In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

by William H. Gass

  When I got good and cold the feeling slipped away. I couldn’t imagine him with his gun or cap or yellow gloves. I couldn’t imagine me coming on to him. We weren’t anyplace and I didn’t care. Pa drove by staring down the sloping white road and drank from his bottle. Hans rattled his heels on the back of the seat. I just tried to keep my mouth shut and breathe and not think why in the name of the good jesus christ I had to.

  It wasn’t like a sleigh ride on an early winter evening when the air is still, the earth is warm, and the stars are flakes being born that will not fall. The air was still all right, the sun straight up and cold. Behind us on the trough that marked the road I saw our runners and the holes that Simon tore. Ahead of us it melted into drifts. Pa squinted like he saw where he knew it really went. Horse Simon steamed. Ice hung from his harness. Snow caked his belly. I was afraid the crust might cut his knees and I wanted a drink out of Pa’s bottle. Big Hans seemed asleep and shivered in his dreams. My rear was god almighty sore.

  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 finish
ed 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.

  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 bottl
e. 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.

  Hans was puffing quietly when Pa told me to get in the sleigh. Then Hans climbed awkwardly on. Pa took the blanket off Horse Simon and threw it in the sleigh. Then he got Simon started. I pulled the blanket over me and tried to stop shivering. Our stove, I thought, was black . . . god . . . black . . . lovely sooty black . . . and glowed rich as cherry through its holes. I thought of the kettle steaming on it, the steam alive, hissing white and warm, not like my breath coming slow and cloudy and hanging heavy and dead in the still air.

  Hans jumped.

  Where we going? he said. Where we going?

  Pa didn’t say nothing.

  This ain’t the way, Hans said. Where we going?

  The gun was an ache in my stomach. Pa squinted at the snow.

  For christ’s sake, Hans said. I’m sorry about the bottle.

  But Pa drove.

  2

  Barberry had got in the grove and lay about the bottom of the trees and hid in snow. The mossycups went high, their branches put straight out, the trunk bark black and wrinkled. There were spots where I could see the frosted curls of dead grass frozen to the ground and high hard-driven piles of snow the barberry stuck its black barbs from. The wind had thrown some branches in the drifts. The sun made shadows of more branches on their sides and bent them over ridges. The ground rose up behind the grove. The snow rose. Pa and Hans had their shotguns. We followed along the drifts and kept down low. I could hear us breathing and the snow, earth, and our boots squeaking. We went slow and all of us was cold.