Chapter 6
He almost missed the right turn to the small town of Torrington, whose bright street lights, ten in all, five on either side, contrasted sharply with the darkness beyond.
But he kept driving at a steady forty miles an hour, due to the conditions.
By the time he reached the border between Wyoming and Colorado, the sky was pitch black, though there was an eerie glow to the snowfall, as though the moon was trying to push its light through to help him but was failing.
He drove with both hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel till they became numb, all the while cursing himself for thinking he could do this.
It was as though he imagined himself some rugged mountain man after all, impervious to the cold, fast enough to outrun the weather, and canny enough to find his way through a snowstorm on a back road that was only two lanes wide with no access to anything but open snow-covered black-as-hell prairie on either side.
Going steadily, he made it to Grover, where he thought to stop to gas up and scrape the ice and snow from the passenger side, which always faced west now and was taking the full brunt of the storm.
There was a feed and grain store whose outside lights were burning, but there was no gas station, so Clayton pulled into the parking lot anyway and did his very best to scrape off the snow and ice.
His hands were freezing, but there was nothing to be done about that. He'd been stupid to not take gloves with him, just in case. He knew better, and maybe Kyle was right in that he needed a little looking after.
Back in the car, Clayton checked the level on the gas tank indicator as the windshield wipers whisked across the windshield that was, for now, clean of ice.
He had a little over half a tank, which would surely take him all the way to Orchard, which was a little over two hours down the road, an almost straight shot with a few turns.
As long as he kept the snowfall on his right, he'd be headed in the right direction. He'd be fine.
He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the snow and knew that had he not already been driving in these conditions for hours, he'd be more up to the task.
Still, this was the last little bit, and then he could stop driving.
Beyond Kyle's house, it was only half an hour to the interstate, where he could find a motel to crash in.
Though it was late, he dialed Kyle's number and listened to it ring while he pulled back onto the snow-covered road.
His headlights ate through the darkness that shifted and shimmied from behind the veil of snow that kept falling and falling.
He was gripping the steering wheel so hard he couldn't feel his hands, but he needed to keep going.
He'd make it if he just kept going through the endless, ceaseless white.
The phone made a clicking sound as Kyle answered.
"Hey, Clayton," said Kyle. "Where are you now?”
"Just two hours out," said Clayton, making his voice sound more sure than he felt. "There's no gas station in Grover."
"How much do you have?"
"A little over half a tank."
Kyle made a humming sound, though Clayton didn't know what that meant.
"I'm turning on all the lights," said Kyle. "All of them. You won't be able to miss the house, okay? And there are street lights down the main street in Orchard. They'll guide you through town."
"Okay," said Clayton.
"You doing okay?" asked Kyle.
"Yes."
"You don't sound okay," said Kyle.
"I can make it," said Clayton. "Just talk to me. Tell me about mountain men. Tell me about anything. Help me stay awake."
"I can do that," said Kyle. "Shall I tell you about what I'd rather be doing than developing software?"
There was a hint of shyness in the question, as though Kyle wanted to make sure that sharing, or in Kyle's case, over-sharing, would be okay. And more, beneath the question was a spark of passion, telling Clayton that whatever Kyle was about to share with him was actually quite close to his heart.
"Yes, tell me," said Clayton. Then, feeling a little more awake and slightly wise, he added, "Sometimes what we do for a living isn't what we want to spend our lives doing."
"You got that right," said Kyle. "Well, what I'd really like to do is to be one of those people who does arts and crafts and sells them at festivals and fairs. Is that stupid or what?"
Clayton thought for a minute, driving quite carefully but steadily through the snowy night.
Somebody had told Kyle that what he wanted was stupid.
Which was a damn shame. Although, truth be told, Clayton himself had earlier dismissed arts and crafts as being foolish, but then, he'd never been to a festival or a fair, so what did he know?
Maybe they had people who wove wool, and he could find a weaver who could make him a good red wool blanket. He'd always wanted one of those—
"Clayton?" Kyle sounded worried. About him?
"Sorry, my mind was going off."
"Open the window a little to give you some brisk air," said Kyle. "Just for a minute or so, so you don't fall asleep."
Obediently, Clayton did as Kyle suggested and breathed in deeply as the cooler air circulated around the inside of the car. Bits of icy snow kissed his cheek.
"What do you want to make to sell at one of these fairs?" asked Clayton. "Beaded knife sheaths?"
"No," said Kyle, and Clayton could hear him take a breath. "Well, maybe. I do want to do leatherwork. You know, belts and wallets and patterns for cowboy boots."
This was not the answer that Clayton had been expecting, and as he mulled it over, he realized Kyle was waiting for his response.
"That sounds cool," said Clayton.
"Really?" asked Kyle.
"Really," said Clayton. "I've seen some really good leatherwork in my time, you know, being out on the road. Some of those designs are very intricate. And expensive."
At that, Kyle started talking. He told Clayton about his plan to buy a truck and an Airstream trailer with his savings from his software job, and how he'd drive from fair to fair, living on the road like a vagabond, but with a purpose.
He'd have his tools and supplies with him, and when he was at a fair, he'd do demos and talk to people about the history of each design.
Clayton told him he could hook Kyle up with Ricky, in Dickinson, who could teach him how to brain-tan deer hides, and Kyle practically moaned.
Kyle hung up to get himself a drink of water, then called right back and kept on talking.
He talked Clayton's ear off the whole way to Orchard, and all the while the snow pounded the side of the car and erased the road.
Clayton's eyes were so tired that he thought he was imagining the lights that started twinkling in the near distance.
As he got closer, he saw they were streetlights lined up on either side of the road. In a flash of brightness, his headlights caught the green sign that indicated he'd entered the small, very small, town of Orchard, population 101, elevation 4,406 feet.
"I'm in Orchard," said Clayton, though he could hardly believe he'd made it. Even if his truck spun totally out, he could walk to Kyle's house from here.
"Keep driving. Do you see the streetlights? Go past the post office, it'll be on your right, and just keep going. I'm the last house before the river, and I'll be on your right, too. You can't miss me, I'm all lit up like a runway."
Clayton thought he might have half blacked out or fallen asleep, his body relaxing at last after all these hours because it knew it was almost there.
Suddenly, the town's single row of streetlights was already in his rearview mirror, and in front of him, to the right, was a blazing ball of light that broke out into singular lights as he drove closer.
It was Kyle's house, the last one before the road got to the river.
He turned off the main road into the curved driveway, his car slowing down so much that he realized that the snow was deep enough to hit the top of the tires.
He stopped several feet from the actual front door, shut off the engine and the headlights, and sat there, his whole body buzzing, black sparks dancing in front of his eyes.
Someone came and opened the car door and Clayton fell out right into the snow. The same someone caught him and helped him to his feet. Smelling like pine and cinnamon, he let Clayton lean against him as they walked to the front door of the house.
Light and warmth shot out through the open doorway, though Clayton could barely sense the two of them going up the pair of concrete steps that had been carefully shoveled and salted.
Then he was inside, blinking and blind, slightly shaking, his hands at his sides curling into fists and then stretching out as he tried to get the blood flow back into them.
"Let me turn off some of these lights," said Kyle, using the same voice he'd used on the phone that Clayton knew meant he was being babysat, though at that moment, Clayton didn't mind a bit.
"And take off your boots and coat and holy fuck, no gloves, no hat, no scarf?
What were you thinking? What if you'd had an accident and had to walk for help? Oh, never mind, here—"
Warm, gentle hands guided him to the couch, and he was sat down and his coat was being pulled off him quite carefully. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with his cold, dry hands, and tried to figure out what was sparkling all around him.
As his vision cleared, he realized he was seeing garlands of silver and gold on a real Christmas tree, as well as above and around the brick fireplace and along the wooden mantle.
The tree was gently decorated, soft as a hand-drawn Christmas card, with silver tinsel, bubbling candles, blue and red and green balls, the whole of it encircled with tiny little yellow-white lights that quietly blinked on and off in a soothing sequence.