Chapter 28 #3
With a dramatic moan of reluctance, the ten-year-old follows me out of the truck and to the back.
I grab the shovel and fill the small bucket of salt, two things that are permanent fixtures in my mom’s truck over the winter months.
“I’m gonna clear a path and where I tell you to sprinkle that salt, you sprinkle, understand?
Don’t dump it, don’t throw it. You sprinkle it so it lasts and your mom has a safe path to walk on, got it? ”
“Yeah …” He drags out the single word.
“You should be happier. I could have made you shovel.” Though we’d be here all day.
I dig a straight path from the road toward the front door, my shoulders and back protesting under the dense weight of the plowed bank.
Of all the strenuous tasks I take on daily, this is hands down the worst. And it doesn’t help that I’m using the same shovel I used when I was a kid—heavy and all metal.
My mother’s guilty look this morning makes so much sense now.
“Okay, toss some here.” I point, and Carson dutifully obeys, scattering the crystals over the asphalt I uncovered.
“Why’d you throw the snowball at that kid?” I ask as I work.
“I dunno.”
“Sure you do.” I waited in the truck while Sarah met with the principal. When she came out, she wore a resigned expression, her anger with her son dimmed. “So, what’d he say to make you do it? Was it something about me?” I prod.
After a long delay, his head bobs.
“And it made you mad?”
Another head bob.
I don’t press him for details. I can guess what it might be about.
My anger and frustration flare. Not for myself and the lies floating around, but for everyone around me.
Will they always be collateral damage? “You’re gonna deal with that kind of stuff in life.
Even if it’s not about me, it’ll be about something else.
It can be really hard to not react, believe me, I know.
But you’ve got to check your anger before you do something you can’t undo. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I shouldn’t have thrown the snowball at Alex’s face.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a pause and then, “I should have hit him in the nuts.”
I stifle my snort and keep shoveling, the process moving smoother now that I’m in a groove. Behind me, Carson quietly follows, the sound of scattering rock salt confirming he’s following orders.
I’ve reached the front porch when a lace curtain in the window shifts and, a moment later, the solid front door creaks open. A tiny, hunched woman with a pinched face appears behind the storm door. “Who are you?” Her voice is reedy, but the suspicion is thick.
“We’re from Landry’s. My sister has your order in the truck, but I wanted to clear a path before she brought it up.”
Cloudy eyes dart from me to Carson and back to me. “Sarah’s your sister.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re the one who got out of prison.” It’s a statement, not a question.
She obviously reads the Cold River Post, though I don’t know how she gets it.
Her wrinkled hand reaches up to clutch a broach at her collar as if I’m angling to steal it through the storm door. A click sounds as she flips the lock.
I keep clearing, making space around the porch before attacking the buried steps.
“I was a teacher at the elementary school over in Whitley,” she announces suddenly.
I spare a glance up to acknowledge her words but nothing more.
“I taught Eric Whitley. Twice, actually. Once in grade six and again in grade eight.”
So that’s where this is going. This is fucking wonderful. I shovel faster.
“He was a kind boy. Studious and helpful. People were surprised when he became a police officer instead of working for his father, but I wasn’t.”
Neither am I. I heard plenty about Eric Whitley before sentencing, when the victim’s family shared impact statements that would make a serial killer tear up.
“He didn’t deserve what happened to him.
” It’s the most basic answer and yet the most truthful and this is exactly why I don’t leave the fucking ranch.
The truck door slams and Sarah begins the slow trek up the path, the paper bag with Mrs. Powell’s order in her arms.
“Here, let’s swap.” I hand the shovel to Carson and take the bucket.
“Why isn’t the boy at school?” Mrs. Powell asks, monitoring me as I salt the area around her door.
“Good question. Carson, why aren’t you at school?”
“Because I threw a snowball at someone and got suspended,” he admits, haphazardly pushing the shovel around—part clearing, part playing with the snow.
At least he’s honest.
“Mrs. Powell! How are you?” Sarah greets with a smile, her nose and cheeks red from the cold despite coming from the toasty truck.
“Thank you,” Sarah whispers, patting my shoulder before continuing to the steps.
“You really should find someone to help you stay on top of this. They’re calling for a snowy season. ”
“My son’ll be up soon enough.” Mrs. Powell unlocks the storm door and opens it just enough to receive the bag, her demeanor shifting to a kindlier one. “I don’t go out much, so I can wait.”
“Yes, but if Logan hadn’t offered to help me, I might not have been able to make this delivery. He’s been shoveling paths all morning.”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes dart to me again and, after a delay, she offers a small nod of acknowledgement. Nothing more.
A clatter sounds behind us as Carson loses his grip of the shovel’s handle and it drops to the cleared path. He presses the scoop with his boot, testing his weight to make the handle rise off the ground.
I’m ready to get home. “I put a lot of salt down, so it should be safe enough for you to walk on.” Until it snows again.
“I’m sure my son will be here soon, but … thank you,” she offers after a delay. “When will you have your Christmas baking in?” she asks Sarah. “I look forward to those mincemeat tarts every year.”
Sarah smiles. “Within the next week. We’re just finalizing—”
A loud crunch sounds, followed by a thunk and then a howl of pain.