CHAPTER THREE

EVERYWHERE WAS WHITE and clean.

The pine forested ridge was festooned with snow. A plowed road cut through the swath of brilliance. A school bus, bright and yellow, grinded its way in the distance. Its flank was thick with salt kicked up from the road. You could hardly make out the bold black letters that spelled ST. JOHNSBURY - DISTRICT #5 along the side of it.

A dozen kids - first and second graders, bounced, howled and shouted in their seats. School was over and there was two weeks vacation ahead. And the best part of all was Christmas was tomorrow.

Mrs. Lumsden, a heavy-set widow in her fifties, sat behind the wheel keeping one eye on the road and one on the see all mirror over the driver's seat. And she wondered why Corey, who sat alone up front, wasn't as excited as the other children.

Corey stared vacantly out the window, the scenery rushing by. He couldn't allow himself to join in with the others. Not now. Not today of all days. Any day was a risk, but the twenty-fourth was a guarantee. He had to be on his best behavior his very best.

Corey saw his stop coming up. Mrs. Lumsden would let him out at the old Philco station even though it wasn't a stop on her route because it was closer to his house.

Corey collected his books and went to the front of the bus. He waited in the well of the steps until the bus came to a full stop and Mrs. Lumsden pulled open the doors. Corey started down when Mrs. Lumsden caught him on the last step, calling out, "Corey—tell that mother of yours I'll have my boy Ray bring her over that fabric I promised her on Sunday." Corey nodded.

"Will you remember to do that for me?"

"I'll 'member."

"And wish everyone at home a Merry Christmas for me, too."

"I will, Mrs. Lumsden."

"You're a good boy, Corey. I'm sure Santa'11 be droppin' in on you this year for sure. I'll see you in two weeks. Bye —"

She shifted, closed the doors and drove away, leaving Corey there beside the dried up pumps half-drifted under the snow.

He took the shortcut home, through a trail he had forged twice a day, nine months out of the year, for two years. The snow was crisp and unbroken under the noon sun, tell-tale blemishes of rabbits and jays spotted here and there. He took his time not hurrying at all despite the cold. Over the brow of a hill, through a maze of bald tree limbs, he could see a bunch of pre-schoolers swooshing down Cranberry Hill on their sleds and toboggans. God! how he wished he could crack out his flexible flyer and take the hill on a belly-wop, but no—he couldn't allow himself to even think that now. He pushed it out of his mind with the thought of which of those kids would be alive after tonight. And he was glad he had no friends to talk of. He wouldn't miss those who would disappear without a trace before tomorrow morning.

Corey opened the door stomping the snow off his boots on the porch outside. He held the door and struggled to get his rubbers off with his free hand. The right foot came off easy enough but the left one wouldn't come. He had the boots since he was six and they had stayed a size six while his feet had gone to a size seven. When the boot did come his penny-loafer came with it, and his stockinged foot slapped down into a puddle of melted snow. Corey tugged off the wet sock, threw it down into his boots, and went inside.

It was just a little after one in the afternoon but the house was shadow-struck. The quarry tiles in the foyer felt like blocks of ice against his bare foot. He ran for the warmth of the living room rug and flicked on the light.

"Dammit! Shut off that light!

Corey jerked back, jarred by the sight of his father slumped in the chair, nursing the nastiest part of his hang-over. He looked like a huge swollen hog sitting there in the dark with all the shades pulled down. His skin was flat and yellow. His anvil eyes were hacked deep into his skull. His gums were puffed and his teeth looked loose.

"Where you been?" the hog belched— "I been waitin on you."

"School, pa." Corey shrank from him. The smell Ralph gave off was awful—tangy and sharp, doubling in Corey's nostrils.

"I been sober since morning...I need a drink. Damn it all - where's that bottle I had with me last night?"

"You dropped it and it broke," Corey told him. "Bullshit."

"You did, pa! Last night when you came in—" Corey pulled his mitten off and held up his bandaged palm as proof. "See - I cut my hand on the broke glass."

Ralph reared up and for a split-second Corey thought he was going to fall over him. Then, just as suddenly, Ralph reared back, wavering there. He smiled — a soft jelly smile, loose and trembling, and said., "Corey... son...my old legs is hurtin. My arthritis is actin up something awful. I need me some bourbon whiskey real bad. I got this money here—you go and get me some."

Ralph held out five one dollar bills in his calloused, chaffed hands. Corey recognized the money instantly.

"You get that money from outta the pie safe? That money's for the eggman."

"Never you mind, I'll square it away with him. You just run and get me a bottle."

Corey stood there dazed. This was a new one for him. His father asking him, begging him, for his help.

"Come on now —" Ralph prodded Corey with his stick, "let's get your boots back on."

He led Corey back through the hall scouting for the boots. "Where are they, son?"

Corey pointed outside the door.

Ralph got them from outside and leaned against the foyer wall holding out a boot in front of him for Corey to stick his foot in. Corey slid the penny-loafered foot first, and when Ralph held up the other boot he didn't seem to notice Corey's bare foot, so Corey didn't say anything and let Ralph buckle up his naked foot, no sock, no shoe, nothing.

"There—" He buttoned Corey's coat up, skipping a button. He pushed the money into one of the pockets. Ralph shooed him away. "Go on now...fore it gets dark."'

Corey went out, paused, turning, looking back at Ralph through the grillwork of the screen door.

"Hurry, son," Ralph told Corey through the door. "And don't stop for nuthin1 else. "

The town of Saint Johnsbury lay in a narrow valley built up onto* the hillsides. The cheer of the yuletide season blanketed the town not unlike the freshly fallen snow. The main street, Cross Street, named for the church built at the end of the common that cast their shadow of its steeple's cross directly down the center of the street, was decorated with tinsel and evergreen strung between lampposts that were wrapped up like huge candy canes. It was a scene straight from Currier & Ives. And moving through the life-sized etching was Corey. Racing down the narrow sidewalk, darting between last minute shoppers, never stopping, breath smoking.

St. John's Liquors was sandwiched between Tom's Stationary and H & H bakery. In its windows bottles were stacked pyramid-style, like a Christmas tree, dressed in bows, piled on boxes covered in green felt. Outside, a Salvation Army orchestra, two men, one with a drum, the other with a trumpet and a woman with a tambourine stood round a big red kettle with a placard on it that read — "Will You Help?"

Puffing, lips chapped, Corey burst into the store. A man stood on a step stool stocking shelves. Corey went over to the counter. It towered over him. He had to stand on his toes to see over it.

"'Scuse me."

The man on the ladder peered over his specs. "Who is that down there?"

"Can I have a bottle of bourbon whiskey, mister."

"What do you want, boy?" the man said, stepping down.

"Bottle of whiskey."

"What's a youngin like you needin with a bottle of bonded hootch?" The man's glasses rode on the tip of his nose. Corey didn't know what was keeping them from sliding off. "You gonna answer me?"

Corey licked his lips. "It ain't for me. It's for my pa."

"I can't sell you no liquor, boy."

"I got money." Corey showed him.

"It ain't concernin1 money," the man said, "I can't sell to no minor. You ain't old enough, boy."

"My pa says he needs it real bad. He's hurtin'"

The man shook his head. The glasses slid down another fraction. "I'm sorry, boy, but I can't sell you no whiskey. You better go on home."

Corey offered him the money again. The man pushed it back.

"You tell your daddy if he needs it that bad we're open till nine tonight because of the holiday. But I can't sell it to you. He wants it, he's gonna have to come and get it himself."

Corey dropped his head, stuffed the money into his pocket and left. There was a tease of snow in the air.

Outside the store he thought of what he should do, if he should walk the ten miles over to Rutland and see if they would sell him any whiskey there, and then the light of Friedricks & Sons pharmacy came on across the street and like a light bulb going off in his head suddenly he knew.