Qwilleran hurried into boots and parka and climbed over the piles of snow that the sidewalk blowers had thrown into the street and the city plows had thrown back onto the sidewalk. A truck from the Bid-a-Bit Auction House had lowered its ramp, and Amanda herself was on the porch, directing the operation. She looked dowdier than ever in her army surplus jacket, Daniel Boone hat, and unfastened galoshes.
"Amanda! What's going on here?" Qwilleran hailed her as he plunged through the drifts.
"I'm getting out before the Big Snow! I'm selling everything! I'm moving to Indian Village!"
"But what will you do with your house?"
"It's sold! Good riddance! I always hated it!"
"Who bought it?"
"Some real estate vulture from Down Below!"
He joined her on the porch and teased her by saying, "You'll be sorry! Pickax is attracting investors. Land values will go up."
"Nothing'll go up on this godforsaken street until the property owners get off their hind ends and permit re-zoning... Stop! Stop!" she screamed at the movers, who were struggling with a hundred-year-old black walnut breakfront, twelve feet wide. "You're scratching the finish! Take the drawers out! Watch the glass doors!"
At the same moment a second moving van pulled up to the Wilmot house. Qwilleran shrugged, pulled up the hood of his parka, and trudged the length of the boulevard, counting for-sale signs. There were only four left, out of a recent seven. He enjoyed walking in snow and took the opportunity to hike downtown to the church where he would present "The Big Burning" the following afternoon.
The fellowship hall in the church basement was a large room paneled in pickled pine, with a highly waxed vinyl floor and a good solid platform. The custodian told Qwilleran he could use the men's restroom for exits and entrances. Seventy-five women were expected for lunch at noon, and they'd be ready for the show at one o'clock. Everything appeared to be well organized, and Qwilleran was impressed by the facilities.
As he arrived home, Nick Bamba was pulling into the driveway. "Come on in, Nick, and have a hot drink," he said hospitably.
"Not this time," Nick declined. "I have a dozen errands to do before the Big Snow." He handed over a folder. "Here's your correspondence from Lori, and I've brought my tool kit. I'll pick the lock in the library. Are you all ready for the Big Snow?"
"Polly has been nagging me about that," Qwilleran said, "but my vast experience convinces me that it's never as big as the kerosene dealers would have us believe."
"How long have you been here? Five years? The seventh year is always the really big one. Trust me!" Nick tackled the closet lock in professional fashion while dispensing advice. "You need a camp stove and kerosene heater in case of a long power outage... canned food, not frozen, in case you're snowbound... five-gallon jugs of water in case a water main busts... fresh batteries for your radio and flashlights."
"What do they do at the prison?" Qwilleran asked.
"We have generators. So does the hospital. Remember not to use your elevator after it starts to snow hard; you could be trapped in a blackout." Nick opened the closet door, collected his tools, and accepted Qwilleran's thanks, and on the way out he said, "If you're not concerned about yourself, Qwill, think about your cats."
Koko lost no time in entering the closet. It was filled with files in boxes and drawers, and a small safe stood open and empty. When Qwilleran left to go shopping for canned food, the cat was sitting in the safe like a potentate in a palanquin.
Throughout the weekend a storm watch was in effect, but Suitcase Productions presented all three scheduled shows to capacity audiences. By Monday afternoon Wetherby Goode announced a storm alert and said he was prepared for the worst; he had a sleeping bag in the studio as well as a package of fig newtons.
Monday evening Koko and Yum Yum began to behave abnormally, dashing about and butting furniture. They showed no interest in food or Robinson Crusoe. Eventually Qwilleran shut himself in his bedroom to escape the fracas, but he could still hear bursts of madcap activity. He himself slept fitfully.
Shortly after daybreak a peaceful calm settled on the house. Peering out the window, he witnessed a rare sight: the entire sky was the vivid color of polished copper. A weather bulletin on WPKX made note of the phenomenon and warned that it was the lull before the storm. Duck hunters and commercial fishermen were advised to stay on shore and resist the temptation to make one more haul before the end of the season.
By mid-morning large flakes of snow began to fall. Shortly after, the wind rose, and soon fifty-mile-an-hour gusts were creating blizzard conditions.
At noon the WPKX newscast announced: "A storm of unprecedented violence is blasting the county. Visibility is zero. Serious drifting is making roads impassable. All establishments are closed with the exception of emergency services. Even so, fire fighters, police, and medical personnel attempting to respond to calls are blinded by the whirling snow and are completely disoriented. State police have issued these directives: Stay indoors. Conserve water, food, and fuel. Observe safety precautions in using kerosene heaters and wood-burning stoves. In case of power failure, use flashlights or oil lanterns; avoid candles. Be prepared to switch radios to battery operation. And stay tuned for further advisories."
On Goodwinter Boulevard it was snowing in four directions: down, up, sideways and in circles. Strangely, the Siamese, having accomplished their advance warning, settled down to sleep peacefully.
At three o'clock WPKX reported: "Two duck hunters from Lockmaster left shore in a rented boat west of Mooseville early this morning and have not been seen since that time. Their boat was found bottom-up, blown high on the shore near Brrr... Distress calls from commercial fishing boats are being received, but the sheriff's helicopter is grounded in the blizzard, and rescue crews are unable to launch their boats in the mountainous waves. Thirty-five-foot waves are reported on the lake."
Then the power failed, and when Qwilleran tried to call Polly, the telephone was dead. The blizzard continued relentlessly, hour after hour, and he experienced the unnerving isolation of a house blanketed with snow. Without mechanical noises and without the sound of street traffic, the unnatural stillness left a muffled void that only amplified the howling of the wind, and a cold darkness settled on the rooms as snow drifted against the windows.
The blizzard lasted sixteen hours, during which Qwilleran found he could neither read nor write nor sleep. Then the wind subsided. The Big Snow was over, but it would take almost a week for the county to struggle back to normal. Broadcasting was limited to weather updates and police news on the half hour:
"The worst storm in the history of Moose County was the result of a freak atmospheric condition. Three low-pressure fronts - one coming from Alaska, one from the Rocky Mountains, and one from the Gulf of Mexico - met and clashed over this area. Winds of seventy miles an hour were recorded as thirty-two inches of snow fell in sixteen hours. Drifts of fifteen to thirty feet have buried buildings and walled up city streets and country roads, paralyzing the county."
For the next two days Qwilleran lived life without power, telephone, mail delivery, daily newspapers, or sociable pets. Koko and Yum Yum appeared to be in hibernation on the library sofa. His own intentions to catch up on his reading and write a month's supply of copy for the newspaper were reduced to a state of jittery boredom. Even when snowplows started rumbling and whooshing about the city streets, cars were still impounded in their garages and residents were imprisoned in their houses. The health department warned against overexertion in digging out.
On the morning of the fourth day Qwilleran was in the library, eating a stale doughnut and drinking instant coffee prepared with not-quite-boiling water, when the shrill and unexpected bell of the telephone startled him and catapulted the Siamese from their sofa. It was Polly's exultant voice: "Plug in your refrigerator!"