The Last Day of Snow Part II

He’d have to go back now, back up the icy hill to his shack, where he lived with his cat, Roger, and a bundle of firewood in the foyer that he’d kick over almost every time he came home. It wasn’t much in the way of luxury, but it was company, and the otherwise empty home would speak to him late in the night, when he’d wander the empty living room, into the hallway, staring out at the vacant branches, which when illuminated looked like hundreds of little arms, reaching out for him, ready to cradle him, and as he thought about it, thought about the idea of being cradled, he would inevitably think back to the afternoons spent en route to church, in rural Biloxi.

He’d been raised seventh day Adventist, and his mother, Gertie, would play snakes and ladders with him, her head turned around to the back seat, where young Gary made impervious moves while he contemplated the glory contained in the continuos hum of the road. He sat quietly while the front hood popped up, ripped in half by the sudden appearance of bark and a carving that also served as a pact of love, “CJ loves Lara”.

He could still remember how his mother cradled him, as they tried to revive his father, Dwight, whose hard work down at the paper factory had yielded the oversized Buick regal that now lay nearly ripped in half, as the day passed in silent reverence as Gertie rocked Gary into a half trance, one where he wouldn’t be conscious of what would become the great tragedy of her life

The hospital medics held on to Dwight’s tenuous contract with the great beyond for as long as they could. The doctor on duty even took the time to take Gary aside, giving him a lollipop and explaining exactly why “Daddy had to go away”. Gary didn’t even cry that day, his feelings and turmoil had turned inward, reflecting on a world filled with sharp angels and negligent parents. For Gertie, on the afternoon of the accident, had given Gary sips of sweet rum coated with cola, to forget, to numb the boy into a twitching sleep.

The only memory Gary ever had of that afternoon, besides the game of snakes and ladders was of his mom gently humming “sweetness follows” to him, while rocking him in between sips of rum-infused cola.

He’d have to go back up the hill. Even though he was a good hour late to work, he’d have to brave the elements, just suck it up and go there, through the woods. He’d had visions that the monster was after him, after the second pass down the icy slide. He’d hike back up the hill if he needed to, the thermos was essential. He couldn’t get through the shift without it, the hot coffee and rum propelled the emptiness through hour after delicate hour of guarding the meat packing plant. Without the warm solace in the thermos, he couldn’t write his stories, and if he couldn’t write his stories, well then, what was the point?

So he threw the Cherokee in reverse, and crept up the hill even though the monster was out there, and had his number tattooed on his white fur, he was chained to the tree on the fourth pass, the one with the mountainous view, the one that bordered the Cutters farm, it stood there now, only a few feet from the Cherokee with big saucer eyes, ,moping at Gary, daring him to move forward. He backed the truck up to get more leverage, and sped until he hit the tree and the monster was no longer there, and his thermos was several hundred feet away, at home, and at the moment his leg was wrapped around the tree. He could see the chain where the monster had been tied, but as for the monster, his location was unknown. He could hear the howls in the distance, and he hoped that the monster had been hurt, and had saught higher ground. He couldn’t feel anything and it would be getting dark soon, and he was due in at work, and he didn’t listen to them, to their repeated requests that he get a cell phone, and he thought about how important one of those things were now, alone in the woods, with a monster on his trail, and the only savior several hundred feet away.

After realizing that noone was coming down the pass, he managed to squeeze his way out of the front cab. Although he couldn’t feel anything in his left leg, he managed to get his butt on the floor and begin the long crawl home, in search of the thermos, and maybe even a fire, if his leg would hold out that long.

A warm feeling graced his leg, and he realized he had urinated without knowing it. It was dark now, the empty branches no longer visible. He’d heard the monster many times throughout the two hours since he had left the truck behind, each time at a closer proximity than the time before. It was only a matter of time, and he knew this.

When the monster took the form of his mother, he was a little taken aback.

“Here y’go hon, just sip on this.” And there, with the aura of her maternity shining down up on him, was her. The elusive warmth he’d searched for was right there. He had so much to say after being silent for so long. He hadn’t seen her since the accident, and she rocked him now, as he awoke to more howling, on a furry patch of moss, awakened by the sting of warm drool becoming frozen.

He didn’t have much further to go, and he heard his mother calling him, quickly morphing into the cackled call of the monster. He saw the cracked wood of his shed, too close to home to be hearing the call of the monster, and as the eeked his belly across the snowy drifts, the calls escalating, as footsteps trampled behind him, and as he turned around to look, they had found him, picked him off the ground, let him in the front door, knocking over the woodpile in the foyer, went straight for the flask, hummed a gentle tune while giving him tiny sips of the hot liquid, until he was no longer breathing, and gently, like the noiseless sound of the last snow of the season falling, buried him amongst the snow, the little boy spared another daylong tragedy.