The Snow Child: A Novel Read Online Free

his mouth with the napkin, and stood. He reached a hand down to Jack.
    “Better get going. Esther will accuse me of pissing the day away if I don’t get on home.” His handshake was steady and friendly. “Don’t forget what I said, though. And when it comes to getting those fields cleared, we’d be glad to come over and help you out. Can make the day go faster to have company.”
    Jack nodded. “I appreciate that.”

     
    He sat alone at the table. Maybe it was a mistake isolating themselves the way they had, Mabel without a single woman friend to talk with. George’s wife could be a godsend, especially if he went north to work at the mine and Mabel was left alone at the homestead.
    She would say otherwise. Hadn’t they left all that behind to start a new life with just the two of them? I need peace and quiet, she’d told him more than once. She had withered and shrunk in on herself, and it began when they lost that baby. She said she couldn’t bear to attend another family gathering with all the silly banter and gossip. But Jack remembered more. He remembered the pregnant women smiling as they stroked their bellies, and the newborn infants wailing as they were passed among the relatives. He remembered the little girl who had tugged at Mabel’s skirts and called her “Mama,” mistaking her for another woman, and Mabel looking as if she had beenbackhanded. He remembered, too, that he had failed her, had gone on talking with a group of men and pretended he hadn’t seen.
    The Bensons’ oldest son was about to be married, and soon enough there would be a baby toddling about the house. He thought of Mabel, that small, sad smile and the wince at the inside corners of her eyes that should have made tears but never did.
    He nodded at Betty as he picked up the empty crate and walked out to the wagon.

CHAPTER 3
     
    T he leaden sky seemed to hold its breath. December grew near, and still there was no snow in the valley. For several days, the thermometers held at twenty-five below zero. When Mabel went out to feed the chickens, she was stunned by the cold. It cut through her skin and ached in her hip bones and knuckles. She watched a few dry snowflakes fall, but it was only a dusting, and the river wind swept it against exposed rocks and stumps in small, dirty drifts. It was difficult to discern the scant snow from the fine glacial silt, blown in gusts from the riverbed, that coated everything.
    Jack said people in town were relieved the snow hadn’t come—the train tracks were clear and the mine was running. But others worried the deep freeze would mean a late spring and a late start on planting.
    The days diminished. Light lasted just six hours, and it was a feeble light. Mabel organized her hours into patterns—wash, mend, cook, wash, mend, cook—and tried not to imagine floating beneath the ice like a yellow leaf.
    Baking day was a small gift, a reason to look forward. When it came, she rose early and was taking out the bin of flour and can of lard when she felt Jack’s hand on her shoulder.
    “No need,” he said.
    “Why not?”
    “Betty told me to hold off on the pies.”
    “This week?”
    “For good. She’s got her sister baking for her.”
    “Oh,” Mabel said. She put the flour back on the shelf, and was surprised at the strength of her disappointment. The pies had been her only real contribution to the household, a task she took some pride in. And there was the money.
    “Will we have enough, Jack, without it?”
    “I’ll work it out. Don’t worry yourself about it.”
    Mabel now recalled waking to find his side of the bed empty. He had been at the kitchen table in wavering candlelight, papers spread in front of him. She had gone back to sleep, not thinking of it at the time. But this morning, he looked so old and tired. He walked with a slight stoop, and as he climbed out of bed he had groaned and held the small of his back. When Mabel asked if he was all right, he mumbled something about the