Ma began picking up the kid’s clothes. She picked them up one at a time, delicately, by their ends and corners, lifting a sleeve like you would the flat, burned, crooked leg of a frog dead of summer to toss it from the road. They didn’t seem human things, the way her hands pinched together on them, but animal — dead and rotting things out of the ground. She took them away and when she came back I wanted to tell her to bury them — to hide them somehow quick under the snow — but she scared me, the way she came with her arms out, trembling, fingers coming open and closed, moving like a combine between rows.
I heard the dripping clearly, and I heard Hans swallow. I heard the water and the whiskey fall. I heard the frost on the window melt to the sill and drop into the sink. Hans poured whiskey in his glass. I looked past Hans and Pa was watching from the doorway. His nose and eyes were red, his feet in red slippers.
What’s this about the Pedersen kid? he said.
Ma stood behind him with a mop.
3
Ever think of a horse? Pa said.
A horse? Where’d he get a horse?
Anywhere — on the way — anyplace.
Could he make it on a horse?
He made it on something.
Not on a horse though.
Not on his feet.
I ain’t saying he made it on anything.
Horses can’t get lost.
Yes they can.
They got a sense.
That’s a lot of manure about horses.
In a blizzard a horse’ll go home.
That’s so.
You let them go and they go home.
That’s so.
If you steal a horse, and let him go, he’ll take you to the barn you stole him from.
Couldn’t give him his head then.
Must have really rode him then.
And known where he was going.
Yeah, and gone there.
If he had a horse.
Yeah, if he had a horse.
If he stole a horse before the storm and rode it a ways, then when the snow came, the horse would be too far off and wouldn’t know how to head for home.
They got an awful good sense.
Manure.
What difference does it make? He made it. What difference does it make how? Hans said.
I’m considering if he could have, Pa said.
And I’m telling you he did, Hans said.
And I’ve been telling you he didn’t. The kid made the whole thing up, I said.
The horse’d stop. He’d put his head into the wind and stop.
I’ve seen them put their rears in.
They always put their heads in.
He could jockey him.
If he was gentle and not too scared.
A plower is gentle.
Some are.
Some don’t like to be rid.
Some don’t like strangers neither.
Some.
What the hell, Hans said.
Pa laughed. I’m just considering, he said. Just considering, Hans, that’s all.
Pa’d seen the bottle. Right away. He’d been blinking. But he hadn’t missed it. He’d seen it and the glass in Hans’s hand. I’d expected him to say something. So had Hans. He’d held on to the glass long enough so no one would get the idea he was afraid to, then he’d set it down casual, like he hadn’t any reason to hold it or any reason to put it down, but was putting it down anyway, without thinking. I’d grinned but he hadn’t seen me, or else he made out he hadn’t. Pa’d kept his mouth shut about the bottle though he’d seen it right away. I guess we had the Pedersen kid to thank for that, though we had him to thank for the bottle too.
It’s his own fault for putting out all them snow fences, Pa said. You’d think, being here the time he has, he’d know the forces better.
Pedersen just likes to be ready, Pa, that’s all.
Hell he does. He likes to get ready, that cock. Get, get, get, get. He’s always getting ready, but he ain’t never got ready. Not yet, he ain’t. Last summer, instead of minding his crops, he got ready for hoppers. Christ. Who wants hoppers? Well that’s the way to get hoppers — that’s the sure way — get ready for hoppers.
Bull.
Bull? You say bull, Hans, hey?
I say bull, yeah.
You’re one to get ready, ain’t you? Like Pedersen, ain’t you? Oh what a wrinkled scrotum you got, with all that thinking. You’d put out poison for a million, hey? You know what you’d get? Two million. Wise, oh these wise men, yeah. Pedersen asked for hoppers. He begged for hoppers. He went on his knees for hoppers. So me? I got hoppers too. Now he’s gone and asked for snow, gone on his knees for snow, wrung his fingers off for snow. Is he ready, tell me? Hey? Snow? For real snow? Anybody ever ready for real snow? Oh jesus, that fool. He should have kept his kid behind them fences. What business — what — what business — to send him here. By god, a man’s got to keep his stock up. Look — Pa pointed out the window. See — see — what did I tell you — snowing… always snowing.
You seen a winter it didn’t snow?
You were ready, I guess.
It always snows.
You were ready for the Pedersen kid too, I guess. You was just out there waiting for him, cooling your cod.
Pa laughed and Hans got red.
Pedersen’s a fool. Wise men can’t be taught. Oh no, not old holy Pete. He never learned all the things that can fall out the sky and happen to wheat. His neck’s bent all the time too, studying clouds — hah, that shit. He don’t even keep an eye on his kid in a blizzard. A man by god’s got to keep his stock up. But you’ll keep an eye out for him, hey, Hans? You’re a bigger fool because you’re fatter.
Hans’s face was red and swollen like the skin around a splinter. He reached out and picked up the glass. Pa was sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, swinging a leg. The glass was near his knee. Hans reached by Pa and took it. Pa watched and swung his leg, laughing. The bottle was on the counter and Pa watched closely while Hans took it.
Ah, you plan to drink some of my whiskey, Hans?
Yeah.
It’d be polite to ask.
I ain’t asking, Hans said, tilting the bottle.
I suppose I’d better make some biscuits, ma said.
Hans looked up at her, keeping the bottle tilted. He didn’t pour.
Biscuits, ma? I said.
I ought to have something for Mr. Pedersen and I haven’t a thing.
Hans straightened the bottle.
There’s a thing to consider, he said, beginning to smile. Why ain’t Pedersen here looking for his kid?
Why should he be?
Hans winked at me through his glass. No wink would make me a friend of his.
Why not? We’re nearest. If the kid ain’t here he can ask us to help him hunt.
Fat chance.
He ain’t come through. How do you consider that?
I ain’t considering it, Pa said.
Why ain’t you? Seems to me like something worth real long and fancy considering.
No it ain’t.
Ain’t it?
Pedersen’s a fool.
So you like to say. I’ve heard you often enough. All right, maybe he is. How long do you expect he’ll wander around looking before he comes over this way?
A long time. A long time maybe.
The kid’s been gone a long time.
Pa arranged his nightshirt over his knee. He had on the striped one.