Say. Yeah. Maybe. But that’s my coffee, boy. I never got none. I ain’t even had breakfast. What are you stopping for? Come on. Hell, Jorge, it’s cold.
I know that better than you. You’re sitting there all nice and dry, bossing; but I’m doing all the work and getting the snow inside me.
Say. Yeah. That’s right.
Pa leaned back and grinned. He clutched the blanket to him and Hans pulled it back.
It’s easier to keep warm moving around, anybody knows that. Ain’t that right, Hans? It’s easier to keep warm moving, ain’t it?
Yeah, Hans said. If you ain’t got a blanket.
See there, Jorge, hey? You just keep good and warm… stirring. It’d be a pity if your pee should freeze. And moving around good prevents calluses on the bottom. Don’t it, Hans?
Yeah.
Hans here knows. He’s nothing but calluses.
You’ll wear out your mouth.
I can’t find it, Pa. Maybe some of ma’s coffee is still warm.
You damn snivel — you ain’t looking. Get tramping proper like I told you and find it. Find it fast, you hear. You ain’t getting back up on this sleigh until you do.
I started jumping up and down, not too fast, and Pa blew his nose with his fingers.
Cold makes the snot run, he says, real wise.
If I found the bottle I’d kick it deep under the snow. I’d kick it and keep kicking it until it sank under a drift. Pa wouldn’t know where it was. I wouldn’t come back to the sleigh either. They weren’t going anywhere anyway. I’d go home though it was a long walk. Looking back I could see our tracks in the trough of the road. They came together before I lost them. It would be warm at home and worth the walk. It was frightening — the endless white space. I’d have to keep my head down. Winded slopes and rises all around me. I’d never wanted to go to Pedersen’s. That was Hans’s fight, and Pa’s. I was just cold… cold… and scared and sick of snow. That’s what I’d do if I found it — kick it under a drift. Then later, a lot later in the spring one day I’d come out here and find the old bottle sticking out of the rotting snow and stuck in the mud like dough, and I’d hide it back of the barn and have a drink whenever I wanted. I’d get some real cigarettes, maybe a carton, and hide them too. Then someday I’d come in and Pa’d smell whiskey on me and think I’d found one of his hiding places. He’d be mad as hell and not know what to say. It’d be spring and he’d think he’d taken them all in like he always did, harvesting the crop like he said.
I looked to see if there was something to mark the place by but it was all gone under snow. There was only the drifts and the deep holes of snow and the long runnered trough of the road. It might be a mudhole we was stuck in. In the spring cattails might grow up in it and the blackbirds come. Or it might be low and slimy at first and then caked dry and cracked. Pa’d never find out how I came by the bottle. Someday he’d act too big and I’d stick his head under the pump or slap his skinny rump with the backside of a fork full of manure. Hans would act smart and then someday—
Jee-suss, will you move?
I’m cold, Pa.
You’re going to be a pig’s size colder.
Well, we’re finished anyway, Hans said. We ain’t going nowhere. The trace is broke.
Pa stopped watching me thrash the snow. He frowned at Horse Simon. Simon was standing quiet with his head down.
Simon’s shivering, he said. I should have remembered he’d be heated up. It’s so cold I forgot.
Pa yanked the blanket off of Hans like Hans was a bed he was stripping, and jumped down. Hans yelled but Pa didn’t pay attention. He threw the blanket over Simon.
We got to get Simon moving. He’ll stiffen up.
Pa ran his hand tenderly down Simon’s legs.
The sleigh don’t seem to have hurt him none.
The trace is broke.
Then Hans stood up. He beat his arms against his body and jigged.
We’ll have to walk him home, he said.
Home, hey, Pa said, giving Hans a funny sidewise look. It’s a long walk.
You can ride him then, Hans said.
Pa looked real surprised and even funnier. It wasn’t like Hans to say that. It was too cold. It made Hans generous. There was some good in cold.
Why?
Pa waded, patting Simon, but he kept his eye on Hans like it was Hans might kick.
Hans let out a long impatient streamer.
Jesus — the trace.
Hans was being real cautious. Hans was awful cold. His nose was red. Pa’s was white but it didn’t look froze. It just looked white like it usually did — like it was part of him had died long ago. I wondered what color my nose was. Mine was bigger and sharper at the end. It was ma’s nose, ma said. I was bigger all over than Pa. I was taller than Hans too. I pinched my nose but my gloves were wet so I couldn’t feel anything except how my nose hurt when I pinched it. It couldn’t be too cold. Hans was pointing at the ends of the trace which were trailing in the snow.
Tie a knot in it, Pa was saying.
It won’t hold, Hans said, shaking his head.
Tie a good one, it will.
It’s too cold to get a good knot. Leather’s too stiff.
Hell no, it ain’t too stiff.
Well, it’s too thick. Can’t knot something like that.
You can do it.
She’ll pull crooked.
Let her pull crooked.
Simon won’t work well pulling her crooked.
He’ll have to do the best he can. I ain’t going to leave this sleigh out here. Hell, it might snow again before I got back with a new trace. Or you got back, hey? When I get home I’m going to stay there and I’m going to eat my breakfast if it’s suppertime. I ain’t coming back out here trying to beat another blizzard and wind up like the Pedersen kid.
Yeah, Hans said, nodding. Let’s get this damn thing out of here and get Simon home before he stiffens. I’ll tie the trace.
Hans got down and I stopped kicking. Pa watched Hans real careful from his side of Horse Simon and I could see him smiling like he’d thought of something dirty. I started to get on the sleigh but Pa shouted and made me hunt some more.
Maybe we’ll find it when we move the sleigh, I said.
Pa laughed but not at what I said. He opened his mouth wide, looking at Hans, and laughed hard, though his laugh was quiet.
Yeah, maybe we will, he said, and gave Simon an extra hard pat. Maybe we will, hey, at that.
I didn’t find the bottle and Big Hans tied the trace. He had to take his gloves off to do it but he did it quick and I had to admire him for it. Pa coaxed Simon while Hans, boosting, heaved. She got clear and suddenly was going — skidding out. I heard a noise like a light bulb busting. A brown stain spread over the sleigh track. Pa peered over his shoulder at the stain, his hands on the halter, his legs wide in the snow.
Oh no, he said. Oh no.
But Big Hans broke up. He lifted a leg clear of the snow. He hit himself. His shoulders shook. He hugged his belly. He rocked back and forth. Oh — oh — oh, he screamed, and he held his sides. Tears streamed down his cheeks. You — you — you, he howled. Hans’s cheeks, his nose, his head was red. Found — found — found, he choked.
Everything about Pa was frozen. The white hair that stuck out from his hat looked hard and sharp and seemed to shine like snow. Big Hans went on laughing. I never saw him so humored. He staggered, weakening — Pa as still as a stake. Hans began to heave and gasp, running down. In a minute he’d be cold again, worn out, and then he’d wish he could drink out of that bottle. Its breaking had made him drunk. The stain had stopped spreading and was fading, the snow bubbling and sagging. We could melt and drink the snow, I thought. I wanted that bottle back bad. I hated Hans. I’d hate Hans forever — as long as there was snow.