Song of the Silent Snow Read online

  Everybody flooded out of the train when they reached the terminal and Morris rushed, almost running, toward the proper track. He glanced at his watch and the clocks on the wall and knew it was hopeless. It was already 5’21 and it would take him at least five more minutes to get there no matter how fast he walked and god knows that if they ever left on time they would today. When he got there at 5’25, never, but today… The end of the train was just barely visible when he got to the track. He looked at the dark tunnel for a moment feeling and listening to his heart pound. He bought a paper and waited.

  A cattle car, thats what the 5’30 is, a cattle car. And not only that, the 5’30 doesnt know what a schedule is… not even a nodding acquaintance. Who knows what time I’ll get home.

  When he reached his station he almost stopped for a moment to breathe the air, but decided to continue rushing to the bus stop, sneaking a few looks at his watch. The bus was there in a matter of minutes and thank god he got a seat. He read about a flood, a hatchet murder, an earthquake that killed 10,000 people, and relaxed.

  The short walk to the house was almost pleasant. He looked forward to sitting and taking it easy for a few minutes, if possible, before dinner. The street was relatively quiet, quiet enough to hear the birds. Morris liked to hear the birds. It was so bucolic, like the city was a million miles away. Nice.

  He opened the door of his home and was immediately ASSAULTED by the sound of machine guns, cannons and the screams of planes. His 10 year old son Milton was sitting on the floor in the living room surrounded by a few empty bowls and numerous candy wrappers. There were crumbs of crackers, popcorn and potato chips everywhere. Morris stuck his head in the doorway, Hi Miltie, how are you?

  Milton stared at the screen.

  Morris looked at him for a moment then raised his voice slightly, I said hello. How are you?

  Milton stared at the screen.

  Morris stared at his son, but couldnt outlast him. Turn it down Miltie.

  Milton stared at the screen.

  Miltie, I said to turn it down, its too loud. Morrises head was raging, but he just stood over his son, squeezing his newspaper, raising his voice just a little each time he spoke.

  His son continued to stare at the screen.

  Finally there was a commercial break and Morris tried again, Milton lower the volume.

  Milton finally acknowledged his fathers presence by giving him his best Fonzie posture, without getting up. Be cool, eh?

  I’ll be cool—grabbing for the control unit and Milton holding tight with both hands. Give me that you -

  Look out, look out, ya jerk, ya wanna break it?

  I’ll break your head you little -

  Morrises wife Maya yelled from the kitchen, Is that you Morris?

  He stood up, Yes. Its me.

  The movie suddenly came back on with an artillery barrage that caused Morris to drop his paper. He retreated to the kitchen.

  Milton stared at the screen.

  Maya was turning back the aluminum foil on the t.v. dinners, Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes. A special treat. Yeah?

  Your favorite, Salisbury steak. Morris nodded, With homemade water? What? Nothing. What was all that noise, were you yelling at Miltie again? Yelling? How could you tell? I heard you. How could you hear me over that racket? Maya I tell you somethings got to be done. Done? About what? About what? About Miltie. Why, what did he do now? What did he do? Thats it, he doesnt do anything. He doesnt say hello, he doesnt say goodbye. He doesnt say anything. He just sits in front of the television like a blob. He likes it, Morris. And anyway, it keeps him out of trouble. Im his father. He should say hello. Is that something terrible, to want your son, your only child, to say hello? I work all day. I work hard. Like a slave—Maya was nodding her head and continued to nod as she put the dinners back in the oven, Morris following her around the kitchen—to give my family a nice house in the suburbs so you dont have to live in the crowded city. Am I asking for a bugle call when I come home? Am I asking for trumpets and kettledrums? All Im asking for is a little consideration, thats all. Is it asking so much to have him say hello? I always say hello. You say hello, but does he? Maybe I should get a tape recorder and have him say once, only once, hello dad, and then youll play it when I come home. Maya shrugged, Excuse me, Morris, I want to set the table. Maya set the table and Morris continued to follow her around, Im going to make some changes around here. Im going to get some respect from my son. Do you hear? I hear you, Morris, and youre right. You should get some respect. Excuse me while I get the silverware. From now on, when I get home hes to turn that thing off and say hello. Maya nodded, How was your day today? My day? My day? The days I survive very well, its the nights that arent so good. The timer started ringing and Maya took the dinners from the oven. Tell Miltie its time to eat. Morris went into the living room, grim determination steeling his resolve. Come to dinner, Milton.

  Bring it here.

  What do you mean, bring it here?

  Milton slowly turned his head and looked at his father as if he were an imbecile, then turned back to the screen.

  Morris stared at his son for a moment then spun around and went back to the kitchen. He wont come to dinner. He isnt hungry? He wants to be served in there. Maya shrugged. Let him eat in there. I’ll fix a tray so… What do you mean let him? Morris, dont get so excited, its bad for your digestion. Here, sit and relax. Maya pushed Morris into his seat and then quickly fixed a tray for Milton and took it to him. She came back and served the food and sat and smiled at Morris. Come on, Morris, eat while its hot. Morris was continually shaking his head. Bring it here, bring it here. All the cannons and machine guns in the movie seemed to be exploding in his head. Through the trauma of the cannonading he heard his sons voice and Maya got up and cut a big piece of pie and put a big scoop of ice cream on it and took it to Milton. Morris was eating. He could feel the food. He chewed. He swallowed. He must be eating. Maya sat down. He could see her, but somehow she wasnt there. Was’wasnt. Thoughts stabbed his head. They broke through his skull. Pierced his nose and ears. They spewed forth from his mouth and wrapped themselves around his head and squeezed at his throat. Some respect you can say hello Im your father I work all day the 5’30s a cattle train for what a broadside of guns and planes a little respect I dont have to listen therell be changes—Morris you alright?—yes, some changes and then the respect without the bombs—Morris stood up, tall and straight, stiff—Maya looked up at him as she continued eating—right now we’ll start with the changes, and he strode forth from the kitchen, right past Mayas frown, and into the living room, past the blob of Milton sitting, staring, and yanked the t.v. cord from the plug and started wheeling the set out of the room.

  Milton yelled. Hey, whatta ya doin?

  Doing? Im making some changes.

  Hey ma, MA!!!!

  Maya rushed to the living room. Whats wrong? Milton was yanking at his fathers arm, hitting him, tugging at the set and yelling, NO, NO, GIVE ME THE SET!

  Be careful I dont give you what you deserve. Whats going on? Morris what?—out of my way. Out! He pushed his son and Maya automatically stepped aside as Morris heaved the set out the front door and dumped it on the lawn. Maya and Milton watched as he went to the garage, From now on therell be changes, hahahahahahaha, I ‘ll get a hello, hahahahahaha!!!! He came out of the garage with a can of gasoline and an axe. He continued laughing hoarsely and screaming as he attacked the set with the axe, the tube exploding, huge hunks of glass scattering everywhere, Morris getting a few cuts on his hands that started bleeding, Maya and Milton screaming, Milton yanking on his mothers arm, STOPIM, STOPIM!!!! and then ran into the house, still screeching, and called the police.A few neighbors peeked out of their windows, and then came out to watch Morris chop up the t.v. set, laughing and laughing, little splotches of blood swinging from his hands, then more neighbors came out of their homes as phone calls were made to spread the news, and they came closer and closer until almost a hundred people were lined up on t
he sidewalk and street watching Morris as he finally stopped chopping to pour the gasoline over the shattered set and toss a match on it and the fire started with a loud POOUUFFFF, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA BURN YOU BASTARD, BURN, BURN, BURN!!!!!!!!! and he started jumping up and down and Milton ran toward the fire and Maya held him back and a couple of the neighbors children screamed, Put it out, put it out!!! and their parents started chanting, Burn, burn, burn, burn!!! and then more of the neighbors applauded and came closer to the fire, cheering Morris as he continued chanting BURN YOU BASTARD, BURN YOU BASTARD, and a siren was heard in the distance and got louder and louder and before the cops got to Morris and Maya the fire engine came screeching around the corner and two firemen came running over with extinguishers as one cop was asking Maya what was going on and Milton jumped up and down screaming KILLIM! KILLIM!!! then suddenly ran into the house and got his video camera and the other cop was trying to drag Morris away from the fire and he kept shaking the cop off yelling, Leave me alone, you have no right, burn you bastard, now he’ll say hello, and the cop dragged harder and harder and Morris resisted stronger and stronger and finally the cop turned on him, Youd better take it easy buddy or I’ll break ya head open, and then called his partner and they grabbed Morris and twisted his arms as he flailed and jumped and screamed and the three of them rolled on the lawn, the firemen telling them to look out and get out of the way as neighbors applauded Morris and booed the cops. The cops had torn almost all the clothes off Morris and finally got him face down on the lawn, Morris bruised and bleeding, and one had his nightstick pressed, hard, against the back of Morrises neck as the other one cuffed his hands behind his back and Milton was busy filming the scene on his tape machine and Maya stood quietly watching as the cops dragged Morris, still laughing’screaming, to the patrol car and the firemen spread the ashes and made certain the fire was out before leaving.

  Milton spent the night with his grandparents. He hooked his tape machine to their set and watched the cops drag his father away, laughing hysterically and shaking his fist at the screen, Killim, Killim, Killim!!! then played the tape over and over and over…

  Puberty

  The boy leaned against the fender of a car bouncing a rubber ball lightly on the palm of his hand… then bounced it on the ground hitting the crack between his feet, four, five, six, seven times, unaware of his actions, his eyes staring, his movements automatic.

  He stopped bouncing the ball and just held it, his hands hanging at his side, unconsciously squeezing the ball. He had always had a special feeling about a ball, not just that it meant he would soon be with his friends and a game would start, but something more personal. He not only loved the feel and texture, he loved the smell and the sound it made as it hit the pavement or a wall, or was being hit by a bat or a hand, each sound different and special. Sometimes, if he had a ball long enough, he would wash it, and though it never looked the same as a new one, it had its own particular look and he loved it. And though he never defined the feeling all these things about a ball evoked in him, he experienced it whenever he tapped it lightly in the air or bounced it on the ground as he walked. And now that joy was not only absent, he didnt even know that it was missing, aware only of a hollowness within him.

  On Saturday he always rushed through breakfast and ran to the schoolyard (time measured as the distance between Saturdays, each long hour of school that passed bringing Saturday nearer), and now he stood on Third Avenue staring at the ball. He had always been the first in the schoolyard yet the others had been there for hours and he still stood on the avenue, only a block away, wondering why he didnt want to join them and why he felt so strange… so sad.

  He threw his ball against a building, caught it, then put it in his pocket and slowly started walking. The avenue was crowded with the usual weekend shoppers rushing from store to store, testing fruits and vegetables, asking questions, stopping to talk with each other, young children wiggling in strollers and tugging at arms… and the trolleys, trucks and cars made the same accustomed noises. Even the little old Italian man with the pushcart of snails was there today with a group of kids standing around watching and laughing as the snails crawled on the sides of the pushcart, the little vendor picking them up and dropping them back into the baskets. The boy ignored a call from one of the kids and continued walking through the crowd, puzzled by the strange feeling that seemed to be responsible for his being on the avenue instead of the schoolyard, and not watching, as he had always joyfully done, the snails and the way the vendor plucked them off the sides of the cart and twirled his gigantic mustache after dropping them in the baskets. For the first time in all the years he had been fascinated by the man and his pushcart he didnt wonder if his mustache smelled of snails. It seemed wrong, for some inexplicable reason, for him to be here (had he always thought about his mustache?) instead of the schoolyard, yet he could find no new desires to replace the ones that had formed the boundaries, as well as the center, of his world.

  He left the avenue and walked down 69th Street, stopping in front of the firehouse and joining the onlookers watching the firemen clean the trucks and test the equipment. Hoses were stretched up and down the street, men were shining and polishing brass, a spotlight was turned on and spun in an arc, the huge ladder raised and directed against the side of the building, men climbing up…

  The boy watched, without excitement, and started to take the ball from his pocket… then shoved it back and walked away, not turning as he heard the grinding of gears and the whish of water, continuing down the street, looking at the familiar houses and stores, feeling more and more the uneasy urgency in his body and strange weighted feeling in his chest.

  He looked around and nothing was different and that puzzled him. Something within him demanded that the street, the buildings, the people be different, yet they were all the same but now he lacked identity with them. The footprints he had left on these streets all the thousands of times he had walked them were gone, they no longer felt like his streets, yet he continued to wander through them seemingly seeking something without the slightest idea what it might be, not knowing for sure if he was looking for something or really trying to get away. He felt the need for companionship yet was driven to aloneness, unable to ask why, nor sure that there was a question to ask, wandering through the suffocating point in time where the old is left behind before the new is even known to exist; that point where even memories cannot be evoked, only vaguely felt without comfort.

  He stopped and watched a cat rummaging through a garbage can, its scars and matted fur symbols of its valiant fight against all who would try to kill it, and of its devotion to its kittens (feeling that the cat did not want simply to satisfy its hunger, but was looking for food to feed its young hidden from harm in a dark cellar) and he wanted to pick it up and pet it, take it home, wash it, feed it, listen to it purr as it lapped milk… take it to bed with him and feel its soft fur as it snuggled close to him…

  he could even put a little bell around its neck and watch it chase a ball or rubber mouse and listen to the tinkle…

  and no one would hurt Lucky. He wouldnt be chased by kids throwing rocks. They wouldnt spin him by the tail and toss him high in the air. Lucky wouldnt have to claw his way free from rough hands and run panicky down the street dodging between legs and parked cars… being crushed by the wheels of a truck. He had to help her! He walked toward the cat but it instinctively jerked its head up, looked for a second, then sprang from the can and ran. He didnt try to chase it but watched it run down the street, sad that the cat had not understood.

  The cat disappeared and the boy stood staring for a moment, then slowly continued down the street, watching his shadow dim the cracks in the pavement, the bottle caps, scraps of paper, popsicle sticks and old pieces of chewing gum that had been ground into the cement. He turned the corner and walked along Colonial Road to Bliss Park. He met another kid at the entrance who walked beside him. See Rusty taday?

  The boy shook his head.

  Ya
think hes here?

  Dont know, Joey.

  I got a couple a broken light bulbs in here—rattling a paper bag and grinning—I hope hes aroun.

  The boy nodded and they continued walking down the path, across the grass and stopped under a large berry tree and ate some berries, the boy feeling the warm, sweet juice trickle down his throat and enjoying the flavor which somehow made him feel even sadder. The other boy grabbed handfuls and chomped them happily, aint they great? Man, I could eat a million ofem.

  They continued walking across the grass, the boy enjoying the feel of it under his feet; looking at the sky and trees; hearing the voices of kids, their mothers; of skaters on the paths; the sudden yells of ball players; the sound of his steps on the grass; the rustle of branches and leaves; the sight and the sound of the birds…

  His loneliness didnt decrease, but he felt more content within his feeling of isolation, as if such a feeling belonged here with the grass and trees.

  Hey, look, there he is. Joey was pointing to a group of a few men and a couple of boys sitting on the side of the hill. When they reached the group they sat with the other kids who were laughing and yelling at Rusty to feed the squirrels. Rusty waved his hand at them and took a drink of wine from a bottle, still in the brown paper bag, then passed it to the guy next to him. There were three of them and they continued to pass the bottle.

  Joey shook his bag in front of the other kids then said to Rusty, I brought ya somethin ta eat. They all laughed and he shook the bag again before giving it to Rusty. Rusty opened it and looked at the pieces of broken light bulbs, took another drink, passed the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Jesus Christ, could ya spare it? He ripped open the bag and laid it on the ground. Ya know, when I was with the circus they used ta serve it on a tray. He burst out laughing and the kids laughed and the boy could feel his face starting to smile but something within him fought against it. Rusty stopped laughing and picked up a large piece of glass and put it in his mouth and started chewing. The kids stared, their eyes getting wider and wider. He swallowed and licked his lips, Musta been a GE. Can always tell a GE. They got a Michigan taste. He burst into another laugh, stopping when the bottle was passed back to him. He ate all the glass in the bag, the kids watching him, amazed no matter how many times they had seen him do the same thing. The boy watched too, transfixed, aware of what he was watching yet that little something that turned the viewing into amazement was missing and he didnt even wonder what happened to all that glass in Rustys stomach.