We reached a drift across the road and Pa eased Simon round her where he knew there wasn’t any fence. Pa figured to go back to the road but after we got round the bank I could see there wasn’t any point in that. There were rows of high drifts across it.
They ain’t got no reason to do that, Pa said.
It was the first thing Pa’d said since he told me to go upstairs and see if the Pedersen kid was still alive. He hadn’t looked alive to me but I’d said I guessed he was. Pa’d gone and got his gun first, without dressing, one foot still bare so he favored it, and took the gun upstairs cradled in his arm, broke, and pointing down. He had a dark speckled spot on the rump of his nightshirt where he’d sat on the table. Hans had his shotgun and the forty-five he’d stolen from the Navy. He made me load it and when I’d stuck it in my belt he’d said it’d likely go off and keep me from ever getting out to stud. The gun felt like a chunk of ice against my belly and the barrel dug.
Ma’d put some sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee in a sack. The coffee’d be cold. My hands would be cold when I ate mine even if I kept my gloves on. Chewing would be painful. The lip of the Thermos would be cold if I drank out of that, and I’d spill some on my chin which would dry to ice; or if I used the cup, the tin would stick to my lip like lousy liquor you didn’t want to taste by licking off, and it would burn and then tear my skin coming away.
Simon went into a hole. He couldn’t pull out so he panicked and the sleigh skidded. We’d had crust but now the front right runner broke through and we braked in the soft snow underneath. Pa made quiet impatient noises and calmed Simon down.
That was damn fool, Hans said.
He lost his footing. Jesus, I ain’t the horse.
I don’t know. Simon’s a turd binder, Hans said.
Pa took a careful drink.
Go round and lead him out.
Jorge is on the outside.
Go round and lead him out.
You. You go round. You led him in.
Go round and lead him out.
Sometimes the snow seemed as blue as the sky. I don’t know which seemed colder.
Oh god I’ll go, I said. I’m on the outside.
Your old man’s on the outside, Hans said.
I guess I know where I am, Pa said. I guess I know where I’m staying.
Can’t you let up, for christ’s sake? I’m going, I said.
I threw off the blanket and stood up but I was awful stiff. The snow dazzle struck me and the pain of the space around us. Getting out I rammed my ankle against the sideboard’s iron brace. The pain shot up my leg and shook me like an ax handle will when you strike wrong. I cursed, taking my time jumping off. The snow looked as stiff and hard as cement and I could only think of the jar.
You’ve known where that brace was for ten years, Pa said.
The snow went to my crotch. The gun bit. I waded round the hole trying to keep on tiptoe and the snow away from my crotch but it wasn’t any use.
You practicing to be a bird? Hans said.
I got hold of Horse Simon and tried to coax him out. Pa swore at me from his seat. Simon kicked and thrashed and lunged ahead. The front right runner dug in. The sleigh swung around on it and the left side hit Simon’s back legs hard behind the knees. Simon reared and kicked a piece out of the side of the sleigh and then pulled straight ahead tangling the reins. The sleigh swung back again and the right runner pulled loose with a jerk. Pa’s bottle rolled. From where I sat in the snow I saw him grab for it. Simon went on ahead. The sleigh slid sideways into Simon’s hole and the left runner went clear of the snow. Simon pulled up short though Pa had lost the reins and was holding on and yelling about his bottle. I had snow in my eyes and down my neck.
Simon didn’t have no call to do that, Hans said, mimicking Pa.
Where’s my bottle? Pa said, looking over the side of the sleigh at the torn snow. Jorge, go find my bottle. It fell in the snow here somewheres.
I tried to brush the snow off without getting more in my pockets and up my sleeves and down my neck.
You get out and find it. It’s your bottle.
Pa leaned way over.
If you hadn’t been so god damn dumb it wouldn’t have fell out. Where’d you learn to lead a horse? You never learned that dumb trick from me. Of all the god damn dumb tricks I never seen any dumber.
Pa waved his arm in a circle.
That bottle fell out about here. It couldn’t have got far. It was corked, thank god. I won’t lose none.
Snow was slipping down the hollow of my back. The forty-five had slipped through my belt. I was afraid it would go off like Big Hans said. I kept my right forearm pressed against it. I didn’t want it slipping off down my pants. I didn’t like it. Pa shouted directions.
You hid it, I said. You’re such a hand at hiding. You find it then. I ain’t good at finding. You said so yourself.
Jorge, you know I got to have that bottle.
Then get off your ass and find it.
You know I got to have it.
Then get off.
If I get down off here, it ain’t the bottle I’m coming after. I’ll hold you under till you drown, you little smart-talking snot.
I started kicking around in the snow.
Hans giggled.
There’s a trace broke, he said.
What’s so damn funny?
I told you that trace was worn.
I kicked about. Pa followed my feet.
Hell. Not that way. He pointed. You know about everything there is, Hans, I guess, he said, still watching me. First little thing you figure out you tell somebody about. Then somebody else knows. So then they can do what needs to be done, and you don’t have to — jesus, not there, there. Don’t it, Hans? don’t it always let you out? You ain’t going deep enough. I never figured that out. How come somebody else’s knowing always lets you out? You’re just a pimp for jobs, I guess. You ain’t going deep enough, I said.
It ain’t my job to fix traces.
Hey, get your hands in it, your hands. It’s clean. You always was that way about manure. Why ain’t it your job? Too busy screwing sheep? Try over there. You ought to have hit it. No, there, not there.
I never fixed traces.
Christ, they never needed fixing while you been here hardly. Jorge, will you stop nursing that fool gun with your cock and use both hands.
I’m cold, Pa.
So’m I. That’s why you got to find that bottle.
If I find it do I get a drink?
Ain’t you growed up — a man — since yesterday!
I’ve had a few, Pa.
Ha. Of what, hey? Hear that, Hans? He’s had a few. For medicine maybe, like your ma says. The spirits, the spirits, Jorgen Segren… ha. He’s had a few he says. He’s had a few.
Pa.
He’s had a few. He’s had a few. He’s had a few.
Pa. I’m cold, Pa.
Maybe. Only look, for god’s sake, don’t just thrash about like a fool chicken.
Well, we’re finished anyway, Hans said.
We’re finished if we don’t find that bottle.
You’re finished, maybe. You’re the only one who needs that bottle. Jorge and I don’t need it, but there you are, old man, eh? Lost in the snow.
My gloves were wet. Snow had jammed under my sleeves. It was working down into my boots. I stopped to pick some out with a finger if I could.
Maybe some of ma’s coffee is still hot, I said.