Snow Day Page 9

  It was about the middle of the second month when Eugene realized that a half a million dollars didn’t stretch as far in reality as it did in his head. The government had taken its share, of course. That still left him with more than he would have ever gotten by puttering around in other people’s crawlspaces and attics. But Eugene wanted to make sure it stayed that way. He had money now, but he needed to make sure he had money later on, too. Which is when Eugene found his holy grail—real estate.

  That’s when the real trouble began.

  His real estate ventures did fine. Maybe too fine. Eugene bought apartment buildings and houses and land and then turned them into profit. He was Donald Trump with a better haircut and a Skoal can in his pocket. His money began to grow, his assets began to expand, his portfolio began to widen, and his life began to fall apart.

  All that extra cash found its way into Missy’s self-conscious hands. Eugene always spoke of his wife with the words of a man passionately in love, but they were bracketed around what most saw as the obvious. “She ain’t much to look at,” he would admit, “but she’s all mine and she’s all I ever wanted.”

  Harsh, yes. But sometimes harshness and truth can be synonymous, and this was one of those times. Because the truth was that Missy was just plain ugly.

  To say that Missy had a series of “procedures” done at the plastic surgeon’s office in the city wouldn’t be quite right. “Carvings” would be closer. No one really knows how much it all ended up costing Eugene, but I will tell you this: modern medicine lay down with a fat bank account and the result was darn near a miracle. Missy loved the new her. Sure, the pain was excruciating. And she found she couldn’t smile or cry or make any sudden movements after it was all over, what with all the lifting and tucking and removing and inserting. But there was no doubt about it—Missy was a new woman.

  Missy was under the impression that all of her improvements would add a much-needed spark to the physical side of their marriage, but that wasn’t the case. The thing about money is that you work harder to keep it than you ever do earning it. Eugene’s constant supervision of his properties left him little time to notice his new wife, much less enjoy her.

  By the time Missy had taken the runts and told Eugene she wanted a divorce, there wasn’t much money left. The real estate market bottomed out, the bills piled up, and Eugene decided to coax yet another smile from the gods of fortune, this time through the horses and slots.

  But there was no smile this time. Eugene went bankrupt seven months later.

  In the span of three short years, Eugene Turner’s life had been transformed and transformed again. The ordinary man who spent his days in muck and mire suddenly became rich. The world had thrown itself at his feet and begged for mercy. But maybe Eugene should have paid a little more attention to all the pro wrestling he watched. Because all that begging for mercy the world had done was just a setup for a sucker punch once he started gloating.

  Eugene moved into a single-wide trailer near the national forest on the outskirts of town. He hung his shingle back up—Eugene Turner Handyman No Job Too Big or Too Small—stuck onto a used 1997 Ford truck.

  Missy moved in with a sister who lived in Charlottesville and endured almost three months of city life before realizing that all the lifting and tucking in the world wouldn’t change who she was inside, which was a simple country girl who was in love with her high school sweetheart. She came back home, tore up the divorce papers, and planted a kiss square on Eugene’s jaw.

  Ask Eugene how he’s doing, and he would say things were fine. Things were better now. Like before he had all the money.

  I believed him.

  I thought of Eugene while I gazed at the for sale sign hanging from the rearview mirror of his Hummer. I wondered where he was on that dreary December morning. Maybe he’d taken a snow day, too. More likely he was out clearing off driveways or parking lots, making his wage for the day. It was a wage that wouldn’t be much, for sure. But that was okay. We need more peace than money to get by in life.

  Eugene counted himself lucky. That might seem strange, but it was true. He learned something through all of this, and he figured that if he could do that, then it wasn’t all for nothing.

  Eugene Turner plunked down all that money on the lottery not because he was greedy, but because he was hungry. Hungry for a life that was not chained to the same old, but one in which he could remake both himself and his family.

  Money seemed to be the surest means to that end. I supposed at some point we all were victims of that lie. That in order to improve ourselves we needed more of something rather than less of most everything. In the end, Eugene discovered that his money cost too much. And that often life became less about enjoying our dreams once we had them, and more about reclaiming what was lost along the way.

  13

  Finding Life

  Small grins of sunshine again poked through the dour clouds. What little snow was left in them fell from the sky in larger flakes, a final gasp that a few minutes later slowed to a sputtering flurry and then stopped completely. The snowstorm was over. In a few hours the plows would catch up with nature and most of the roads would be cleared. By the next day, things would likely be back to normal. Such were all storms, I reasoned. They poured and howled and threatened, but they ultimately gave way to calmer skies if we just hung on a little longer.

  That’s what I was doing. Hanging on. Doing so seemed a courageous act until I realized it wasn’t. Courage required choice, and I didn’t have an alternative. The ride home meant taking the detour again, which meant time. Time to gather my memories and ponder my day thus far. And also time to process exactly what I was going to tell my wife when I got home.

  Abby’s faith was strong, much stronger than my own. But financial stability and a debt-free life were her mission, and those two things now seemed jeopardized. The stronger our fears, the more our faith is tested. What would the news do to her?

  Maybe I could lessen the blow with a little finesse. Sure, I had to tell Abby the truth. But I could dress it up any way I wanted. I could go the positive route. (“Honey, you know how we’ve been worrying whether I would have to work on Christmas Day? Well guess what? Looks like I’ll be home!”) Or there was the walk-by-faith approach I’d thought of right after Sammy’s phone call. (“Sure, things look bad. But now we get to see what God can do!”)

  But a tiny thought had been building in the back of my mind since I left the Super Mart. The sort of thought that sneaks and looms and waits for just the right moment to push everything else out of the way and inflict as much emotional damage as possible. That moment happened when I was considering which option seemed best. In those few seconds, the part of me who was certain everything would work out met the part of me who was most certainly not.

  The certain me said that either approach would work, that after the initial shock Abby and I would do what we’d always done—bear our struggles with faith. The uncertain me rebutted by saying that not only were those approaches uninspiring, they were inappropriate. News like losing my job should never be shared with an exclamation point.

  I spoke to a lone ray of sunshine poking through the clouds. “Could You at least give me the right words to tell Abby?” I said. “I’d appreciate that. And You’d better hurry, because I’m almost home.”

  By the time I dropped off Mandy’s bread and milk, I knew two things. One was that this was an instance in which God had chosen to remain anonymous. The other was that I would just have to tell my wife the whole unvarnished truth.

  I pulled into our driveway, shut off the engine, and sat there. My family was inside relishing their snow day, having fun, enjoying life. The lights from the Christmas tree shone through the living room window. Icicles hung from the porch with a gently sloping grace that seemed both artificial and utterly natural. The front yard was still blanketed in a layer of untrodden snow. It was the perfect scene. And there I was, maybe about to ruin it all.

  I gathered the shopping bags,
careful to leave the Santa suit and the Superman costume, and headed up the sidewalk. My body weight seemed to double with each step. By the time I reached the porch, the world was on my shoulders.

  I put on my most genuine fake smile and walked through the door, setting the shopping bags inside. Abby and the kids were camped in the middle of the living room floor by the ottoman, huddled around what had become Sara and Josh’s latest infatuation—their Lite Brite.

  “Daddy!” Sara screamed. She jumped and sprinted like a tiny linebacker, smashing her head into my stomach with enough force to double me over if I’d taken my coat off. I wrapped my arms around her blond head and rocked her back and forth until we had exhausted our inertia.

  “Hey there, sweets,” I said.

  Sara looked up to me and smiled. “We’re playing Lite Brite,” she said. “Wanna play with us, Daddy? We’re making a clown. It’s fun!”

  “Pretty lights!” Josh emphasized through his sippy cup. “Pretty lights, Daddy!”

  “Maybe in a bit,” I told them. “I gotta talk to Mommy first.”

  Sara released her grip and rejoined her brother on the floor. She carefully placed a black sheet of paper over the front of the box—“It’s hot!” she said—and the two studied the task ahead through the soft glow of the light. In an instant I was struck by the sheer beauty of my children, of their perfect peace with the tiny world they inhabited. It was a father’s job to keep his family insulated from all the bad, to preserve as much good for as long as he is able. They wouldn’t understand what had happened, but what would my news mean to them? And what would it cost?

  My eyes then went to Abby, who sat motionless and waited for me to speak.

  Come on, God. Give me something here. Hello? God?

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

  “What’s going to be okay?” I asked.

  “Your job,” she answered, putting a red peg into the Lite Brite. “Roz called. Then Sammy, then Jason, and then Ed. And don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.”

  The kids were silent, though not because they were listening. The Lite Brite had captured their attention, and I was thankful it refused to bargain for their release. I walked over to the ottoman and sat beside Abby.

  “What did they tell you?” I asked.

  “That you might be out of a job because you don’t have seniority. Jason, too.”

  “You realize what that means, right?”

  “Yes,” Abby answered. “But it doesn’t bother me. Does it bother you?”

  My wife, God bless her sweet soul, always had a tendency to downplay everything that happened. The more serious something was, the more inconsequential it likely became. I, on the other hand, was normal.

  “Yes!” I said.

  Josh scolded me with a “Shh!” and then added, “We’re tryin’, Daddy.”

  “Sorry, bud,” I said. Then softer, to Abby, “Well, let’s see. We’re getting ready to lose about three-quarters of our income. I’m going to have to find another job that won’t pay half of what I’m making now, and I’ll have to start over again. Which means I’ll be able to retire when I’m, oh, around seventy-five.”

  “Thinking a little ahead of ourselves, are we?” Abby asked.

  “Yes. Yes. It’s called looking at the big picture, sweetheart. You should try it sometime.”

  “Well,” she said, pushing another peg into the black paper and getting an “Ooh!” from Josh, “maybe that’s your problem. Maybe the big picture really isn’t yours to worry about.” She reached out a hand and I lifted her up from the carpet, which got me a peck on the cheek as a thank-you. “I’ll go start lunch.”

  Sara, ever ready to make a mess and call it “helping in the kitchen,” took the opportunity to join her mother.

  “Pretty lights, Daddy!” Josh said from below me.

  I slid off the ottoman and landed beside him, scrunching a small pile of pegs.

  “Whatcha doin’?” I asked.

  “Pokin’ holes,” he said. “Whatcha doin’, Daddy?”

  “I’m keeping an eye on you so you don’t decide to have a snack of Lite Brite pegs,” I said.

  Josh nodded as if grateful to have the supervision. “Thissa neat day,” he said.

  “I’m glad,” I answered.

  I watched as he focused on one tiny G stamped into the black paper covering the Lite Brite. He placed a small forefinger onto the letter and then stared at the piles of pegs Abby had sorted. It was amazing to watch his tiny mind work, trying to sort and figure and make sense of the insensible. Much like his father.

  “I like the Brite Lite,” he said, mixing the names.

  I nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Mommy says I can only do it once ’cause the pegs make holes.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Kinda hard to tell where to put the colors if the letters aren’t there anymore.”

  Josh sipped from his cup and said nothing. I took his silence as an invitation to keep speaking. It was always best to talk things out, even if the nearest person can’t comprehend a word of what you’re saying.

  “I guess I’m making a picture, too. I’m just having trouble seeing what it looks like.” I touched the black page he was working on. “Kinda like this piece of paper.”

  “G is for green,” Josh said, picking up a peg and pushing it through the paper. The lightbulb inside transformed it from dull to sparkly, and he smiled.

  “Good job,” I said.

  “You try, Daddy,” he said, handing me a peg.

  I studied it in my hand and said, “There’s all this big stuff happening, you know?” I knew he didn’t, knew he couldn’t, but kept going anyway. “But stuff that makes me ask why. Why gets me into trouble sometimes. Who, what, where, and when? No problem. Those are facts. Why’s different.”

  “Just put the peg where it goes, Daddy. Like this.” He punched another green peg through the hole, forming the outline of a pair of clown pants.

  “I’m being laid off at the factory in a matter of weeks,” I said. “See how easy that is? Who, what, where, when. Piece of cake. But why? Totally not cake.”

  Josh’s ears perked. “Can I have cake, Daddy?”

  “Not right now, sport. I’m just tryin’ to draw my picture.”

  “Mommy says I can’t draw the pitcher, but I can put the pegs in.”

  I stared at my son.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Mommy says I can’t draw the pitcher, but she says I can put the pegs in. It’s like a job.”

  “Your job is to put the pegs in, not draw the picture?”

  “I’m not good enough to draw, Daddy,” Josh said, “just good enough to push.” He pushed in another peg as if to make his point and said, “Pretty lights!”

  Yes. They were pretty. But more than that, they were perfect. I had never considered a Lite Brite to be a teaching tool for anything other than following the most basic directions over and over, but I thought then that was perhaps the greatest lesson I had to learn that day.

  Abby was right. The big picture wasn’t mine to worry about. All this time I thought my life was something I needed to build. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe instead of creating my life, I needed to find it. Not by worrying about the big things, but by noticing the little things.

  Yes, my life was a black piece of paper. Its substance was hidden and mysterious, and gloriously so. And the whys of my life were simply the pegs pushed into it to let the light shine through.

  14

  The Great Backyard Exposition

  Daddy, it’s time to go out and play.”

  My daughter was strategically placed between the sofa and the television so I would have to look at her. Not that I could miss her if she were standing anywhere else. Sara was dressed in enough clothing to survive a week in the Arctic. T-shirt, long-sleeves, sweater, and coat on top, two pairs each of pants and socks on the bottom, matching boots, and toboggan hat. She was three times her normal size.

  “Sweetie, you think you have en
ough clothes on?” I asked.

  “Yeff,” she mumbled from the small opening that formed above her coat and below her hat.

  “You look like a giant blue marshmallow.”

  She laughed and shrugged. At least, I thought it was a shrug. I couldn’t tell. Her tiny shoulder muscles barely made a ripple through all of the layers.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Getting dreffed.”

  “Can I finish my coffee first?”

  “No.”

  If Sara were just a bit older, I might have been honest with her and said I had no intention of going outside. I didn’t like the cold, and I didn’t like the snow. I would much rather stay inside my nice, warm house, drinking my coffee, and maybe catching a Gary Cooper flick on the old movie channel. I would explain that it wasn’t very often that I had a snow day, and that when such opportunities arose, one must use them to their fullest advantage. In short, one must be selfish. And yes, I would say, being selfish was generally not a good thing. But it was sometimes, and this was one of those times. The afternoon was going to be all about me. I thought I’d earned that much considering the news I had gotten from work.

  But Sara was not just a bit older. She was a child. Children did not understand such things as the need for rest. My two kids fought sleep the way Rocky fought Apollo Creed. Nor did they have an aversion to snow. Something about the fluffy white rain gave them a thirst that could be quenched only by getting wet and cold.

  Sara thought the nice, warm house was too confining. She wanted to be out in the world. She didn’t like the taste of coffee. She did not fully appreciate the sublime virtue that was a Gary Cooper movie. And she would never understand the occasional virtue of selfishness.