sentences. Simple, direct orders. Not very flattering, but understandable, considering the way Grandmother doted on her dogs. Her whole life was focused on her three dogs—how they were feeling, and whether they were happy and well fed. She had raised three sons (one of them Cindy’s father) and now she had three dogs: Mitchel, Ferdie, and Captain.

  Cindy fished in her denim carry-all for a stick of gum. (She toted everything in the carry-all: the school books she assured her father she was studying, toothbrush, comb, sunglasses, and lip gloss.) Her father was Grandmother’s youngest son. Grandmother’s other two sons, Cindy’s uncles Hugh and Voss, both lived quite far away with their families. Uncle Hugh was in France, an administrator for the army. Uncle Voss did some kind of medical research at the University of California. Cindy’s father was a dermatologist. Although he lived closer to Grandmother than any of her other sons and their families, he didn’t see Grandmother much more than Uncle Voss or Uncle Hugh. Cindy’s father hated traveling, visiting, or having his routine disrupted in any way. There were three things in the world he had a passion for: his work, playing golf, and playing the cello.

  Cindy and her father got along perfectly, but she definitely wasn’t one of his passions. She was convinced she was exactly like him. Cool, and complete unto herself. He didn’t care much for people and neither did she. He preferred his own company, and so did she. Cindy played the piano and wrote poetry and went to the movies.’ If she liked a movie she could see it four or five times—or even ten times—without tiring of it. (She thought she might want to be an actress someday, but she wasn’t completely sure about that.)

  She had been raised by her father because her mother had died when Cindy was three. She’d seen pictures of her mother, of course, and heard the family stories. Her mother had been a beautiful and talented woman; her death was a tragedy. Cindy thought of her mother every day. When she was feeling weird enough, she talked to her. Cindy was sure her mother’s influence would ha
ve made her a more outgoing generous person, kinder to other people in all ways.

  Sometimes when she was in a really self-critical mood, she would look at herself, and it was as if she were looking into the polished sphere of a doorknob—her face came out with a knob of a nose and a wide mouth, and her eyes where her ears belonged. Ugh! She knew she spent too much time thinking about herself, because the more she thought, the more wrong things she saw.

  “Lucinda,” Grandmother said, coming back from studying the big board of arrivals and departures, “the bus to Malone is going to be two hours late. This foul weather! Do you want to wait? Do you want to come home with me? Maybe that would be best, dear.” She pulled up the zipper of Cindy’s coat and fussed with her collar. “I wish you’d dress better.” Her eyes went critically over Cindy’s worn dungarees, the loose black turtleneck sweater, her sensible but unfashionable rubber boots, and her shapeless brown coat. All part of Cindy’s anonymous costume. In no way was she interested in drawing attention to herself.

  “I’ll wait here, Grandmother,” she said reassuringly. “You go home. I know you don’t like to leave the dogs for too long. I’ll be all right.” She squeezed her grandmother’s shoulder. “Go, Grandmother, go!” She was talking dog-talk, too.

  Her grandmother gave her the tin of cookies she’d baked. “Chocolate chip. I baked them last night. Don’t shake them, or they’ll be all crumbs. Don’t forget to call as soon as you get home. Don’t talk to strangers. Give my love to your father, and come again soon.” She patted the top of Cindy’s head, and then she was gone.

  Cindy was relieved when her grandmother left. Being with her all weekend, trying to please her, being careful what she said, even of what she thought, Cindy felt that she’d been pushed into a corner of her mind. Now she could feel herself expanding like a raisin turning into a grape. Or was she thinking of a prune? Alone, she could occupy herself freely, pleasing only herself, arranging things the way she liked, working out her little strategies.

  She bought a magazine, two chocolate almond bars, and a package of gumdrops. The room was slowly filling up with more and more people, bulky in their coats, jackets, and boots. It was hot, steamy, and noisy. Through the corridor leading to the outside door, Cindy saw the snow falling silently. She sat down on a bench and flipped through the magazine, nibbling on an almond bar. A woman with two little babies sat down next to her. Then a tall blondish kid planted himself in front of her. He wore a denim work outfit and a blue knit cap pulled down over his long hair. He stared at Cindy, rocking back and forth on his heels, seeming very pleased with himself.

  When things like that happened in school and Cindy felt she was being ridiculed or mocked, she got away as quickly as she could. But the way this kid was staring at her she could only stare back. It was a stare-down, and he was winning. She had the urge to get up and shake him by the ears. Who did he think he was looking at so hard? But as with a lot of really powerful urges she’d had in her life, she didn’t do anything.

  Instead she turned so she wouldn’t have to look at him. And then, after a minute or so, she got up as if she had someplace important to go and headed for the ladies’ room. When she came out she saw that her bus was now posted on the board as being nearly three hours late. Snow storms off the Great Lakes. It didn’t seem that bad outside, though. She bought a couple more chocolate bars and a bag of Fritos. When she glanced around, the tall blond kid was giving her the Stare again. She picked up her bag and went outside.

  It was colder than she’d expected, too cold to just stand around and wait three more hours for the bus. She was tired of waiting in that stale, stuffy bus station, tired of that smart-alec boy. On impulse—that’s all it was—she walked across the street and stuck out her thumb. She’d hitchhiked before. The bus service in the suburb where she and her father lived was really rotten. Her father didn’t know she hitched, and she was pretty sure he wouldn’t care for the idea at all. To her, it was as simple, or as complicated, as crossing the street. If you were careful, you made it safely to the other side; but if you were careless, anything could happen. Who could say that riding a bus was so safe? Buses had accidents, too.

  She had to admit, however, there was something a little masochistic about her hitchhiking. Not the dangers—they were real enough, though probably exaggerated by anxious parents. No. What was pure torture for her was getting into a car and knowing she had to communicate with another person. The first few times she had hitched, she sat there like a lump on a log. The driver didn’t say anything and she didn’t say anything. Her tongue felt stiff as wood and there was an obstruction in her throat and she could barely sit still for wanting OUT. It was that awful. The only word she finally managed was a grunt of thanks as she threw herself out of the car.

  To avoid this torture she worked out a few key phrases that generally got things going. “Hello! I’m Cindy Reichert! What’s your name?” Once the driver started talking she could sit back and listen, or even answer questions, which she never minded as much.

  Three cars passed her, and she’d begun to wonder if she ought to go back into the bus station when a black VW rolled up. There was a man at the wheel. “How far you going?” she said, opening the door. There were college stickers on the windows.

  “Sandy Creek,” he said. “Climb in.”

  She settled herself in the seat, the denim bag and the tin of cookies in her lap. “Hi! My name is Cindy Reichert. What’s yours?”

  “David,” he said. He looked safe enough—about twenty, she thought—wiry, and wearing black-rimmed glasses. The first thing he did was to start lecturing her on the dangers of thumbing.

  “How old are you, Cindy? Do your parents know you’re hitching? Aren’t you worried? What if you were in a car with a guy who tried to do something? What if I was a pervert? I’m not, but you never can tell. They say they’re all over. You’re lucky a nice guy like me came along.”

  Cindy felt embarrassed the way she often did when people paid too much personal attention to her. “The weather …” she said by way of explanation, gesturing vaguely to the snow coming down steadily outside. “The bus was late, and I was trying to make up time.”

  He wiped moisture off the windshield with his hand. “You don’t fool around in this country.” Big brother David. He was back to lecturing her. “This is Snow Belt country you’re in now. It snows here when it doesn’t snow anyplace else, tons and tons of snow. It’s the Great Lakes. Cold Canadian air sweeps over the warmer lake and sucks up water that turns to heavy clouds that dump snow all over these leeward hills.”

  Cindy looked toward the hills. They weren’t very high. Gray and indistinct.

  “My girl lives up there,” he said. “Toward Tug Hill. You ever hear of the Tug Hill area? That’s really no-man’s-land. When I go see her, eight months of the year I go by snowmobile.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Cindy said.

  “You have a boyfriend?” She shook her head. “Still young and innocent,” he said.

  Cindy said nothing. They drove in silence for a long while. At least the lectures had stopped. At a crossroads he pulled up on the shoulder. “This is where I turn off.” The snow was coming down steadily. The lights of oncoming cars shone dimly through the snow.

  “Which way is north?” Cindy said.

  “Just stay on the highway. This is Route Eleven. It goes all the way up to the Canadian border. Gee, I hate to put you out in this weather. Why don’t you come home with me?”

  Uh-uh, Cindy thought, it’s happening. First the talk about perverts, then boyfriends, and now this. She gripped her sack and the cookie tin in one hand and opened the car door with the other. “Thanks a lot. Appreciate this—”

  “No, wait a minute, Cindy.” He reached across to hold the door shut. “I mean it You don’t know this territory. When it snows, it snows. You don’t have to worry, my mother’s at home. She’ll be glad to take you.…”

  He probably meant every word he said, but there wasn’t a chance in
the world that she’d go with him. “Thanks,” she said. “Really, I’ll be all right.” She got out, and a moment later she was standing on the road watching his red taillights disappear in the snow.

  For a long time there was nothing, not a light or a car in any direction. Snow fell heavily into a thick silence. Cindy had never felt so alone and cut off in her life. Gradually she became aware of the cars cautiously coming toward her, emerging from the dusk, silent as gray shadows in a dream. She pulled up her collar, hunched her shoulders, and when the next car appeared, stuck out her thumb.

  3

  THE HITCHHIKER

  When Tony walked out on the bridge the cold caught him by surprise. The wind was sharper here, whistling under the abutments. “Here, boy,” he yelled. “Good boy, Arthur. Here, Arthur.” The wind whipped the words from his mouth. He went further, past the bridge to the stores at the end of Bridge Street. A fine, thin snow was falling, etching every crack and crevice. Danny Belco, on his way to school, hailed Tony. He waved Danny on. He wasn’t going to school until he found his dog.

  He crossed between the mattress shop and shoe store, over to Broadway, and back down past the Broadway Garage, where he could see his mother’s blue 1951 Plymouth on the lot. He crossed the street and asked Frank Beach, the mechanic on duty, if he’d seen his dog. Frank was working the pumps outside, gassing up a green Dodge Lancer. “Nope.” Frank shook his head. “Too cold to think about dogs.”

  Tony crisscrossed the neighborhood—Summit, Townsend, Bridge—stopping to ask anyone he met if they’d seen a medium-sized brown dog. Twice he checked the ravine, climbing down to the clubhouse, where the wind was really howling. He went home to warm up and use the bathroom; his Aunt Irene’s black Olds was in the driveway. She saw him before he could get away.

  “What are you doing home? You’re supposed to be in school.” She peered at him suspiciously. Like her sister, his mother, she had four of her own, except hers were all boys, and she knew every trick in the book. “You’re playing hookey, aren’t you? Don’t give me that innocent look, Anthony. You’re not sweet-talking your mother now. This is me, Aunt Irene. You get to school, on-the-double. I’m going to call the principal’s office in fifteen minutes, and you better be there. So move, big boy!” She got into her car, rolling down the window to say, “You go to school, Anthony, you hear me?”