The Snowman
Copyright 2012 Crosby Kenyon
Cover by Margo Hrubec
Her head snapped up, and her gaze went automatically to her husband sitting in the other rocker. Had George spoken? He was practically within arm's reach on the enclosed porch but might as well have been a world away. She'd dozed for only a moment, she was sure. Something had wakened her. He did make a garbled sound in his throat then, and she straightened and caught a flash of yellow out in the yard, but it was gone that quickly before she could lift her glasses from where they hung on a cord on her breast. Again? The last time…the last time that had happened…she shook her head and glanced at the thing in the yard—barely a blink—then went inside to get breakfast.
The warming weather had had no effect on the snowman. Spring came, and the snow melted down the hills and valleys, the streams gathered strength from the run-off, and it stood alone as a mockery to the budding trees and shrubs and new grass. She had done everything to it: clubbed it with a baseball bat, the wood thudding dully against it; axed it until the blade was ruined; poured pails of scalding water over it, the water running as if over a block of granite; pulled at the eyes and mouth until her fingernails broke and twisted the arms with all her strength. The hat and scarf seemed glued on. One night she had piled brush and kindling around it and fed the flames, watching it watch her until the memory of a winter's night in front of the hearth came to her, and she let it die out, cleaning up the mess next morning before George could see.
He was almost as still as the thing itself. Mamie Desjardins shook her head in disgust, setting on the tray the tea he would only sip, the toast he would barely nibble. It was all she could do now. She had tried everything she could think of to bring him out of his stupor. With an air of hopelessness, she carried the tray through the living room of their small house to what remained of her husband. It was where he spent all his waking hours away from bed since the accident, from dawn until it was too dark to see.
"Breakfast, George," Mamie said as cheerfully as she could and set the tray on the small table beside him. For a moment she thought he might speak, but she was almost beyond hoping.
She sat back down in the rocking chair on the other side of the doorway and rocked gently. He seldom did even that. She watched him staring out at the lawn, staring at that…thing. Before the accident, he had been a robust sixty-five, stocky, a little overweight with good color and thick gray hair. In the five months since, he seemed to have aged twenty years, turning sickly pale and thin, his hair gone white, his good strong nose almost too big, now, for his shriveled features.
"Try to eat something, George," Mamie urged wearily. Though the earlier darting glance told her all she needed to know, she finally let her gaze take the usual circuitous path, another part of the daily routine.
Her vision drifted across the small expanse of grass to the ancient maple, then slowly to the azaleas and more slowly to the loathsome object as if this oblique routing would somehow give it more time to disappear before her eyes reached the spot, the focus of her husband's withering life. It was still there, of course, still wearing the tattered black hat and scarf, still staring back at them with its charcoal eyes, grinning crookedly with its charcoal teeth, still holding out its arms. There was nothing unusual about having a snowman in one's yard, millions had them every year—but not in the hottest, driest part of summer.
Mamie hated it. What in blue blazes did it want? That was silly—it couldn't want anything.
The accident. She shivered in spite of the summer heat. It had happened in February, though it was as vivid as yesterday and if she lived forever would remain as clear as that.
She felt the loss no less than her husband.
It had been another snow-filled winter. Mamie was finishing the breakfast dishes. George sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and watching the light snow fall outside the window above the sink. "Why so quiet, Mame? You're usually gabbing away when we're expecting the kids."
"I know."
"Well?"
"George, do you think this time you could…leave the boy alone?"
"Leave him alone? Of course not. He's my grandson."
She turned to face him, drying her hands on a towel. "You know what I mean, George. The way you scare him. You know it sets him on edge. He's just only turned six. It's not good for the child."
"Kids are full of life and enjoy a little excitement. It's fun for him. Kids like fun."
"It's you who has the real fun. Admit it."
"Good God, when I think how my old man used to scare the pants off of me…I liked it. I loved it, I know I did. Monsters in the closet, creepy feelers under the bed, witches in the attic, the bogey man scratching on the window outside. I loved those thrills and chills. I had a great time. And the old man—what a card."
"And now you're the old man. He was mean, I think, and now you're…"
"Mamie," he interrupted, the irritation coming at last. "He wasn't mean and neither am I."
"There's a limit, George, but you never seem to know where it is."
Later, the sky was dark with storm clouds as Mamie walked up the driveway with the mail. She turned to watch the red pickup climb after her with a load of seasoned maple to see them through the last of the winter weather.
"Hi, Gramma!" six-year old Bobby called from the cab when the truck had drawn near, and she hopped on the running board as it passed at a crawl.
Her son-in-law backed the truck to the shed. "Looks good," George exclaimed.
Sam grinned. "That should hold you."
"Ugh," Mamie grunted, lifting her grandson. His smile matched his father's, and his blond hair was Julie's, but the deep blue eyes and broad forehead, the sturdy little nose and chin belonged to George.
"Who's this, Sam?" her husband asked in mock surprise. "A hitch hiker?"
"Not sure, George."
"Bobby, dummy!"
"Robert…" Julie started to scold, but he was already in his grandfather's arms.
Everyone helped with the wood, the men tossing it to the door of the shed, the women and the boy stacking inside. "It's spooky in here," Bobby declared.
"Since when?" his mother asked. "You liked playing in here last summer."
"Yeah, but Granpa said…"
"That figures," said Mamie, and George smirked to himself on the back of the truck.
Bobby pointed. "Is that a old spider web up there?"
"I guess it is," Mamie said.
Her grandson stepped just outside. "Granpa, there's a old spider web in there."
"What do you want me to do about it, little fly?"
Mamie went to the door. "George."
"Don't you say a word to that spider, or he'll drop down and pull you right up!"
"George, you're hopeless."
The snow began to fall in earnest around dusk. They'd spent much of the afternoon sledding in the field behind the house, and after supper the youngster sat on the rug before the fire in the living room. Mamie sat down beside him. "I like watching the fire, Gramma."
"Me, too. What do you see in there?"
"Uh, houses. Trees. Ruff's in there," he said in wonder after a moment.
"Poor doggie."
"He's okay."
"Anything else?"
"Faces and people. People…dancing and fighting…people burning."
"What people?" Someone was hovering over them.
"Just people. Oh, I see Granpa."
"Who's in the fire?" asked a peremptory voice from above.
Bobby looked straight up and back. "You are!"
"What am I doing in there?"
"You're burnin' up!"
They rolled around on the
carpet until George was gasping for breath. "Enough! Enough! You win!" But no sooner had he caught it than he scooped up the child and growled menacingly, "To the attic with you! We'll see what Wilma the Witch has to say about such things!"
"No, Granpa, no!" the boy shrieked.
"George, you're scaring him," Mamie warned.
"Okay, pardner. Okay, Bob. Let's look at the fire."
That night Mamie lay next to her husband in their upstairs bedroom listening to him snore while Bobby cried in his sleep in one of the spare rooms down the hall until Julie went to him.
There were four inches of new snow in the morning. Julie and Sam had gone down to the river to skate, and by the time George stepped outside Bobby had already rolled a ball of snow nearly as big as himself over by the half-buried azalea. George helped him pat it solid and they started another. When it was firm, George set it on the first, and Bobby rolled the head.
"Be right back, Bob. I'll find something for the face."
"Can I make the face, Granpa?"
"Sure can."
Mamie stood on the porch and watched George bring an old black top hat and a bag of charcoal from the garage. Their snow-suited grandson gave it an