The Snow the Snow the Snow

Crack! Crack! The blade of Branden Bannerman’s icebreaker chipped at the mound of ice in his backyard. The snow had been thick this year, smothering everything, including the flimsy carport roof. After every snowfall, he had shoveled off the roof, creating a gargantuan snowbank, which the kids called “our iceberg.” In the freeze-thaw cycle of early spring, it was far too icy for the kids to ride their toboggans on as they used to do, so now it sat there as hard and cold and immutable as misery.

“What on earth are you doing?” Audrey shouted, her annoyance radiating from the open laundry room window to Branden’s ears.

He scraped a rough sleeve against his brow and stared at her pale scowling face. “Breaking up ‘our iceberg.’ I just want it to melt faster…”

“It’ll get too mucky. Just leave it.”

“Get a head start on the garden.” It bugged him they never planted until June. And then she complained about all the unripened vegetables dying in the fall’s first frost.

“The kids’ll go slopping around in it. Leave it.” Her tone was firm.

Branden nudged up his cuff to look at his watch. Yeah, the kids. He mustn’t forget he was saddled with pick-up duty today. “If you insist,” he said. At least he’d found something interesting out there.

Her window slid shut.

He clanked the icebreaker on the patio stone near the back door. Temperatures hovered around freezing, but the sun shone longer these days. At the side of the house, where sunlight was most concentrated, little crocuses were poking up, looking like paintbrushes with fat heads dipped in purple paint. Change was in the air.

He went inside and shed his boots, jacket, and work gloves in the mud room. He carried a plastic bucket, an ugly dirty thing, scarred by grit and stones and sharp unpleasant objects, into the room where she stood sorting clothes, surrounded by the scent of Tide laundry detergent and Downy softener. Domestic goddess, something he adored about her but knew she would scoff at him for saying. Someone who was infinitely capable, whether it was removing bloodstains or getting zippers unstuck. Does she even need me around anymore?

He set the bucket down carefully. “You’d never believe what I found out there,” he said.

“What, Ötzi the Iceman?” She continued sorting clothes as her eyes darted to the bucket.

“Ha ha.” Branden rummaged in the bucket and produced a plastic-and-metal toy, its decals wet and peeling. “Olly’s toy! Remember that super-duper Bey Blade he shot off the roof?”

“Oh, he’ll be happy.” She had a way of saying “happy” like a preacher saying “sin.”

“And that’s not all… Bonnie’s boot!” he said in mock delight.

“Oh, crap.” She sighed. “I looked high and low for that goddamn thing.” Her eye slid to the bucket, then back to him.

“Frikken waste. I shelled out forty bucks for a brand-new pair. And she’ll never be size six again.”

“Not a total waste—we could donate.” She nodded toward the box of outgrown kids’ clothes she kept on the go.

“Are you kidding? Donate a used item stuck in ‘our iceberg’ for a month?” he said, sniffing the boot. Besides, I’m still out the forty bucks.

She shrugged. “We’ll let it dry out, sprinkle some talcum powder…”

“The treads are so worn,” he said. She is so damned stingy. Unable to throw things away. Their kitchen, crowded with egg cartons and leaning stacks of fruit containers, looked like a hoarder’s wet dream.

“Just a little… there’s still lots of wear in them. They just don’t fit her, is all.”

“Goddamn, listen to you! You sound like a pauper.” He laughed unkindly.

“A penny-pincher—and proud of it.” Her face flushed, she turned back to the laundry.

“Queen of the paupers,” he said. “What’s there to be proud of in that?”

“Someone’s sounding a leetle cranky. You better have a nap before you pick up the kids.”

“That’s another thing… why do I have to do pick up two days in a row?”

“This morning they called me in for a shift, remember? Who else will take care of the sick people?”

“Oh! So I have to do pick up—and dinner—and bedtime on my own?”

“Yeah, and don’t just put on a movie for the kids and skip the homework and let them fall asleep in front of the tube. That’s a bad rut—”

“What, now you’re telling me what I can and cannot do when you’re nowhere around?” Branden rubbed his chin. “I’ve got to get that report completed. Cleghorn is breathing down my neck.”

“What! Why are you out here then, chipping a snowbank, for heavens’ sake!”

“I worked six hours straight this morning—I needed a break. My back—”

“Oh, it’s your back that’s making you cranky. Well, I’m coping with mega cramps today and I’m not letting it affect my efforts.”

The noisy washing machine suddenly started its spin cycle and they moved away from it, each watching the other.

“You used to rub my back…” He tilted his head and gave his best hurt-puppy look.

“You used to rub my feet…” She mirrored his action and for a moment they both stood there, big-eyed and blinking.

“Oh God, I am so sick of this dreary existence! Kids—work—dinner—laundry—bedtime—the snow—the snow—the snow—” He leaned back and howled up at the ceiling.

“Welcome to Grownup Land,” she said drily, picking two socks that matched.

“I’m suffocating.”

“Oh no,” she said. “Not your depression… don’t tell me that’s starting again.”

“No. No.” He forced a laugh. “Of course not.” In their teens, they’d met in the same psych unit, recovering from suicide attempts. Two decades ago—ancient history—they were different people then. Or were they? Suddenly he thought of the bucket. What he’d found today.

“It’ll pass,” she sighed and said his name softly. The light from the window showed lines of tiredness etched on her face. “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”

He grimaced. “Oh, there’s worse to come. We have Mom’s heart and your dad’s kidney problems. Olly’s special ed. Bonnie’s scoliosis. And the bigger world! Rising inflation. The war in the east. Climate crisis—we don’t even know where to begin. And where am I in this?” he moaned. “Helping Cleghorn greenwash the funding.” He stopped and frowned. She kept folding laundry. How strange. She hadn’t asked to see what he’d found. She, who was normally a bundle of curiosity, a gal who loved guessing games and playful banter and teasing out the answer from him, had ignored the one spark of fun he’d offered her that day.

Had she forgotten to follow up on it? What, was she so tired and in pain that she became completely distracted by one kid’s boot? He regarded her carefully. Or did she already know what it was that he’d found out there, that he’d carried in, in that ugly dirty bucket scarred by nasty things?

Yes. She does know.

He dived toward the bucket, but she was closer and faster at pulling the Smith & Wesson from it.

“I’ve had about enough of your bitching and whining and negativity, Branden,” she said in an acid voice. She pointed the gun at him. “I went through a bad spell at Christmas—you didn’t even notice, typical narcissist—and one night I threw this beastie out in the snow. But now that I look at it, I realize it could be useful again.” She cocked the gun. “It won’t be hard to convince everyone your depression finally caught up with you.”

THE END