Pretty funny, donât you think?â
âYour motherâs a real card, Billy,â Norton said. He ruffled Billyâs hair in a perfunctory way and his eyes went to the front of Steffâs T-shirt again. No, he was not a man I was ever going to be able to really like.
âListen, why donât you come with us, Steff?â I asked. For no concrete reason I suddenly wanted her to come along.
âNo, I think Iâll stay here and pull some weeds in the garden,â she said. Her eyes shifted toward Norton and then back to me. âThis morning it seems like Iâm the only thing around here that doesnât run on electricity.â
Norton laughed too heartily.
I was getting her message, but tried one more time. âYou sure?â
âSure,â she said firmly. âThe old bend-and-stretch will do me good.â
âWell, donât get too much sun.â
âIâll put on my straw hat. Weâll have sandwiches when you get back.â
âGood.â
She turned her face up to be kissed. âBe careful. There might be blowdowns on Kansas Road too, you know.â
âIâll be careful.â
âYou be careful, too,â she told Billy, and kissed his cheek.
âRight, Mom.â He banged out of the door and the screen cracked shut behind him.
Norton and I walked out after him. âWhy donât we go over to your place and cut the tree off your Bird?â I asked him. All of a sudden I could think of lots of reasons to delay leaving for town.
âI donât even want to look at it until after lunch and a few more of these,â Norton said, holding up his beer can. âThe damage has been done, Dave old buddy.â
I didnât like him calling me buddy, either.
We all got into the front seat of the Scout (in the far corner of the garage my scarred Fisher plow blade sat glimmering yellow, like the ghost of Christmas yet-to-come) and I backed out, crunching over a litter of storm-blown twigs. Steff was standing on the cement path which leads to the vegetable patch at the extreme west end of our property. She had a pair of clippers in one gloved hand and the weeding claw in the other. She had put on her old floppy sunhat, and it cast a band of shadow over her face. I tapped the horn twice, lightly, and she raised the hand holding the clippers in answer. We pulled out. I havenât seen my wife since then.
We had to stop once on our way up to Kansas Road. Since the power truck had driven through, a pretty fair-sized pine had dropped across the road. Norton and I got out and moved it enough so I could inch the Scout by, getting our hands all pitchy in the process. Billy wanted to help but I waved him back. I was afraid he might get poked in the eye. Old trees have always reminded me of the Ents in Tolkienâs wonderful Rings saga, only Ents that have gone bad. Old trees want to hurt you. It doesnât matter if youâre snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, or just taking a walk in the woods. Old trees want to hurt you, and I think theyâd kill you if they could.
Kansas Road itself was clear, but in several places we saw more lines down. About a quarter-mile past the Vicki-Linn Campground there was a power pole lying full-length in the ditch, heavy wires snarled around its top like wild hair.
âThat was some storm,â Norton said in his mellifluous, courtroom-trained voice; but he didnât seem to be pontificating now, only solemn.
âYeah, it was.â
âLook, Dad!â
He was pointing at the remains of the Ellitchesâ barn. For twelve years it had been sagging tiredly in Tommy Ellitchâs back field, up to its hips in sunflowers, goldenrod, and Lolly-come-see-me. Every fall I would think it could not last through another winter. And every spring it would still be there. But it wasnât anymore. All that remained was a splintered wreckage and a roof that had been mostly stripped of shingles. Its