Goshen Road by Bonnie Proudfoot

Author:Bonnie Proudfoot [Proudfoot, Bonnie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ohio University Press
Published: 2020-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

MR. CLUTCH (1977)

IT STARTED OFF LIKE A PICTURE POSTCARD, THE SNOW drifting down in big feathery flakes, weighing down the boughs of the spruce trees along the drive. A circle of brown earth ringed the base of each tree, and bright red birds clustered around the feed corn I’d set out, hopping around from the pines to the ground and back up again into little pillows of snow, twirling and swooping like a redbird ballet. Before long the snow came down so fast and thick I couldn’t even see the pines, much less the road or the woods across the way. I stood at the window, stew simmering on the stove, watching the sky go from gray to grayer, wondering where those poor little birds were going to hide to keep themselves warm, and wondering when my husband’s red Ford pickup would be coming up the drive. This was the second day in a row that Alan Ray was late getting home, the darkness creeping in and the roads a blanket of snow; the plow might not hit this road for days. I had no way to know where he got himself off to unless he picked up a phone and rang up to the house, and Alan Ray Munn just did not do that kind of thing.

Last night I fed the boys, bathed them, and had them in bed before Alan Ray showed up, almost 9 p.m., his hair flying every which way, and his flannel shirt buttoned in the wrong places. He walked in, tossed his coat in the direction of the closet, rumbled around in the fridge, popped an Iron City, set himself down on his La-Z-Boy, and fell asleep with a Marlboro burning down to the filter while he held onto the can. But tonight, Wednesday, there was weather, wind tearing through the pines, clattering the window panes, knocking the TV cables against the outside of the trailer, the rattling and howling about to make a girl lose her grip.

Long after dark, a good five inches of snow had fallen already, and it seemed like more on the way. With him up in the hills with a crew of loggers who don’t have the good sense to quit when snow starts to fall, with his almost bald tires, and the way these steep roads glaze over with ice, all I can say is that I was about at wits’ end by 7:30. I called up to Pap’s to see if he had any ideas about where that husband of mine had got himself to.

The headlights came on in Pap’s Lincoln across the long field that separated our houses, and it hit me that the snow was probably too deep in our driveway for him to drive up to our trailer or to turn around if he did get the car up the drive. I set out supper for the boys and told them to stay put. Out I went, with a garden spade and mud boots, and I started shoveling even though it was almost too dark to see.

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