William Gass - In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

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 bottle. 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.

Above the snow, through the branches, I could see the peak of Pedersen’s house, and nearer by, the roof of Pedersen’s barn. We were making for the barn. Once in a while Pa would stop and watch for smoke but there was nothing in the sky. Big Hans bumped into a bush and got a barb through his woolen glove. Pa motioned Hans to hush. I could feel my gun through my glove — heavy and cold. Where we went the ground was driven nearly bare. Mostly I kept my eyes on Big Hans’s heels because it hurt my neck so to look up. When I did, for smoke, the faint breeze caught my cheek and drew the skin across the bone. I didn’t think of much except how to follow Hans’s heels and how, even underneath my cap, my ears burned, and how my lips hurt and how just moving made me ache. Pa followed where a crazy wind had got in among the oaks and blown the snow bare from the ground in flat patches against their trunks. Sometimes we had to break through a small drift or we’d have gone in circles. The roof of Pedersen’s house grew above the banks as we went until finally we passed across one corner of it and I saw the chimney very black in the sun stick up from the steep bright pitch like a dead cigar rough-ashed with snow.