Exercises
Powder
by Tobis Wolff
Just
before Christmas my father took me skiing at Mount Baker.
He'd
had to fight for the privilege of my company, because my mother
was still angry with him for sneaking me into a nightclub
during our last visit, to see Thelonious Monk.
He wouldn't give up. He promised, hand on heart, to take
good care of me and have me home for dinner on Christmas Eve,
and she relented.But
as we were checking out of the lodge that morning it began
to snow, and in this snow he observed some quality
that made it necessary for us to get in one last run. We got
in several last runs. He was indifferent to my fretting. Snow
whirled around us in bitter, blinding squalls, hissing like
sand, and still we skied. As the lift bore us to the peak
yet again, my father looked at his watch and said, "Criminey.
This'll have to be a fast one."
By now I couldn't see the trail. There was no point in trying.
I
stuck to him like white on rice and did what he did and somehow
made it to the bottom without sailing off a cliff.
We returned our skis and my father put chains on the Austin-Healy
while I swayed from foot to foot, clapping my mittens and
wishing I were home. I could see everything. The green tablecloth,
the plates with the holly pattern, the red candles waiting
to be lit.
We passed a diner on our way out. "You want some
soup?" my
father asked. I shook my head. "," he said. "I'll get you there. Right, doctor?"
I was supposed to say, "Right, doctor," but I
didn't say
anything.
A state trooper waved us down outside the resort. A pair
of
were blocking the road. The
trooper came up to our car and bent down to my father's window.
His face was bleached by the cold. Snowflakes clung to
his eyebrows and to the fur trim of his jacket and cap.
"Don't tell me," my father said.
The trooper told him. The road was closed. It might get cleared,
it might not. Storm took everyone by surprise. So much, so
fast. Hard to get people moving. Christmas Eve. What can you
do?
My father said, "Look. We're talking about four, five inches.
I've taken this car through worse than that."
The trooper straightened up, boots creaking. His face was
out of sight but I could hear him. "The road is closed."
My father sat with both hands on the wheel, rubbing the wood
with his thumbs. He looked at the barricade for a long time.
He seemed to be trying to master the idea of it. Then he thanked
the trooper, and with a weird, old-maidy show of caution turned
the car around. "Your mother will never forgive me for this,"
he said.
"We should have left before," I said. "Doctor."
He didn't speak to me again until we were both in a booth
at the diner, waiting for our burgers. "She won't forgive
me," he said. "Do you understand? Never."
"I guess," I said, but no guesswork was required; she
wouldn't
forgive him.
"I can't let that happen." He bent toward me.
"I'll tell
you what I want. I want us to be together again. Is that what
you want?"
I wasn't sure, but I said, "Yes, sir."
He bumped my chin with his knuckles. "That's all I needed
to hear."
When we finished eating he went to the pay phone in the back
of the diner, then joined me in the booth again. I figured
he'd called my mother, but he didn't give a report. He sipped
at his coffee and stared out the window at the empty road. "Come
on!" when the trooper's car went past, lights flashing,
he got up and dropped some money on the check. "Okay."
The wind had died. The snow was falling straight down, less
of it now; lighter. We
drove away from the resort, right up to the barricade.
"Move it," my father told me. When I looked at him he said, "What are you waiting
for?" I got out and dragged one of the
sawhorses aside, then pushed it back after he drove through.
When I got inside the car he said, "Now you're an accomplice.
We go down together." He put the car in gear and looked at
me. "Joke, doctor."
"Funny, doctor."
Down the first long stretch I watched the road behind us,
to see if the trooper was on our tail. The barricade vanished.
Then there was nothing but snow: snow on the road, snow kicking
up from the chains, snow on the trees, snow in the sky; and
our trail in the snow. I faced around and had a shock. The
lie of the road behind us had been marked by our own tracks,
but there were no tracks ahead of us. My father
was breaking virgin snow between a line of tall trees. He
was humming "Stars Fell on Alabama." I felt snow brush along
the floorboards under my feet. To keep my hands from shaking
I clamped them between my knees.
My father grunted in a thoughtful way and said,
"Don't ever
try this yourself."
"I won't."
"That's what you say now, but someday
you'll get your license
and then you'll think you can do anything. Only you won't
be able to do this. You need, I don't know—a certain
instinct."
"Maybe I have it."
"You don't. You have your strong points, but not as you know.
I only mention it because I don't want you to get the idea
this is something just anybody can do. I'm a great driver.
That's not a virtue, okay? It's just a fact, and one you should
be aware of. Of course you have to give the old heap some
credit, too—there aren't many cars I'd try this with.
Listen!"
I listened. I heard the slap of the chains, the stiff, jerky
rasp of the wipers, the purr of the engine. It really did
purr. The car was almost new. My father couldn't afford it,
and kept promising to sell it, but here it was.
I said, "Where do you think that policeman went
to?"
"Are you warm enough?" he reached over and cranked up the
blower. Then he turned off the wipers. We didn't need them.
The clouds had brightened. A few sparse, feathery flakes drifted
into our slipstream and were swept away. We left the trees
and entered a broad field of snow that ran level for a while
and then tilted sharply downward. Orange stakes had been planted
at intervals in two parallel lines and my father ran a course
between them, though they were far enough apart to leave considerable
doubt in my mind as to where exactly the road lay. He was
humming again, doing little scat riffs around the melody.
"Okay then. What are my strong points?"
"Don't get me started," he said. "It'd take all
day."
"Oh, right. Name one."
"Easy. You always think ahead."
True. I always thought ahead. I was a boy who kept his clothes
on numbered hangers to ensure proper rotation. I bothered
my teachers for homework assignments far ahead of their due
dates so I could make up schedules. I thought ahead, and that
was why I knew that there would be other troopers waiting
for us at the end of our ride, if we got there. What I did
not know was that my father would wheedle and plead his way
past them—he didn't sing "O Tannenbaum" but just about—and get me home for dinner, buying a little more time before
my mother decided to make the split final. I know we'd get
caught; I was resigned to it. And maybe for this reason I
stopped moping and began to enjoy myself.
Why not? This was one for the books. Like being in a speedboat,
only better. You can't go downhill in a boat. And it was all
ours. And it kept coming, the laden trees, the unbroken surface
of snow, the sudden white vistas. Here and there I saw hints
of the road, ditches, fences, stakes, but not so many that
I could have found my way. But then I didn't have to. My father
in his forty-eighth year, rumpled, kind, bankrupt of honor,
flushed with certainty. He was a great driver. All persuasion,
no coercion. Such subtlety at the wheel, such tactful pedalwork.
I actually trusted him. And the best way yet to come—switchbacks
and hairpins impossible to describe. Except maybe to say this:
If you haven't driven fresh powder, you haven't driven.
(1 440 words)
Text
|