Tribulations

by Richard Thomas

  “Damn. When did these all fall down, overnight?”

  John stared up into the arms of the oak trees, spider webs spanning their open arms, stretching across the gaps, thick and white—floating in the breeze. He looked to the other trees and saw acorns scattered beneath them all, and more spider webs high up into the foliage. Spying a downed tree, he left the axe alone for now and picked up the chainsaw, tugging on the string, the bark and buzz filling the yard with angry noise.

  Several hours later the cord of wood was stacked against the side of the house, the tree sectioned down into manageable logs, which were then split in half, and then halved again. It was a solid yield, probably enough to get them through the winter—the box of kindling overflowing with twigs and branches that had been broken over his knee. They would keep an eye on the backyard, and over the course of the winter, they would refill the box with the fallen branches and twigs. The winds picked up again as John took a breath, a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, night settling in around the farm.

  ****

  When he finally went inside, the wife and kids home from their errands, the house smelled of freshly baked cookies, chocolate chip, if John knew his wife. The kids were up on barstools around the butcher block island, hands covered in flour, their faces dotted with white, his wife at the kitchen sink washing dishes. In the corner of the window was a singular ladybug, red and dotted with black.

  “Daddy,” Missy yelled, hopping down off her stool. She ran over to him, painting his jeans with tiny, white handprints.

  “Hey, pumpkin,” John said. “Cookies?”

  “Chocolate chip,” she beamed.

  “Jed, could you get me a glass of water?” John asked. His son didn’t answer, concentrating on the cookie dough. “Jed. Water?” His son didn’t answer.

  “I’ll get it, Daddy,” Missy said.

  “No, honey, I want Jed to get it. I know he can hear me.”

  John lowered his voice to a whisper, his eyes on Jed the whole time. “I’m going to count to three,” John hissed, his daughter’s eyes squinting, her head lowering as she crept out of the way. “Get me that water, boy, or you’ll be picking out a switch.” Jed didn’t move, a smile starting to turn up his mouth, the cookie dough still in his hands.

  “Daddy?” Missy said, her face scrunching up. “He doesn’t hear you, don’t…”

  “Honey, go,” John continued. “One,” John peeled off his gloves and dropped them by the back door. “Two,” he whispered, unbuttoning his coat, pulling his hat off and dropping it on the floor. He inhaled for three, a thin needle pushing through his heart, this constant battle that he had with his son, the grade school maturation placing in front of John a new hurdle everyday. The boy got off the stool, leaving behind the cookies, and tugged on the back of his mother’s apron strings.

  “Mom, can I get a glass of water for Dad, please?”

  Laura stopped doing the dishes, her long brown ponytail swishing to one side as she turned to look at the boy. She handed him a tall glass and pointed him to the refrigerator. Off he went to get the water and ice, pushing the glass against the built-in dispenser, a modern day convenience they all enjoyed. Jed walked over to his dad and held the glass out to him, eyes glued to his father’s belt buckle.

  “Jed?”

  “Yes, Dad?” he said, looking up, brown eyes pooled and distant.

  “Thank you,” John said, leaning over, hugging the boy. The little man leaned into his father. “Thanks for the water,” John said, kissing the boy on the cheek. It just took a little more work, that’s all.

  Later that night, John sat in his study, while Laura put the kids to bed. He thumbed through the almanac, looking at the index, studying the upcoming months, the forecast for the Midwestern winter. There were several things that got his attention. When the forecast was for a particularly bad winter, harsh conditions to come, there were signs and warnings everywhere. For example, if a wooly bear caterpillar was mostly orange, then the winter coming up would be mild. His caterpillar had almost no orange at all. He kept looking for other signs. If there is an inordinate amount of fog, if there are a lot of spider webs, especially high up in the corners of houses, barns or trees—the bigger the webs, the worse the winter. If pine trees are extra bushy; if there are halos around the sun or the moon; if there are a lot of acorns on the ground—these are the sings of a rough winter to come—rumors, and legends, and lore.

  John closed the book and set it down, a chill settling in across his spine. A draft slipped through the study window, the plastic sheets he’d meant to put up, forgotten. It was nothing. The stupid almanac was a bunch of crap, he thought. He stood up and went down to the basement anyway.

  Along one wall were several wooden shelves—he’d built them himself when they moved in. There were jars of preserves and jam, jellies and fruit, all along the top shelf. Further down, on the second shelf were soups and vegetables and other canned goods. It was almost empty, maybe a dozen cans of diced tomatoes and chicken noodle soup. On the third shelf were boxed goods, everything from pasta to scalloped potatoes to rice. It was fairly packed, so he moved on to the second set of shelves. It was filled with family-sized packages of toilet paper and paper towels, napkins and cleaning supplies. Then, he turned to the ancient furnace and stared.

  Settled into the center of the room was the original furnace that came with the house. Built in the late 1800s, the farmhouse came equipped with a coal chute that opened up on the back of the house. Concrete poured into the ground at an angle, stopped at thick, metal doors—which if pulled open revealed the long abandoned chute that ran down to the basement floor. It was a novelty, really—historic and breathtaking to look at, but nothing more than a pile of greasy metal. The massive, black ironworks dwarfed the modern water heater and fans, doors slotted like a set of enormous teeth, squatting in the middle of the room. Maybe he’d talk to Clancy.

  ****

  It was fifteen miles to the nearest big city and the large chain grocery stores. John simply drove in to town. Clancy was about the same price, a couple cents higher here and there. But he felt better putting his money in the hands of a friend than a faceless corporation.

  He felt stupid pushing the miniature grocery cart around the store. A flush of red ran up his neck as he bought every can of soup that Clancy had.

  “Jesus, man,” Clancy said, as John brought the cart up to the counter. “You done bought up all my soup.”

  “Order more,” John said.

  “I guess so,” Clancy said, ringing him up.

  “Can I ask you something?” John said.

  “Shoot, brother. What’s on your mind?”

  “That furnace we have out at the farm, the old one? Does it work?”

  “Well, let me think. It’s still hooked up to the vents as far as I know. The little valves are closed off, is all—easy to flip them open. Helped your dad out with some ductwork a long time ago, he showed me how it all went together. But, you’d have to have a shitload of coal. And I have no idea of where you’d get that, these days. Does anyone still burn it?”

  John nodded his head. He knew where he could get some coal. But it wasn’t cheap, that’s for sure.

  “Just curious,” John said. “How much are those gallons of water, by the way,” John asked, pointing at a dusty display at the front of the store. There were maybe two-dozen gallons of water.

  “Those are 89 cents a gallon, can’t seem to move them.”

  “I’ll take them,” John said.

  “How many?” Clancy asked.

  “All of them.”

  ****

  John was supposed to be down at his office. Instead, the back of his pickup truck was loaded up with soup and water, and he was headed down to the river. About two miles east, a small branch of the Mississippi wormed its way out into the land. A buddy of his from high school had a loading dock out there. Sometimes it was just people hopping on there in canoes, or boats, paddling down to the main branch of the river, or jus
t buzzing up and down the water. Other times it was barges, loaded up with corn or soybeans—and sometimes coal from down south. There was a power plant upstate from where they lived, and it burned off a great deal of coal. Sometimes it was a train that passed by the plant, offloading great cars of the black mineral. And sometimes there were barges, drifting up the water, shimmering in the moonlight.

  John pulled up to the trailer and hopped out. It was getting colder. He looked up at the cloudy sky, a soft halo wrapping around the sun, hiding behind the clouds. All around the tiny trailer were evergreen trees, fat and bushy, creeping in close to the metal structure, huddled up for warmth.

  John knocked on the trailer door.

  “Come in,” a voice bellowed.

  John stepped into the trailer, which was filled with smoke.

  “Damn, Jamie, do you ever stop smoking? Open a window, why don’t you.”

  “Well, hello to you too, John. Welcome to my humble abode. What brings you out here?”

  John sat down and stared at his old buddy. Jamie was never going anywhere. Born and raised here in the northern part of the heartland, this was it for him. And it seemed to suit him just fine. No college, no aspirations, no dreams of the big city—happy to live and die where he was born.

  “Coal,” John said. “I’m just wondering. You sell it to people?”

  “Not usually. Got a few guys with old potbellied stoves off in the woods. They buy a sack off of me, now and then. You know, I just kind of skim it off the top, the electric company none the wiser.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Depends. One guy I charge $20 ’cause he’s broke and has a hot sister. Other guy is a jerk, and his sister’s a hag. I charge him $50. I could cut you a deal though, John. Happy to help out an old friend.”

  “What about a larger quantity”

  “How much we talking about, John?”

  “Like, filling up my pickup truck?” John said.

  Jamie whistled and tapped his fingertips on his mouth. “That’s trouble. Can’t skim that. Have to pay full price, actually talk to the barge man. Unload it. Not even sure when the next shipment will be rolling through. Getting cold.”

  John shivered. “If you had to guess though, any idea?”

  Jamie took a breath. “Maybe a grand.”

  ****

  John drove home, almost dark now, his house still miles away. When he pulled up the driveway, the tires rolling over more acorns, the house was dark. Where the hell were they? He pulled up to the back of the house, and hurried to unload the truck. Into the kitchen he went, armloads of soup cans, hurrying to get them downstairs. Why was he sweating so much, why did this feel like a secret? He dropped a can of tomato soup but kept on going. He loaded the soups on the second shelf and went back for more. Two trips, three trips, and the dozens of cans of soup filled up the shelf with a weight that calmed him down. Back upstairs he picked up the can he dropped and looked out the window to see if they were home yet. A handful of ladybugs were scattered across the glass, and he scrunched up his nose at their presence.

  Back to the truck, a gallon of water in each hand, this was going to take a little while. The soup he could explain—an impulse buy, Clancy running some kind of stupid sale: buy a can of soup get a stick of homemade jerky for free. But the two-dozen gallons of water looked like panic. He didn’t want them to worry, even as he contemplated the coal, the thing he may have to do in secret, the risk he’d have to take. Up and down the steps he went, pushing the water to the back of the basement, covering it up with a stained and flecked drop cloth. He stared at the canned goods, the water, and the coal powered furnace. A door slammed upstairs, and his head turned.

  The kids were yelling for him, so he pulled the string that clicked off the light, and back upstairs he went.

  “Hey honey,” he said. “What’s up, guys?”

  The kids gave him a quick hug and then ran on to their rooms. Laura leaned into him, looking tired, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

  “You smell like smoke,” she said. “You smoking again?” she asked.

  “Nah. Saw an old friend. Jamie, you remember him? Chain smokes like a fiend.”

  Laura eyeballed John.

  “Why are you all sweaty?”

  “Just putting some stuff away, couple trips up and down the stairs, no big deal.”

  Laura puckered her lips, swallowed and moved to the sink. She turned on the water and washed off her hands.

  “Why don’t you go take a shower and get cleaned up? You stink. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  Later that night John watched the news, Laura in the kitchen doing the dishes. The weatherman laid out the forecast all the way up to Christmas and beyond. Cold. It was dipping down, probably into the teens. Snow. A few inches here and there, but nothing to cause any alarm. He switched over to another station, the same thing. He tried the Weather Channel, watching the whole country, the Midwest especially, storm fronts rolling down from Canada, but nothing to worry about.

  “How much weather do you need, hon?” Laura said, sticking her head in from the kitchen. “You’ve been watching that for like an hour.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I was just spacing out, wasn’t really watching it. You wanna sit down and watch something with me?”

  “Sure. Want some tea?”

  John got up and walked into the kitchen, Laura’s back still to him, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She relaxed into his arms, and leaned back. He kissed her on the neck, holding her tight, his mouth moving up to her earlobe, where he licked and nibbled at her gently.

  “Or, we could just go up to bed early,” she smiled.

  “We could do that,” he said.

  Behind her on the window there were several dozen ladybugs now, bunched up in the corner, a tiny, vibrating hive—and beyond that a slowly expanding moon with a ghost of a halo running around it.

  ****

  The next day they woke up to snow, three inches on the ground, heavy flakes falling like a sheet, white for as far as he could see. The kids were screaming, laughing, excited to get out into it, his wife calming them down with requests to eat, to sit still, to wait. For John the snowfall made his stomach clench, the way the tiny icicles hung from the gutters, the pile of dead ladybugs covering the windowsill, the sense that he had blown it, missed his opportunity—the claustrophobia closing in.

  All day John walked around with his temples throbbing, trembling gut in turmoil—his mouth dry and filled with cotton. To keep his hands busy he pulled a roll of plastic out of the garage, and sealed up every window in the house. When the sun came out and melted everything away, the children were disappointed.

  John was not.

  When Laura fell asleep on the couch, the kids watching cartoons, John made a call to Jamie. Three days for the coal, the day before Christmas, still a thousand dollars for the weight. If the weather held, it gave him time. He told Jamie to make it happen. He’d have it for him in cash.

  The afternoon couldn’t pass fast enough, Laura constantly staring at him from across the room. He cleaned up the dead ladybugs, then went downstairs and placed a cardboard box on the tarp that sat on the water, trying to hide his anxiety with a plastic smile.

  The middle of the night was his only chance, so he crept downstairs with his pocketknife in his robe pocket, and slit open the presents one by one. He peeled back the tape gently, no tearing allowed, and emptied the presents from their wrappings. Where he could, he left the cardboard boxes empty for now and prayed that nobody shook the presents. For others, he wrapped up new shapes, empty boxes he found stacked down the basement. Grabbing a large black trash bag from under the sink he filled it up with clothing and gifts, the tiny jewelry box going into his pocket. When he was done, he opened the cookie jar, the green grouch that sat up high on one of the shelves. He pulled out the receipts and stuffed them in his pocket, and slunk out to the truck to hide the loot.

  When he stepped back into the kitchen Laura was standing there,
arms crossed, watching him.

  “Dammit, Laura, you scared me.”

  “What the hell are you doing, John?”

  “Taking out the trash.”

  “At three in the morning?” she asked. She walked over and sniffed him.

  “You know,” he said, smiling. “Christmas is only a couple days away. Maybe you don’t want to look so close at what I’m doing. Maybe there are surprises for wives that don’t snoop too hard,” John said.

  Laura grinned and held out her hand.

  “Come to bed,” she said.

  Out the window the full moon carried a ring that shone across the night.

  ****

  John got up early and left a note. It was the best way to get out of the house without any questions. He left his wife and kids sleeping, and snuck out the back door, the wind whipping his jacket open, mussing his hair, bending the trees back and forth.

  All day he drove, one place to the next, his stories changing, his stories remaining the same. Too large, too small; changed my mind, she already has one; got the wrong one, my kids are so damn picky. The wad of bills in his pocket got thicker. The pain behind his eyes spread across his skull.

  What was he doing?

  He stopped by the bank, the day before Christmas now, and cleared out their checking and savings, leaving only enough to keep the accounts open. He took his thousand dollars and drove out to the trailer, Jamie sitting there as if he hadn’t moved.

  “All there?” Jamie asked, leaning back in his chair.