Saving Shiloh Read online

  “Next best thing to a fireplace,” Ma says.

  I know if I don’t bring in the wood now and stack some more on the porch, I’m not going to be able to find the woodpile in another couple hours.

  Shiloh goes out with me, and tries to tunnel through the snow with his nose. I stack wood on the porch first, then stamp the snow off my boots and make another couple trips from the porch to the stove inside. By this time Shiloh’s had his fill of snow and comes when I call. He plops down close to that potbellied stove, giving out big contented sighs, his eyes closin’. He wore himself out.

  Every time there’s another report on TV about the blizzard nobody knew was comin’, the weather bureau moves the number of inches up. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow, one of the weathermen says now, and, a half hour later, he’s talkin’ two feet.

  Dad finally gets home about eight, and can hardly make it up the drive. He’s got snow tires on the Jeep and four-wheel drive, but the wind’s blowin’ the snow in drifts across the road. I can tell by the look on Ma’s face when she hears that Jeep that it’s about the best music in the whole world to her.

  Dad’s real pleased to see all the wood I brung in.

  “Good for you, Marty,” he says. “Last I heard, we’re goin’ to need every stick of it. They’re talking thirty inches now.”

  Dara Lynn squeals some more.

  I wake up next morning and look out the window in sheer wonder. Dad’s stomping back in the house to say that he can’t move the Jeep one inch—he’d have to shovel all the way down to the road, and then couldn’t go anywhere. Plow hadn’t been down there, either.

  “Well, Dara Lynn, looks like you got your wish,” Ma says, turning the French toast over in the skillet.

  It’s only the second time in all the years Dad’s worked for the post office, though, that he hasn’t been able to get his Jeep through, and he worries about people who are waiting for their pension checks.

  “Even if the checks got through, nobody could get to a bank to cash them,” says Ma.

  David calls, of course, and tells me they haven’t been plowed out yet down in Friendly, either, and his dad is still trying to get to the newspaper office. Then Ma calls Aunt Hettie in Clarksburg to make sure she’s okay, and finally there’s nothin’ else to do but give in to being snowbound.

  Snow finally stops about noon, and Dad goes out with a yardstick to measure where it’s flat in the yard. Thirty-one and a half inches, not counting six or seven feet along the side of the house and shed where it’s drifted. We shovel a path to the henhouse to get some feed to the chickens.

  Us kids have to go out in it, of course. I take a shovel and dig a path from our porch to a tree, just so Shiloh can do his business. Dara Lynn and Becky, fat as clowns in their snowsuits, scarfs wrapped around their faces, only their eyes peeking out, set to work diggin’ a cave at one side of my path, but Becky no sooner sits down inside it than the roof falls in on her. She’s squallin’, looks like she got hit in the face with a cream pie, and I got to carry her into the house. I sure wish David Howard was here. We’d dig a tunnel all the way down to the road.

  We have a fine time—go out and come in so many times that Ma just puts our caps and mittens beneath the potbellied stove to dry out, so they’ll be ready again when we are. House smells like wet wool and Ma’s home-baked bread. Dara Lynn’s cheeks are red as apples, her nose, too. She wouldn’t be half bad-lookin’ if she’d just keep her mouth shut.

  By middle of the afternoon, though, Dad’s gettin’ calls sayin’ that trees are down, and power lines as well. The snow’s wet and heavy, like pudding, and plows can’t get through till the trees are cleared off the roads. They got a substitute mail carrier deliverin’ what mail he can down in Friendly, and I know Dad wants in the worst way to be doin’ his own route. A matter of pride.

  Ma’s cheerful, though. Says we can toast marshmallows in the woodstove after supper, and then we watch a National Geographic special on alligators. But fifteen minutes from the end, the TV goes out along with the lights.

  “Hey!” yells Dara Lynn. “What happened?”

  “What do you suppose?” I say. “The electricity went off.”

  “Ray . . . ?” says Ma.

  Dad makes his way into the kitchen to get the flashlight. “Well,” he says, “I imagine a transformer went out somewhere. Guess we’re lucky it waited till we had our supper.”

  We hang round the stove till the fire dies down. Dad don’t want to put in any more wood, in case the power’s off a long time, and we need every bit of wood we can find.

  “Why don’t we go to bed early to stay warm, and maybe the electricity will come back on in the night,” says Ma, and she gets out some candles to make an adventure of it. The girls go to bed without their baths, because we all got wells out this way, and the electric pump won’t bring up the water if the power’s off. The only water we got for drinking and cooking is what’s left in the water heater right now.

  Shiloh and me are lucky. Because the woodstove’s in the living room, and we’re sleepin’ on the couch, we got the warmest place of all. But when we get up the next morning, the house is cold as an ice chest. Dad’s got his coat on over his pajamas, and he’s bringing in wood from the porch to feed the stove.

  Ma tells me to dress without washing up, and nobody’s to flush a toilet. Dara Lynn immediately sets up a howl.

  “It’s gonna stink in there!” she cries. “I ain’t going to use no toilet that stinks!”

  Ma turns on her suddenly. “Dara Lynn, I can think of a hundred worse things that could happen to you, and I don’t want to hear another word. You don’t want to use the bathroom, you can potty in the snow.”

  That shuts Dara Lynn up in a hurry. I smile; can’t help myself—just thinking of Dara Lynn with her backside in a snowdrift. But I can see right off that today’s not goin’ to be near as much fun as yesterday. The woodstove’s got a round top on it, not made for cookin’, so Ma puts a pot over it upside down, and grills our toast on its flat bottom. Everything takes twice as long to make, though, and finally, cold as we are, we settle for Cheerios and the last of the milk. It’s right about then we hear the sound of an engine grinding out on the road somewhere.

  “Snowplow!” sings out Dara Lynn, looking toward the window.

  No sight of anything, though. Don’t look like there’s any plow comin’ along the country road. And then we see Judd’s pickup, a plow blade in front, tumin’ right up our driveway.

  Slowly, his wheels spinning, Judd pushes his way through the snowdrifts till he can’t go no more, then backs up and makes another run at it. We all go to the window to watch, and Dad steps out on the porch and waves.

  The pickup keeps comin’, huge mounds of snow moving ahead of it. Every so often, Judd turns the wheel, ramming into the snowbanks with the plow to get rid of his load. The snow sure isn’t doin’ his truck any good, but Judd keeps at it, pushin’ a little bit farther each time before he backs off and makes another run. Finally he gets up as far as our porch.

  “Judd, I sure do appreciate this,” Dad calls.

  Judd rolls down his window. “Thought you might need to get out.”

  “Won’t you come in and warm up?” Ma calls.

  “Couple more folks I got to help out,” Judd yells. “Thanks, anyway.” And he makes a wide sweep to turn himself around, then heads off down the driveway, pushing more snow in front of him.

  If people would just give him a chance! I’m thinking. See how much he’s changed! But at the same time, I’m wondering is that a new jacket he’s wearin’? And is that shotgun I see resting above the back window in the truck really his?

  Fourteen

  By next day, the electricity’s still off, and we all sleep on the floor in the living room around the stove. Dad brings in a pail of snow and sets it by the toilet to flush it, but the bathroom’s so cold the snow don’t thaw. Now we got buckets of snow settin’ all around the stove, coaxin’ it to melt. Only good thing we’ve had t
o eat is hot dogs, ’cause you can put ’em on a stick and shove ’em right in the fire.

  Dad gets out his Jeep to see how far he can go, but this time he’s stopped by a tree that’s down. Trees and wires all the way between here and Little, and when he tries to go the other way, across the bridge and on past Judd’s, he come to the place where even Judd quit plowin’. Big wall of snow blocking the whole road. Drifts clear up over Dad’s head.

  “Sure am glad I’m not expectin’ a baby in a blizzard like this,” says Ma. I see her hand go up to her jaw and figure she’s thinking a toothache would be even worse.

  The bad part is we can’t get no news on the TV or radio, neither, and with the sky that sick color again, like it’s going to throw up more snow, we don’t much feel like rompin’ around outside. Takes too long to warm up afterwards. Even Shiloh hangs back when we open the door.

  And then things slide from bad to worse. Our phone line goes out.

  I know Ma’s thinkin’ that if one of us had an accident or something, there’d be no way to call for help. No way for anyone to get in with an ambulance, either. Last year down in Mingo County, a man got hurt during a snowstorm and they had to send a helicopter to pick him up. Almost worth knockin’ Dara Lynn off the roof just to see a helicopter set down in our field. I smile to myself, but you sure can’t say a joke like that out loud.

  Everybody’s tired of snow. We’re tired of eatin’ cold food, tired of settin’ on a cold toilet seat, and of everybody crowded together at night on the living room floor just to stay warm, gettin’ on each others’ nerves. Dad’s the only one half cheery. He says just pretend we’re campin’ out, but I can tell he’s itchin’ to get to work, and Ma just plain wants out of the house. And as if that ain’t enough, it starts snowin’ once more.

  But then, fast as things got worse, they get better. The power comes on during the night. We’re all sound asleep when suddenly the TV starts blarin’ and the lights come on. We sit up and cheer. Hear the furnace click. By morning the phone’s workin’, too, and about nine, we hear chain saws goin’ out on the road, crews workin’ to remove trees that are down, and then the low grinding sound of the snowplow.

  Dad gets to work about noon. Weatherman on TV says the four more inches of snow we got is all it will be for a while, and suddenly the world looks good again.

  Weren’t all the roads in the county cleared, though, so the schools stay closed till Friday. Then everyone’s got stories to tell of just how bad the blizzard was at his place, and I make a point of telling how Judd Travers come and plowed us out; plowed out some other driveways, too. To hear me tell it, Judd was part Paul Bunyan and part Jesus Christ, doin’ all kinds of hero and wonderful things. No one says a bad word against him this time, but I don’t hear no kind word for him, neither.

  And then that evening, I see the light again over near Middle Island Creek. I stand at the window in the dark watching, and get the feeling like something real bad is out there. Why’s it staying right across from where we live? Why don’t it go somewhere else? How do I know that after I go to sleep at night, that light won’t come floating and bobbing right up our driveway and around our place? I’m glad David Howard’s comin’ to sleep over the next day. Sometimes I feel we got us a mystery I’d just as soon not have.

  I go to my job at the vet’s Saturday morning, and when Dad picks me up at noon, we stop by David Howard’s and get him. As soon as we finish our lunch, we’re going to explore the gristmill, where I figure that light’s got to be.

  This time, though, Dara Lynn wants to go with us.

  “No way,” I tell her.

  “Why not?” she says.

  “ ’Cause we’re doing our own stuff. You go do yours.”

  “I’ll just watch,” says Dara Lynn.

  “You will not!” I yell, as she follows us to the door.

  Ma comes out of the bedroom. “Dara Lynn, you got things to play with in here,” she says. “I’ll mix up some flour paste, and you and Becky can cut pictures out of magazines, make a scrapbook.”

  “I don’t want to make no scrapbook! I can play out in my own yard if I want!” Dara Lynn says.

  David and I go out, but leave Shiloh inside so he won’t give us away when we give Dara Lynn the slip. We’re tryin’ to beat her to the bridge, but we get halfway down the drive and here she comes, clomping along in her boots, not even buckled. So we have to make like we’re going hiking along the creek in the other direction, hide behind some trees, then head back the other way using the same footprints in the snow to confuse her.

  By now the thirty-one inches have sunk down to twenty or so, and melting all the time, but every step we take is still a high one. Finally we see Dara Lynn headin’ back up toward the house, so we make our way toward the bridge, down the bank, and push our way through the tangle of bushes and trees and snow to the cinder block supports of the old mill.

  The old white-shingled building is propped up on a dozen or so columns to keep it out of the water in flood season, and one whole side of it’s been burned or collapsed out of sheer misery, can’t tell which. Dad won’t let us climb up in there—too dangerous—but we take a good look below.

  We hold on to each other, ’cause we know that the ground slants toward the creek, and it’s full of ruts and gullies. One wrong step, and we’re in a snowbank over our heads. Can’t even tell where the bank stops and the creek begins. You get thirty-one inches of snow falling down in this place, plus the four or five inches more, plus all the snow that blows off the road or was pushed down here by the plow, why . . . a person could get buried, and nobody find him till spring.

  I take this old dead limb and dig out a path in front of us. Even without snow, it’s hard to see just what’s here. Imagine the waterwheel was on the side next to the creek, but we sure can’t make out anything.

  “Know what?” David says at last. “If anybody had been down here, either we’d find his footprints or he’s buried at the bottom of this snow.”

  I stop and think. Without moving my feet, I twist my body all around, lookin’ in every direction, and I don’t see any footprints here at all, not around the gristmill nor the bank nor the path leading up to the road—only the tracks we made ourselves.

  “Shoot!” I say, disappointed.

  “If we dig, though, we might find a body under the snow,” says David.

  “Yeah,” I say, not all that eager. We don’t even know what we’re lookin’ for anymore—just talkin’ nonsense. We both know we’re not about to go back to my place, carry a shovel all the way down here, and start digging.

  We claw our way back up the bank, same place we come down, and make a whole pile of snowballs—line ’em up on the bridge. Then we take turns seeing if we can hit a stick far out there on the ice.

  We do a couple of throws, and I’ve just picked up my third snowball when suddenly there’s this loud whomp!, like a whole house has rose up in the air and set down again.

  David and I turn, starin’ in the direction of the noise, just in time to see snow slidin’ off the roof of the old Shiloh schoolhouse. We run over and wade through the school yard, and there’s half the roof caved in, settin’ there like it’s been that way forever.

  “Wow!” I say.

  “It went just like that!” says David. “All that snow!”

  “Let’s check it out!” I tell him, and we go over and try the door. Locked, of course. Paint flecks scattered all about. Through the dusty window I can see an old refrigerator, a flowered armchair that the mice have nested in, some children’s desks, a table. . . . We go around back to where the outhouse is. And then we stop dead still and stare, because there’s a fresh path in the snow between the outhouse and a cellar window.

  “Marty!” David whispers, his eyes half popped from his head.

  We know what we’re going to do. We check out the outhouse first, and my heart’s like to jump out of my skin. The snow’s been cleared away where the door’s ajar, and I figure if anybody’s in there hearin
g us talk, he’d probably pull the door to. But I know if we get up to that door and peer around it and see somebody sittin’ inside, I will die on the spot.

  We’re lifting our feet so high with each step it looks like we’re marching, and David gets to the door first.

  Ready? he mouths to me. I nod. He hooks one finger around the edge of that door and slowly, slowly pulls it open.

  Creeeaaak! it goes, just like in the movies.

  “Whew!” I say, when I see the seat’s empty.

  Together, we turn and look at the school, knowing that somebody could be watching us that very minute. At the same time, we know as sure as we got teeth in our mouth that we’re going to climb in there and take a look. You can see by that open window where somebody’s been crawlin’ in and out.

  “Who’s gonna go first?” asks David, meaning that he was the one who checked out the outhouse, and now it’s my turn.

  I get down on my knees, stick one leg inside, and back in. See that somebody’s put an old bench below the window to step down on, and soon as both my legs are in, and then my back and head, I look around.

  “What do you see?” David whispers.

  “Junk,” I tell him. “Broken-down chairs. An old blackboard. Rats’ nests—pigeon poop.” But I don’t see a living soul. Don’t hear a single sound except the creak of some boards where the wind blows through.

  “Come on in,” I say to David, and he climbs in, too. The floor above us is sagging, so we hug the wall wherever we can. Have to crawl over a ton of stuff to get to the stairs, and then we stick to the sides in case they give.

  When we get to the top, we see where the roof’s come down, spilling snow onto what’s left of a classroom.

  “David!” I say, and point. There is my dad’s lantern, sittin’ right on the floor beside a blanket. I’d know it anywhere—got a piece of tape at the back to hold the batteries in. We look around, and there’s a shotgun, too. And some chicken bones and a box of crackers. Any minute now, I’m thinking, I’ll feel a gun in my back.