Winter came early to Flagstaff that year. Ben hadn’t split
the firewood that lay in a cluttered heap in the driveway.
He hadn’t cleaned out the chimney or bought salt to melt the
snow from the sidewalk in front of the house. Sara hadn’t
gotten the winter coats out of storage, hadn’t taken down
the artificial spiderwebs and plastic decals she’d hung in
the windows for Halloween. The harvest dummy sat
ill-prepared and coatless on the porch. The jack-o’-lanterns
hadn’t even started to bruise and rot when the first storm
brought twelve inches of snow.
They weren’t prepared.
It came while they were sleeping, as Sara dreamed of
something that made her scowl and Ben dreamed of something
that softened his features into a face he might not
recognize in the mirror. This dreaming face was the face of
his boyhood. Only in sleep did the hardness of the last
twenty years subside. At thirty, his face already bore the
quiet evidence of things gone wrong. It was etched in the
fine lines in the corners of his eyes, in his clenched jaw,
and in his worried brow. But in sleep, when he did sleep,
the road map tracking the journey from possibility and
promise to anger and ennui and disappointment almost
disappeared.
The house was cold, though neither of them knew it. Sara
insisted on sleeping with a heavy down comforter year-round.
Usually, Ben slept on top of it while she lay nestled like a
small bird underneath its feathers. But tonight, maybe
sensing the coming storm, he too had hunkered down, his dog,
Maude, at his feet. The one window in their room, the one
that would have revealed the falling snow, was veiled in the
heavy curtains Sara had bought to keep out the morning sun
and prying eyes. She was worried about the neighbor, Mr.
Lionel, who she claimed looked to her like he might be
dangerous, a pedophile or worse. The one who spent hours
rubbing Turtle Wax into his old blue Ford Falcon. The one
Ben made sure to wave and nod to each time they both
happened to be outside in their yards at the same time, as
if this would make up for Sara’s paranoia.
The furnace was set to OFF. The woodstove was bone cold.
Sometime during the night, as they slept, it began to snow.
And when it snows in Flagstaff, it doesn’t stop until the
entire world is sheathed in white. Ben had lived here long
enough to have experienced this, to have gone to sleep at
night and awoken to a world obscured.
Ben moved to Flagstaff eight years ago because of the snow.
He’d just graduated from Georgetown and was done with the
city, done with its grit and grime and heat. He planned to
get his Master’s, and maybe even his PhD, in history, and he
wanted to go somewhere clean and quiet for grad school.
Somewhere without steaming streets and honking horns and
subways always rumbling under his feet. Then he cracked a
tooth on a chicken bone on a Friday afternoon and wound up
in the dentist’s office, where an issue of Arizona Highways
lay buried beneath a pile of other magazines. If the dentist
hadn’t been running so late, Ben might have simply finished
the article in Newsweek about the missing girl in Utah and
not even seen the picture of the San Francisco Peaks. He
might never have seen the turquoise sky with the ocean of
clean white snow beneath. He might never have felt that
strange tug in his chest, amplified by the ache in his jaw,
and decided then and there that this is exactly where he
belonged.
Here, snow was no different from air or breath. It was
simply part of the landscape, part of how one lived. And he
loved everything about it: the cold pristine white of it,
the soft sharpness of it. The crunch and glisten. He was
never as happy as he was when it snowed, each storm like a
small baptism. He knew, even after he had finished his
dissertation, he wouldn’t leave, couldn’t leave. And so here
he was eight years later, an underpaid adjunct and part-time
bartender. Though all of it (the financial worries, the late
hours, the work overload) was softened by the presence of
snow. But still, he wasn’t expecting this. Winter, while a
welcome guest, had shown up early to the party.
There had been no sign of a storm when they went to bed,
Sara angry and Ben too drunk to care. They’d gone to a
Halloween party at Sara’s best friend Melanie’s A-frame in
Kachina Village the night before. He’d had too much to
drink. Spent most of the party listening to a girl playing
Jane’s Addiction songs on an acoustic guitar. Sara was
furious, but she didn’t say so; she’d simply grabbed her
coat and stood there waiting for him. They’d driven home in
silence, gone to bed without saying good night.
And while they slept, Sara fitful and Ben oblivious, icy
fingers curled around their ankles and hips. Winter crept in.
It wasn’t the cold that woke him. The shiver through the old
window. The icy breath that skipped across his exposed
cheek. It was Maude, his seventy-pound golden retriever,
nudging, prodding. He ignored her for a moment, feeling
shaky and too hungover to open his eyes. But she persisted,
whimpering in his ear.
“Hush,” he said, and quietly got out of bed so as not to
wake Sara, whose face had softened by now, the dream
apparently having passed. He hoped that her anger also might
fade by the time she woke.
The floors were icy. He grabbed the pair of socks he’d worn
the night before, some long underwear, and a sweater that
was crumpled up on the floor. But it wasn’t until he went
into the dark living room and pulled back the curtains that
he saw the obliterated sky. His head pounded, but his heart
trilled. Maude knew too and raced to the door, anxious to go
out and piss and play in the snow.
“Hold on, girl,” he said, his voice crackling like a
fire.“Let me get the coffee on first.”
While the coffee bubbled and hissed and Maude romped in the
backyard, sinking into the wadding of snow, Ben backtracked
through his fuzzy recollections of the party, tripping and
stumbling over the conversations until he remembered the
girl, the guitar, and Sara standing over him, pissed. He
remembered that the girl was very pretty, dressed up like
Dorothy with sparkly red shoes, and that she had one
slightly lazy eye which, for some reason, captivated him. He
also remembered wanting only to curl up inside the hollow
mahogany body of the instrument and listen to the music from
the inside out, and he recalled whispering this to the girl.
This is what Sara must have seen. Shit. It was Sunday, a day
that should be easy, and already he knew he’d have to spend
the day tiptoeing, making amends for this transgression and
all the others she was sure to bring up.
He knew the Sunday paper wouldn’t be there yet. Theirs was
the last house on the delivery route, he was convinced,
because the paper almost never arrived before seven. He
looked at the clock on the stove: 6:52. Maybe just this once
it would be early, maybe today would be his day.
The thermometer hanging on a tree outside the kitchen window
read twenty-five degrees. He found his winter coat in the
back of the coat closet and his Sorels buried deep inside as
well. He yanked them on and opened up the front door to the
blizzard.
From the doorway, he contemplated the journey to the
sidewalk for a newspaper that was likely not even there, and
almost turned around to go back inside. But then the blue
sliver of something in the distance caught his eye, and he
imagined his newspaper lying swaddled in plastic. So he
pulled his hat down over his ears, shoved his hands in his
pockets, and trudged through the snow, squinting against the
icy shards that seemed to be falling sideways.
But it was not his paper.
It took a minute before what he saw registered, before his
brain, thick with the hangover and disbelief, could make
sense of the image before his eyes. The absurdity of it was
what hit him first, and he almost laughed; this would later
make him wonder if it was evidence that he was, as Sara
would suggest time and time again, incapable of empathy and
capable of the most frightening cruelties.
At first he just thought the man was sleeping. He was curled
on his side, facing the street, hands tucked quietly between
his knees. But he wasn’t dressed for the cold: just a
flannel shirt tucked into a pair of jeans held up by a
concho belt. No coat, no hat, no gloves. Only a pair of Nike
basketball sneakers on his feet. His black hair in a braid,
curling like a snake into the snow.
There was a half inch of fresh powder covering his entire body.
Ben squatted down next to him and touched his shoulder, as
if he could simply wake him up.“Hey,” he said.
The wind admonished Ben, and then hit him hard in the chest,
like an angry fist. It was twenty-five degrees outside.
The man didn’t move, not even with a second nudge, so Ben
started to roll him over, pulling his shoulder until his
body yielded. He was big, maybe six foot two, a couple
hundred pounds. And then the man was on his back and Ben
stood up, stumbling backward.
“Jesus Christ,” Ben said.“Shit.”
Both eyes were sealed shut, crusty with blood and circled in
blue-black. His nose was crooked, bent at an impossible
angle, with dried blood in two lines running from each
nostril to his lip. His bottom lip was blue and swollen,
split in the center. And slowly, a fresh stream of blood
began to pour from his ear, the crimson blooming like some
horrific flower blossoming in the snow.
He should have run back into the house then, gotten Sara.
She was a nurse, for Christ’s sake. But he was suddenly
paralyzed, quite literally frozen in place as he realized:
He knew this guy.
Of course, he couldn’t remember his name. . . . Jesus, why
couldn’t he ever remember a goddamned name? But he knew him.
He was the kid who came into the bar almost every single
night to shoot pool. Ben knew he couldn’t be old enough to
drink, but he never carded him, because all he ever ordered
were Cokes. And because Jack’s served food, minors were
allowed in as long as they didn’t sit at the bar. The kid
always sat alone in a booth, eating cheese fries, waiting
for someone to show up at the tables. He was a good pool
player. Didn’t talk shit like some of the idiots that came
into the bar. A gracious winner and loser. Jesus fucking
Christ.
Ben dropped back down to the ground, feeling the cold wet
seeping through the knees of his jeans. He pressed his hand
hard against the kid’s chest, waiting. When he felt nothing
but the resistance of bone, he leaned over and pressed his
ear against his chest, listening. He didn’t know what he
expected, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t the silence that was
suddenly as loud as drums. And the harder he pressed his ear
against him, the louder the blood in his own ears got.
When it snows like this, the sun never rises. The air simply
turns lighter and lighter until things come into focus.
Until there is clarity.
Ben stood up again and shoved his hands into the pockets of
his coat, looking for his cell phone. Shit, where the hell
did he put his phone last night? He was afraid to leave the
kid there in the snow, as if something worse than what had
already happened could happen to him now if Ben left him alone.
He thought of Sara, sleeping angrily in the bedroom, and
knew that he had to wake her. She would know what to do. He
needed to call 9-1-1. And so as the sky filled with hazy
white light, he backed away from the kid whose head was
surrounded now by a bloody halo, back through the blizzard,
back to the house.
Even before the ambulance arrived, he knew what the
newspapers would say about this. Young Native American man
found dead in Cheshire neighborhood. Alcohol-related death
suspected. He knew because this was how too many Indians die
here. They come from the reservation to Flagstaff, looking
for jobs, for a way to change their lives. And when they get
here and find nothing but disappointment, they find places
like Jack’s or the Mad I or Granny’s Closet. Ben had worked
at Jack’s long enough to know that this was one of many,
many sad truths. He’d seen men drink until they couldn’t
see, and then watched as they stumbled out into the snow.
And at least once a winter, one of them would wind up on the
train tracks, where he would fall asleep and not wake up.
Ben wasn’t sure how many people had died since he got here,
but it seemed as if there was always some story—buried deep
in the paper, mentioned in passing on the news, whispered
about at the bars. This, like the snow, was a fact of life
here.
Still, you don’t expect to walk out of your front door on a
Sunday morning looking to retrieve your newspaper from a
snowbank and find someone dead on the sidewalk.
After he woke Sara and called 9-1-1, watching as Sara made
her way through the snow to the man, he started to think
that maybe he wasn’t dead after all. Maybe Ben had been
mistaken. He’d had a roommate in college who’d drunk almost
an entire bottle of vodka by himself one night. They’d found
him passed out in the bathroom at a party and called 9-1-1.
The EMTs had revived him, and at the hospital they pumped
his stomach and sent him back to the dorms with a crisp
plastic bracelet to remind him how close he’d come. But this
kid didn’t drink. At least not at Jack’s. He knew this. And
besides, you don’t bleed from your ears when you’re drunk,
and your face certainly doesn’t look like you ran into a
brick wall headfirst from drinking either. Somebody did this
to him, and when Ben had listened for his heart, all he’d
heard was his own.
After the ambulance pulled away, he and Sara stood on the
sidewalk, watching the twirling red lights disappear down
the road.
“You okay?” Ben asked.
Sara nodded without looking at him.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t look good. He had no pulse.
No blood pressure. He was bleeding out.”
Ben stared at the place where the kid’s head had been, at
the violent bloom slowly turning pink as the snow kept falling.
Their neighbors were watching from the windows, their faces
pressed to the glass. A few had come out onto their porches,
clutching their robes around their waists. Sheila, from next
door, had ushered her two sons back inside when she realized
what was happening. Mr. Lionel stood on his porch, nodding
grimly. Now the ambulance was gone, and Ben could hear the
plow coming. In a few minutes it would barrel down this
street too, pushing away any evidence that a man had just
begun to die there.
The police were quick. They sent only one car, and they took
Ben and Sara’s statements without even coming inside the
house. Ben was surprised by how soon he and Sara were alone
again. By the time the paper boy finally threw the newspaper
into the yard, it felt almost as though they had just woken
from the same terrible dream.
They sat at the small oak table that used to belong to
Sara’s grandmother, sipping coffee, staring at the pages of
the paper. Sara said, “I wonder if he has family here.”
Ben looked up, grateful for her breaking the silence, for
her willingness to set aside whatever it was that had
transpired between them the night before.“I don’t know,” he
said.“He had ID on him, so they should be able to find out
pretty quickly.”
“What was his name?” she asked. Her eyes were soft with tears.
He thought about the kid sitting at the booth at Jack’s.
Always alone. Ben had a problem with names. He blamed his
job. Both of his jobs. So many people in and out of his
life. At the bar, he had a talent for remembering the names
of every single patron for exactly the amount of time they
spent bellied up, drinking, tipping. But the moment they
were gone, the second they’d slapped down a five or a ten
and walked out the door, any recollection of what they
called themselves was gone. It was like this at school too.
He had anywhere between forty and eighty students a
semester. He knew the first and last names of each and every
one of them until the final exam. Then he’d run into one of
them on campus (Hey, Professor Bailey!) and there was
nothing but that white-hot shame of for- getting. Though
maybe Ben hadn’t ever known the kid’s name. It was possible
that he hadn’t forgotten at all, but rather that the guy had
always been anonymous.