Adelaide

By John Clausen

The boy sat swaddled in his new blue parka, his round face somber, his eyes on the wet snow melting off the shabby pair of four-buckle overshoes piled between his feet on the floor of the car. A droplet of sweat, sticky and warm, released itself from high on the boys soft stomach and tracked its way gradually down to the waistband of his khaki pants. His stupid, sissy khaki pants. The storm had stopped several hours ago, giving way to a dull gray late afternoon sky. The wind had not diminished, however, and the hard, crystalline snow continued to drift across the highway for as far ahead as he could see. Now and then, when the blowing snow was blocked by a farm house or some piece of forgotten machinery, the gravel road was momentarily visible. Low, faster-moving drifts were closing on these bare spots. The boy thought they looked like long white claws. Keeps blowin like this and the Patterson placell be drifted in. The boy looked away from his father without answering and tried not to think about Kenny Patterson. Ice-covered cattails rose sharply out of a small, frozen slough that bordered the road. His father liked winter. There was more weather to talk about in winter, serious weather. People froze to death in the winter, which gave his father something to talk about for weeks. His father claimed to have found a dead man during a blizzard many years ago. That was how he always said it, many years ago. He said that a lot, not just about the dead man, who had been found frozen solid as a cowpie, but about almost anything that came up in conversation.

The boy knew that people sometimes mocked his fathers storytelling. He didnt think his father knew. The boy lurched forward slightly as his father shifted quickly and gunned the car through a narrow drift on the north side of a small grove of naked poplar trees. The car fishtailed slightly and then corrected itself. His father gripped the wheel and stared out at the road from under the bill of a corduroy winter cap. A little piece of cloth ribbon ran over the top of the cap holding the two fleece-lined ear flaps. The boys mother had bought one for each of them. The boy refused to wear his. He sighed quietly and looked through the windshield. The road ran past the Vandenburg farm, jogged around Dopplers place and then headed straight for the single stop sign in Adelaide. Fifty yards on the other side of the stop sign was the Adelaide Public School. Eight grades, two teachers, two rooms, two outhouses, and half a dozen pieces of playground equipment. Once again he looked out through the windshield and tried not to think of Kenny Patterson. The road he was watching passed indifferently through Adelaide, forming a sloppy, weed-lined gravel divider between Knutsons store and the Adelaide Grain Growers cooperative elevator. Three men were standing idly on the dirt ramp that led up to the large door of the grain elevator. One of them, the one leaning on a scoop shovel, waved at the car as it passed. The boy did not return the wave. On the far end of town the road stumbled over the railroad tracks and headed south toward the Patterson farm.

The boy could see the shelter belt of trees around the Patterson place exactly three miles ahead of them. It was easy to tell distances in the country. Each section of land was a square mile, so the distance between each section line was exactly one mile. It was like a checkerboard, his father had explained. Each section was separated from its neighbor by a gravel road. Each section was cut into 160-acre quarters. When the countryside had been opened to homesteading, each homesteader had been allowed one quarter. That was at least two generations ago. The boys family had eventually acquired seven quarters. He didnt know how many quarters Isaac Patterson farmed. Not very many. He did know that there were six children in the Patterson family, most of them grown up. And he knew that no one ever mocked Isaac Patterson. His father braked the car to a sliding halt at the Patterson driveway. Looks like its drifted over, he said to the boy. Not far to walk, though. You want me to go with you? The boy looked away from the driveway, focusing his eyes on the long line of Rural Electrification Association poles that marched south along the road. He wished that it were summer, that school was out and the snow was melted and the pond in the trees west of his house was full of toads and muddy water. He also wished that he could think of a reason to say yes to his father. He shook his head and opened the door. The wind chilled the sheen of sweat that covered his skin under the blue parka. A fine dusting of snow blew up his pant leg as he bent down to pick up the overshoes. He shut the door quietly and trudged around the car toward the driveway.

Just a minute, son. He looked back and saw his father standing by the car pulling down the ear flaps on his cap. You dont have to do this by yourself. The boy could smell wood smoke as they walked heavily through the snow that covered the driveway. The hard crust on the drifts held his weight briefly at each step before giving way. The effort brought the boys breath out in steamy blasts. He glanced up and saw his father wipe a thick cloth glove across his nose. The boy stared briefly at the wet spot on the glove and then looked down the driveway toward the Pattersons house hoping forlornly that everybody would be gone. The thought made him vaguely ashamed. The Patterson home had been painted white at one time, although years of harsh weather had drained the color from it and left it uniformly gray. Looking at it now, the boy found the ruined house oddly attractive, like a bleached cows skull in the pasture, or a snakes discarded skin. A hump-backed dog was standing tail to the wind next to a set of bare concrete steps that descended from the front door like a stiff, sick tongue. A 1959 Chevy pickup stood solidly on blocks beside a slightly newer Ford truck. A hundred yards before they reached the house, the boys father motioned for him to stop. Kenny Patterson was struggling toward them holding a pair of shiny black overshoes. The boy and his father stood silently and watched him approach. He was bareheaded and wore only a faded blue work shirt, jeans, and a pair of worn leather boots laced halfway up. The wind had turned his face red. He was puffing slightly as he reached them.

I guess I made a mistake, he said, setting the boots down in front of the boy. I thought they were mine. Set that other pair down beside them, son, the boys father said. The boy placed the two pairs side by side. Take a good look at these boots, his father said. Both of you. I dont think it should be too hard to tell them apart. He looked from one boy to the other collecting their solemn nods of agreement. Good. Then we wont have to do this again. The boy picked up his boots and followed his father back to the car. Im glad Isaac wasnt home, his father said as he started the car. He has a harsh way with his boys sometimes. On the way home the boy remembered that his mother was making pancakes for supper.