Snow Day: a Novella

by Maurer, Dan

  The footsteps stopped. At the top of the cellar stairs, a door opened slowly, its rusted hinges complaining with a soft, sputtering squeal.

  Tommy quietly hurried me to another part of the cellar, partitioned off by a long row of floor to ceiling shelves cluttered with old paint cans, rags, and dusty boxes. He led me around the shelves, past a dormant furnace, an old washer-dryer unit, past a paint-splattered utility sink to a secluded back corner of the cellar. As the lantern’s light touched the wall there, I saw a set of concrete stairs leading up to large metal storm doors. They were double doors, the kind that opened upward as much as they opened out, like in the storm cellar in the Wizard of Oz, only these were made of heavy metal, not the wood kind that Auntie Em huddled behind during the twister. I looked at the slide bolt on the storm doors. I’d seen this kind before. On one door, there was a handle attached to a large metal rod that passed between the two doors, holding and locking them in place. The handle was folded down and secured there by brackets on either side so the handle and the bolt couldn’t slide right or left. To open the door you needed to lift the handle away from the brackets, which turned the slide bolt. Then you pulled the handle and the attached bolt to one side, withdrawing it from the second door and unlocking it. This was all familiar to me because Bobby had a door like this leading down into his basement from his backyard. One day, when his dad wasn’t around, he showed me how it worked. His dad would never let us open it, not even touch it. He was always afraid we’d leave it unlocked – a welcome opportunity for burglars, or someone else – maybe someone like ol’ George.

  “Who’s down there?”

  Tommy and I froze at the sound of a craggy voice from the top of the cellar stairs. We looked at each other, not moving, as the footsteps began their descent.

  “Damn it, I said who’s down there?”

  This time the voice was labored and rushed as it hurried down the stairs. He was racing to grab us, maybe to throw us in the grave he had dug. In that moment I pictured myself crammed in the bottom of the grave beneath the cellar floor, the dead boy on one side of me, Tommy, his face crushed by a shovel blade, on the other. And above, holding the lantern before him and hovering over us from the lip of the grave, I could see the shadow of a man, his face hidden from my squinting eyes by the hot glow of the lantern’s mantle, a bloody shovel in his other hand.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  I couldn’t tell if those last words were in my head or in my ears, and didn’t care. My fingers grabbed for the slide bolt handle to lift and slide it, but it wouldn’t give. It was rusted by years of disuse and jammed in place by the weight of the doors themselves.

  “Hurry,” Tommy said.

  “Who’s there?” came the craggy voice again. “Show yourself!”

  From the sound of it, the man had reached the bottom of the stairs now; the shelves of paint hid us from his view, but he could still see the light from the lantern seeping around and through the shelves. He knew we were there and he knew what we were trying to do.

  “I can do it! Let me do it!” Tommy was shouting and shoving me, frantic to get to the handle.

  I shouldered him back. “No, I got it!”

  Tommy continued shouting in my ear and reaching for the handle. We were blocking the light from the lantern and the shadows were making it hard to see anything, but I managed to grip the handle with two hands, secured one foot against the concrete step and put the back of my shoulder against the door above me to lift and relieve the pressure from the rod. I pulled up on the handle with everything I had, then put my second foot on the step as well. I threw my back and legs into it, straining, holding my breath, not wanting to give in until it did. It was going to be me or that damned door. And then...

  It gave!

  With a squealing cry of metal against metal, the handle lifted from its resting place between the brackets and the bolt turned with it. Another push from my legs and back and I was able to inch the bolt a little to one side, but not enough to clear the ring that locked the doors.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the man shouted.

  Old paint cans, some empty, some not, came flying off the shelves. He was still on the other side of the shelf partition pushing the refuse off the shelves, clearing his view of us, shouting though the open gaps in the shelves.

  “I see you! Don’t open that door, kid!”

  Of him we saw only a shadowy eye through the gaps on the shelves, then a flash of shouting lips and yellowed teeth. Another empty paint can rocketed off the shelf. In its place an arm jutted out, sleeved in a dark coat, fist waving, opening, fingers reaching, clenching again into a fist.

  “Open that fuckin’ door and I’ll kill you, I swear!”

  He pulled his arm back, and there was a crash. He’d fallen, probably slipped in the dark on the loose dirt from the grave. There was a scream of pain and rage. He was coming, groping and finding his way in the dark to the edge of the long shelf. In seconds he would turn the corner and have a clear path to our corner of the cellar lit by the burning lantern.

  Again I stood on the step, put my shoulder into the door and pulled the handle. Again it gave a little, then a little more. Just as it passed the locking ring, Tommy stood on the step too, pushing his shoulder into the second door to try to throw it open, but it was too heavy. The door opened a foot, then slammed back on his shoulder. I gave another push, and the door gave some more.

  Together, we finally heaved the door up and open. It quickly swung high on its hinges, and then slowed, almost to slow motion, as it reached the apex of its arch. It threatened to slam back down on us, but instead swung the other way, crashing into the brick patio with a hollow, metallic Bong!

  Before the sound even reached our ears, we were scrambling over one another to get out, banging our shins on the top step of the concrete stairs, stepping all over each other. We were a panicked tangle of arms and legs, first pushing each other out of the way, then grabbing at each other’s coats, each pulling the other along to get us both out of there, neither wanting to leave the other behind.

  We crawled as much as ran across the patio, finally gaining our feet, then sprinted, as best we could in the high snow, across the backyard to the fence. Thank God this part of the fence was only four feet high. First Tommy, then I, reached the fence at a dead run. Without slowing, we leapt and threw ourselves on it, rolling our bodies over the top and falling into the snow on the other side.

  Tommy was already sprinting away into the night by the time I got to my feet. From the safe side of the fence, I stole a glance back at the house. It was a giant dark shadow against a dark sky, but the lantern’s glow rose up from the open cellar door. Standing at the threshold of the cellar steps was the shadow of a hulking man. He wasn’t following us, though, just watching. In one hand, he held a shovel. He gripped it high on its neck near the blade and just watched.

  I turned and ran.

  8

  I RAN AS HARD AS I COULD THROUGH THE DARKNESS, my knees pumping high, my green, yellow-toed boots pistoning into the high snow as I crossed the yard that adjoined the lot with the abandoned house. I didn’t think. I just ran. I needed to get away – away from the empty house, away from ol’ George, away from the accident on Woodlawn Avenue.

  Without warning, I felt something scrape my face and jerk hard across my right shoulder. It nearly pulled me off my feet; I stumbled and thrashed. It jangled like metal and I was tangled in it. I realized in an instant it was chains descending from above, attached to a wooden seat. I had just run into a child’s swing set.

  As I frantically wrestled with the swing, a dog in the next yard over started barking. I froze and listened, hearing the scrape and rattle of another metal chain unraveling. It let out a faint ping sound as it pulled tight against a metal pole. Though I could see almost nothing in the dark, I could hear it. The dog was big. It alternately barked and growled and panted as it paced along the fence that enclosed its yard, all the time straining at the end
of its long leash.

  The muffled voice of the animal’s master called from inside his house: “Shut up!” But the dog only barked louder and grew more frenzied.

  I twisted and turned until free from the swing, but just then a light in the rear of the dog owner’s house flickered to life, seeping out to cast a soft glow that barely reached me in the yard next door. Quickly, I dropped to the ground and lay still in the snow, holding my breath, trying my best to act invisible. With one hand I reached up and grabbed the swing to still its motion.

  The back door swung open and the distant sound of Eclipse from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon wafted out into the night air. A shaft of light spilled out and bathed the yard next door, and to a lesser extent my hiding place just beyond. I could see the dog now, through the chain link fence that separated its yard from the one where I now lay hidden in the snow. It was a German Shepherd, as big as I had surmised, and chained to a pole that once held a clothes line.

  A man’s shadow appeared in the doorway. He had a long-necked bottle in his hand.

  “Friggin’ dog. I said shut the hell up!”

  The shadow brought the bottle up behind his right ear and heaved it at the Shepherd. It missed the dog and shattered against the pole.

  The door slammed shut, the man was gone, and the dog stopped its barking. A few seconds later, the light winked out and I was cloaked in darkness again. The dog, sufficiently chastised, now only panted and whined as it paced back and forth behind the fence. It knew I was still here, but knew better than to piss off her master again.

  I slowly got up from the snow and quietly made my way out of the yard, along the side of the house and down the driveway to the sidewalk where I stood, alone. Tommy was nowhere in sight.

  I found myself standing on East Glendale, not far from where it met Broad and then turned into West Glendale. I peered up the street in the direction of home. The dark, snow-covered lane was illuminated by occasional splashes of broken light thrown by tree-crowded street lamps. I was looking uphill and the combination of shadows and the rise of the hill hid any sight of my house. Only then did I realize how far I had ridden the Grandville. Home was nearly a quarter mile away.

  There was no one on the street. No one followed me, not yet anyway, and there was no sign of Tommy. He couldn’t have taken East Glendale in either direction or I would have seen him. He must have crossed the street to cut through more backyards and make his way to Columbia Avenue. That’s what I would have done; better to put more distance between us and ol’ George.

  I crossed the street, following Tommy’s lead. As I reached the other side, there was a faint flash of headlights. Up the street, a car had turned onto the road. Was it a police cruiser looking for the kid who caused the accident on Woodlawn? As the car grew closer I heard the familiar sound of an engine in need of a new muffler.

  Get off the road!

  The house across the street was dark so I hurried up its driveway and hid behind a large, snowcapped bush. The sound of the car grew closer, but slowly, rolling in my direction, the unseen driver scanning the shadows. As it passed, I peered out from my hiding place and glimpsed a black Plymouth Valiant, the one that took Tommy away. It had to be ol’ George.

  “B-billy...?” came a whisper behind me. “Billy...?”

  It was Tommy’s voice, but I couldn’t see him in the dark. Behind me, at the back of the property, were only deep shadows; then came the sound of rustling bushes, and Tommy’s voice again, but a little more distant and heading away.

  “Billy...?”

  Crouched low, I made for Tommy’s direction. I slipped through the shadows to the back of the property. No Tommy, just an eight-foot tall hedge. He must have found a way through.

  I reached inside the hedge and felt around. With one gloved hand and one bare and bloody hand, I felt for an opening between the plants that had grown together to form the hedge. It was painful. The cut from the Grandville’s bumper stung with a biting pain when it brushed against the branches. Finally, my fingers felt an opening just big enough. I turned sideways and looked away to protect my face from scraping branches while I pushed my arm through, and then my shoulder, and then a foot. At last, with a push, I launched the rest of my body through the hedge and fell to the ground on the other side.

  Looking around, I found myself in an alley cluttered with trash cans and old crates. I was behind the building that housed many of the shops that faced Columbia between Broad and Summit Avenues. The back door of each shop – there was a drapery shop, a delicatessen, a pharmacy and assorted others – let out onto the alley. Each door had a small lamp above it; while most were broken or burned out, there were enough giving light so that I could see.

  I was still alone and there was still no sign of Tommy. I pushed my aching, bleeding left hand into the wet snow. It was bitter cold, but felt good. The worst of the bleeding had eased, but the persistent trickle was enough to leave the white ice crystals beneath me streaked with a bit of red. I realized I’d been leaving those small streaks everywhere – on the Pontiac Le Mans that broke my fall, on the doorknob of the house with the body in it, on the cellar door that gave Tommy and me our escape from ol’ George, on the swing set and the snow beneath it. Was that why the German Shepherd was so persistent? Did she smell my blood? I wondered if George could smell blood. Was he even human? Was he hunting me? If so, it wouldn’t be difficult. Hell, I was Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail of bloody bread crumbs.

  I finally stood up and headed east along the alley until it opened into a small parking lot beside Columbia Cleaners. I crossed the lot out to the street and looked up and down Columbia Avenue; still no sign of Tommy.

  That was it; I was done looking for him. I couldn’t risk backtracking and getting caught. I decided that if I couldn’t find Tommy, than neither could ol’ George. A disturbing thought crossed my mind: Tommy might squeal. If he tells anyone about the house, if it gets back to my mother, I’d be in deep trouble. I began walking home and made a mental note to pull Tommy aside the next day and let him know what kind of ass-whooping I’d give him if he told on me.

  It was well past six o’clock when I walked along Columbia Avenue. The shops were all closed – the butcher shop, a stationery and card shop, Jack’s News, Candy and Comics. The lights were out in all of them. Most Blackwater shopkeepers never bothered to open in weather like this; those who did were closed now, too. Most of the shop owners were sitting down to dinner in their apartments on the second floor above their shops, or down the street where they lived in the garden apartments.

  Columbia is usually a busy street, but not on that night, not in that weather. As I approached the corner of Columbia and Summit Avenues, just one short block from home, I heard a car pulling up beside me, slowing to stop at the traffic light, its muffler coughing.

  It was the black Plymouth.

  I panicked. Without thinking and without looking, I bolted straight down Columbia, across Summit Avenue and –

  Beeeeeeeeeeeee

  The driver of the Ford pick-up that I never saw leaned hard on his horn and even harder on his brakes.

  eeeeeeeeeeeee

  He was heading north on Summit and about to cross Columbia when I ran into his path. When he punched his brakes, they locked up and the pick-up started to slide in the filthy slurry of snow and ice that covered the intersection. I was able to stop in the middle of the street without losing my feet and quickly jump back as the pick-up hydroplaned past, missing me by inches.

  eeeeeeeeeeeeep!

  I hurried across Summit Avenue to the opposite corner, but where to go from there? Turn right and the Plymouth follows me home; he’ll know where I live. He’ll get me.

  Keep running straight down Columbia Avenue and I wouldn’t get far before ol’ George pulled over, jumped out, and grabbed me. I needed to lose him fast. On the opposite corner stood the Columbia Bar and Packaged Goods Store. It seemed like my only option.

  Now remember, I was just ten. The only bar I’d
ever been inside by that point in my life was attached to an American Legion hall in Jersey City, where my family held its annual Christmas party. It was a concession my mother made when I argued that attending the Christmas party to see my Uncle Kenny, unsteady with drink, dress up as Santa Claus and pass out gifts to the kids, would mean missing half the NFL Divisional Playoffs. My brother was no help in making this argument. Frank had a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card. His well-crafted lie about needing to attend basketball practice, was flawless. It meant he, Jimmy, and Carl could drink beer, smoke Luckies and watch the game in living color on the TV in our basement, while I was stuck with Uncle Kenny and my mother.

  But eventually, after hours of my pleading and whining, even my mother could see how such a sacrifice was unthinkable. The solution my mother devised was to set me up in front of the TV in the adjoining bar with a bowl of pretzels and a Seven-Up. She found this compromise acceptable because there was a doorway that joined the bar with the hall where the family would be gathering. That meant, in theory, she could peer through the open door to look in on me from time to time. That meant I’d be safe. At least, that’s what she told herself while sipping her Mai Tais and enjoying a laugh with her sister and the rest of the family. So while my cousins, aunts and uncles sang Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town to Uncle Kenny’s staggering entrance over in the American Legion hall, I was in the bar. It was just me, the guy pulling the tap, and a half dozen old farts who did their best to ignore the kid watching the Vikings play the Rams in Minnesota’s frosty Metropolitan Stadium on a raised 18-inch black and white TV. That was the extent of my bar-trolling experience at the ripe old age of ten.

  Somehow, I believed that fresh memory of flat Seven-Up, stale cigar smoke, and pretzels gave me admittance into the I-can-hang-out-in-bars club. So when the Columbia came into sight, I decided it was my best option. I hurried across the street, half running, half sliding on the ice, and pushed through the front door.

  Looking around the bar, I quickly thought of downtown Pottersville. I was a gape-mouthed Jimmy Stewart. This was not the local American Legion’s club bar; the Columbia was a different animal.