Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [51]
“Hey,” I hear a voice say.
Charlotte is half in and half out of the door. Her hair, drying, spreads across her shoulders.
“Do you have a hat and mittens I could borrow?” she asks.
“Why?”
“I want to help you shovel.”
I shake my head. “You can’t. You’re . . .” I struggle for the word. Sick isn’t correct. “You’re, you know . . . tired,” I say.
“I’m fine. I need the fresh air.”
My father will be angry if he sees Charlotte outside shoveling the snow with me. Where is he, anyway? “The bench seat flips up,” I say. “We have mittens and hats in there.”
She slips back into the house and emerges a minute later. She takes three long breaths of air, as if she’s been cooped up for days. Maybe she has. She has her jeans tucked into the tops of her boots, which are leather and not at all appropriate for the snow. She has grabbed a pair of old leather gloves my father uses for cross-country skiing and a multicolored hat I made for myself when I was ten. It has mistakes in it and is unraveling at the top.
“Okay,” I say. “You start where I left off. I’ll get the other shovel and begin at the woodshed, and we’ll meet in the center.”
The snow has drifted against the barn and rises almost to my waist. I find the latch and lean against the door and take a fair amount of snow into the darkened barn with me. As always, the cavernous room smells sweetly of sawdust and pine. I don’t bother to turn on the lights; I know where the shovels are kept. My father might be sloppy in his bedroom, but he is particular in the barn. Each of his tools has its own place on the bench or on the Peg-Board over it. Larger tools, such as shovels and rakes, are lined up against the wall near the door.
Shovel hoisted, I drag my legs through the drifts. I round the corner and see Charlotte’s arms pumping, the snow spraying to one side. She works with the strength of a man, and I can see that she’s made more progress in the short time I’ve been gone than I made the whole time I was shoveling.
She tosses off the hat, and her hair swings rhythmically from side to side. She is breathing hard but not gasping.
Challenged, I bend to my task and try to match her speed, but my arms simply aren’t strong enough. I have determination, but when I check out Charlotte’s progress, I can see that she’s making more headway than I am.
We meet closer to my end than hers. Charlotte takes the last swipe. She bangs the shovel hard against the ground to shake off the rest of the snow. “There,” she says with satisfaction.
“It wasn’t a race,” I say.
“Who was racing?” She draws off her gloves. The snow has all but stopped.
“I’m going in,” I say.
“I’ll be right with you.”
Inside, I sit on the bench and kick off my boots. I slip the suspenders of my snow pants off and stand in my long underwear and sweater. My hair is matted to my head and my nose is running. My mouth is so cold I can’t make it work right.
“What’s she doing?” my father says behind me.
I didn’t hear him come down the stairs. “She was helping me shovel a little bit.”
“She’s shoveling?”
“Mostly she just stood there. I think she wanted some fresh air. I was about to make us some hot chocolate.”
My father examines my face.
“To warm us up,” I add quickly.
My father walks into the kitchen, and I think he means to pour himself a cup of coffee. Instead he stops at the counter. He puts his hands on the lip of the Formica and bends his head. Is it just coincidence that he’s hovering over the telephone? Is he thinking about calling Detective Warren or Chief Boyd? He stands up and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll be in the barn,” he says.
I make the hot chocolate, but still Charlotte hasn’t come inside. I set the mugs on the bench in the back hallway and poke my head out the door. She has walked, or crawled, some forty feet