by Greg Kincaid
As I made my way home on the maintainer, coming from the other direction, I noticed an overturned mailbox sticking out of the snow and a remnant of a driveway—more of a dirt trail and one I’d never noticed before. Then I saw the black lettering on the mailbox, U R N E R. This was it. A long lane wandered off the county road and up a hill covered in timber and brush. I was to clear all the driveways and this looked like a driveway to me. I backed up the maintainer and slowly climbed Blackberry Hill, moving snow as I went.
Chapter 23
AT THE TOP of a hill was a trailer, set amid a tangle of steel barrels, tires, and junky-looking car fenders protruding from beneath the deep snow in the front yard. I turned the maintainer around and sat for a second, trying to get up my nerve to either get out and go to the door or just put the maintainer in second and head back down the hill. Before I could decide, an old man came banging out the door, two scrawny black-and-tan coon dogs on his heels. Wild Tom Turner wore filthy jeans and cowboy boots, and spat brown tobacco juice into the white snow.
As he approached, I turned the engine down to idle and opened the door of the maintainer, staying put in the cab. He looked up at me, as if he were sizing me up.
“My name is George McCray. My grandfather asked me to check in and make sure you were all right. If you need food, I’ve got milk and groceries to tide you over.”
He smiled shrewdly, flashing yellow-stained teeth, seemingly pleased to be getting something for free. “Neighborly of you, son.”
“Also, wanted to ask if you could stay off the roads for the rest of today and tomorrow. We’re going to try to clear one lane first for emergency traffic. We’ll come back and do the other lane later.”
“I’m not going anywhere in particular.”
“Thanks.” I paused, trying to muster the courage to ask for what Thorne wanted.
“So, you’re Big Bo McCray’s son?”
“Grandson,” I corrected.
He nodded his head approvingly and said, “I’ll take some milk if you’re giving it away.”
I reached back and gave him two bottles. He took them and started back to the trailer.
“Wait,” I called after him. “You’re Mr. Turner, right?”
He turned and spat again. “What of it?”
“My grandfather also said that if you had anything extra you could share with neighbors that I should get that, too.”
“What kind of ‘extras’ did your grandfather have in mind?”
“Mostly food, but if you’ve got an extra lantern or kindling …” I hesitated and tried to add my next request like an afterthought. “Also, Mr. Thorne, our neighbor, he’s been sick and he said if I came by this way that I should ask you for, uh, two bottles of your best medicine.”
He smiled in a way that made me uncomfortable. “So, Frank drank up all his own and he can’t get to the pharmacy in town for more, eh? Wait here.” Turner disappeared inside his trailer and came out with two mayonnaise jars filled with a muddy brown liquid. He handed them to me, chuckled, and said, “You tell Mr. Thorne that he should take two cups every night before he goes to bed, and I’ll be sending him my doctor bill.”
I nestled the jars inside my extra coat so the liquid would not spill. “Thanks, Mr. Turner. I’ll tell him.”
“Listen, son, this business is between me and Mr. Thorne.” A vicious look crept across his face. “No one else need know, you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good. Now you get back to your work and I’ll get back to mine.” He gave a halfhearted wave as he turned around and went back to his trailer, the dogs following.
As I made my way down off of Blackberry Hill, that cold sweat was back, along with an uncomfortable knot in my stomach.
Plowing the roads toward home, I had no idea what to do. I contemplated emptying the jars, but it occurred to me that I had already done the hard part. All I had to do now was give them to Thorne and take back Tucker. Everyone would be better off. I would have what I wanted. Thorne would have what he wanted. Tucker would have a decent home.
When I returned to the farm that evening, I hid the jars in the implement shed before Grandpa and I milked again. I was quiet and my grandfather worried about me.
“You tired?”
“Yes,” I answered.
He looked at me and nodded his head up and down approvingly. “That’s okay.” He turned and walked off, climbed onto the maintainer, and was off for the nighttime shift.
While he went off to work, I went into the living room. Behind the puzzle table where my grandmother and father had spent so many hours stood a bookcase with leaded-glass doors. My dad proudly displayed his encyclopedia on the top three shelves. I took down the first volume, sat in Grandpa’s recliner, and started to read about alcoholism in the dim light of the kerosene lamp that I rested on the puzzle table. More than halfway through the entry, I realized that my grandmother was standing beside the chair, at my shoulder.
“Catching up on some schoolwork?”
I slammed the book shut and tried to act casual. “No, just something I was interested in.”
“Okay, but you better get to sleep. Your shift will begin soon.”
I replaced the volume on the shelf, brushed my teeth, and went to bed, still uncertain of how I would handle Thorne.
Chapter 24
“GEORGE!” Grandma yelled up the stairs. “Time to get up!” Every morning, as my fatigue built, it grew harder and harder to wake up. I could hear the maintainer idling in the driveway. It had been running nonstop for four days straight and the roads were still a mess.
After a quick breakfast, I joined my grandfather in the barn to help him finish the morning milking. My mind quickly went to the jars in the implement shed, and I felt a queasy mixture of nerves and shame brewing inside of me.
“Grandpa, Frank Thorne is sick,” I blurted out. This was my guilt talking. I hadn’t intended to bring up the object of my anxiety, but a part of me hungered for some direction. “I think he has the flu, or it could be tremors. His house is cold. He needs wood.”
“That’s kind of you to be concerned.”
“Actually, I was thinking more about Tucker than Thorne.” This was partly true, but I was still on a fishing expedition, hoping for some kind of sign from Grandpa Bo that would send me in one direction or another.
“We’ve got plenty of wood. I’ll put some on the steel shelf behind the cab and you can unload it on your way out.” I started out the barn door, excited to see Tucker and now feeling less guilty since Grandpa had given me a legitimate reason to stop at Thorne’s. “Don’t forget to crack the ice on the pond before you leave,” he reminded me.
By the time I got out of our driveway and into Thorne’s, even though I had been working for hours, it was still early in the morning and I did not want to wake him. Tucker watched me from the door, tail wagging, as I unloaded the wood onto the small front porch. I thought of the mayonnaise jars that I’d snuck back into the cab, but I didn’t want to leave them out in plain sight with the wood. I considered slipping them through the perpetually unlocked front door, but I was afraid I’d cause a ruckus with Tucker and disturb Thorne. I would come back later to finish what I’d started. I glanced through the door at the big red dog, his eyes full of expectation.
“I’ll be back for you later, Tucker,” I said softly before I set out on my shift.
When I got to the far eastern edge of our clearing territory, I stopped and checked in with the Sloan family.
Mr. Sloan had a new job for me. The mailman had left all of the mail for our section of the county with the Sloans because it was impossible for him to get down most of the roads. I picked up mail for the roads that were on our route and promised to distribute it as best I could. There was another letter from Minnesota addressed to me from my mother. I stuck it in my coat pocket to read when I had time.
By 4:00 that afternoon, my shift was ending and I was heading west. I slowed the maintainer and considered
whether or not I should stop at Thorne’s. My resolve to finish my “errand” was suddenly less firm, the guilt creeping back in to fill the void. Still, I wanted to check on Tucker, and unfortunately, there was no way to separate him from Thorne. All day long, the jars had been buried beneath my extra coat, and I had wanted to get rid of them. Now, as I plowed up Thorne’s driveway and put the maintainer into idle, I decided to leave them in their hiding place.
There were considerable footsteps and paw prints in the snow, but Thorne’s truck was still parked in the same place. A good bit of the firewood I’d left on the porch had been taken. Before I even knocked, Tucker was at the front door, pawing anxiously for me to let him out.
“Mr. Thorne, it’s George,” I called.
“Come in, boy.”
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Everything was so different that I was disoriented. The inside had gone through the most amazing transformation I had ever seen. The curtains were pulled back, the windows cleaned so that light cascaded into what now seemed more like a cozy cabin than a broken-down shack. The place was spotless. Though the house was still without power, a fire burned warm and full in the stove, and I could smell soup simmering and cornbread in the oven. The floors were clean, the clutter and garbage gone. Thorne was still on the sofa, but he was wearing clean clothes and was shaven.
Tucker whined. “Let the dog out, would you, son?”
“Sure.” As I did so, I tried to take in the transformation. I looked at the wall of photos. Something else was different. The picture was gone. For some reason, he had taken it down.
Thorne looked so much better. I was pondering what had brought this about when he got down to the business I was dreading.
“Did you bring me the medicine?”
It wasn’t medicine. It was poison. However much it might have gotten me what I wanted, I knew that even Thorne deserved better. “No, I didn’t,” I lied, mustering my strength. “That’s not the kind of medicine you need, Mr. Thorne.”
He grimaced. But what he said next surprised me.
“Good. You’re a pretty smart kid, aren’t you? Just like your dad.”
I didn’t know how to answer.
“It’s not something I should have asked you to do.” He smiled. “But I do have another favor to ask, and this one won’t bother you. My dog is tired of being all cooped up. Why don’t you take him with you while you’re working on that maintainer? He loves to go for a ride. All he does is sit around here and whine to go outside. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir. I could do that.” I struggled to control my excitement, but inside I wanted to pop.
“Good. Now, you get on home before your grandparents start worrying about you. Frank Thorne will be fine.”
I went out the door and bent down, allowing Tucker to nuzzle his cold snout into my face. “As soon as this snow lets up, you and I are going romping again! And in the meantime, you can come to work with me on snow days.” I pulled him close, knowing that I’d made the right choice, for Frank Thorne and for myself. I held the dog tight to me for a few more moments before I opened the door and put him back in the house.
The maintainer climbed up McCray’s Hill, grading all the while. As soon as I parked, I carefully carried what I’d hidden in the cab to the back of the barnyard, out of sight of the house. I opened the mayonnaise jars and poured Turner’s homemade rotgut into the snow, hiding the empties at the bottom of the trash cans we kept behind the barn.
With the crime scene neatened up, and no discernable scent of alcohol lingering in the cold, clean air, I ran up to the house to give my grandmother the good news about Tucker. When I opened the door, a familiar aroma confused me, until I put the pieces together. On the table was fresh-baked cornbread. My grandmother stood at the stove, stirring a big kettle of her bean soup. These were the smells in Thorne’s cabin.
“Grandma,” I said, as I hugged her extra hard.
“What?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing.”
She smiled and went back to work and I just watched her busying herself. No one else in our family would ever know how or where she spent that particular day. The idea of angels is appealing to me. Whether they exist or not, I can’t say. I do know that some people are called on to do good deeds. Grandma Cora was the closest thing to an angel I ever knew. It was not lost on me how our days had differed when it came to Thorne. I had tried to take advantage of his illness to get what I wanted; she was trying to support his recovery.
My grandfather and I worked the maintainer in shifts for the next three days and nights, Tucker at my side to keep me company. At first, he was a little reluctant about jumping into the cab, but after a little coaxing he was right at home. I made a bed for him behind the seat from old blankets and coats. Having Tucker with me made the work seem more tolerable and the hours passed by quickly. From time to time, I imagined he would shout up little commands to make sure I was paying attention. “Look out there, George, you’re drifting to the right.”
I let him know who was boss. “You can’t even walk a straight line, Tucker. So don’t tell me how to plow!”
The snow let up, but the real problem was the wind, which caused drifts into the roadway so that we were having to redo what we had previously done. Still, we made progress, having cleared all of the main roads and shifting to the more isolated side roads and country lanes.
We were exhausted, but the winds were dying down and we were gaining ground. The dairy truck was coming again, and both the power and phone companies were able to start making repairs. The temperature was also climbing, and as we thawed out from the big storm, things were getting back to normal. Soon, McCray’s Dairy had power and phone service, and the worst was behind us.
There were only a few days of school left before the Christmas break and I was hoping that all the canceled days would mean a free pass for me on both algebra and memorizing lines for the school play.
My grandfather gave me ten dollars and suggested that I do some Christmas shopping with my grandma—at least as soon as I cracked the ice and did the milking.
The next morning, Grandma and I decided we needed rest, so shopping would wait another day. After breakfast, I re-read the letter from my mom that I had stashed very carefully in my pocket. She said that they would be driving to Kansas and hoping to arrive no later than December 24, roads allowing. She said that I should be packed and ready to go by December 27. School started in Minnesota on January 5. I tossed the letter aside and tried not to think about it.
Chapter 25
ON DECEMBER 19, my second day off in a row, I took Tucker for a long walk. It seemed that Frank Thorne’s health was continuing to improve. When I brought Tucker back, Thorne even asked me to come inside and sit down. I did not have much to say, so after a few awkward moments, I said my goodbyes and headed home.
Grandma made a huge lunch and I must have eaten too much. I felt exhausted, so I stretched out on my bed for what I thought would be a short nap before I helped with the afternoon milking. I did not wake up until 7:30 the next morning.
Stumbling out of bed, embarrassed, I wondered why no one had woken me. Downstairs, both of my grandparents were very quiet, probably a bit irritated at me for sleeping in and not helping with the chores, I thought.
It was up to me to make some conversation. “I better go check the pond and clear the ice.”
My grandfather barely looked up. “Thanks, you do that.”
It went quiet again, and I ate in silence until my grandfather spoke.
“George, I took the trash down to the dump and I pulled out two empty jars that looked strange to me. You probably think that I’m too old to have noticed, but there had been alcohol in them.”
As I gulped the last of my oatmeal, I’m sure my face turned as white as the snow I had been plowing.
“Do you have any idea how those jars got in the trash?”
Rising from the table and pulling on my coat, I planned to toss a quick “don’t know
” over my shoulder and head out.
“George, get back over here and sit down.”
I sighed, knowing I’d have to tell them everything, wondering if they’d understand. “Yes, I know how they got there, but it’s not what you think.”
“Try me,” my grandfather said.
I told them the whole story. My grandmother had her hands on her hips, her irritation with me slowly dissipating. Grandpa Bo listened with an impassive look on his face, until he cracked a bemused smile and spoke.
“Well, can we agree that’ll be your first and last trip up to Blackberry Hill?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m disappointed that you chose to run that errand for Thorne, incomplete as it was, but I’m proud of you for one thing.”
“What’s that, Grandpa?”
“You were able to correct your course after you made a wrong turn. That’s a good skill for a maintainer. Now get on out of here and crack the ice.”
Not until I had my own children did I realize how skillful my grandparents were at parenting. It is extraordinarily difficult to simultaneously correct and support a teenager. They actually made me feel better about myself and them when I made mistakes. My misjudgments and wrong turns were opportunities to learn from and not events to be ashamed of.
Walking out the door to crack the ice, I realized I had no idea how I was going to say goodbye to two such wonderful people, whom I loved to the core. What would life be like without them?
When I got to the pond, I discovered there was no need to chop the ice. It had grown so warm, almost fifty degrees the day before, that the opening had not frozen over. The cows were ambling down to the lake for a drink and the heifers were bawling for their mothers. There was a strange smell in the air—at least for that time of year. I looked to the sky to confirm what I thought.
Snow clouds are a light gray color and just reach right down to the trees so that the spaces between the sky and the land all come together without dramatic contrasts. The sky that morning was very different. Overhead it was clear and bright and to the east the sun was giving us everything she had to give. But to the west, the sky was black as night and I could hear thunder booming on the horizon. I smelled rain. Thunderstorms were for spring and summer, not winter. This made no sense to me.