The Sand Hill Review          http://www.sandhillreview.org 2006

Cold Awakening

by Dave LaRoche

"Jeeesus Christ it's cold," Dale muttered, pulling himself out of an old sagging bed in the dingy studio he had rented in town.  Wrapping quickly in his robe, he blew on his hands, warming them some before his breath chilled and dispersed.  He shuffled across a bare floor, cranked up the wall heater and waited in the green glow of an old digital clock—shivering in fits, as the flame inched the heater toward warm.  What a place! he thought, as he turned on the only lamp and looked around once again in wonder.  Four in the morning, cold as the Klondike and his new home was a pit.

His weathered pick-up needed shocks, he was reminded, as it bounced along the familiar country road—weaving and sliding through frozen mud ruts, unsure in new snow.  He had bought this pick-up used when he was 17—twelve years ago.  Trucks last forever, he thought.

His headlights picked up heavier flurries of snow now, coming at him though early-morning darkness—big fluttering flakes and could be four, five inches he judged, already on the ground.  Dale ordinarily enjoyed the winter; particularly the snow as it refreshed—covering old, inviting new.  He thought of the good times in his life and many included snow.  It'll be nice when the day lightens up, he mused.  He could use some nice. 

His family had been supportive, as had Rod at the shop but he hated this situation; the stinking apartment with its cracked and missing linoleum, motel Melmac and stained mustard walls but mostly he hated the living in town—the estrangement.  He wasn't prepared…  He’d never get accustomed to those likes.

His headlights caught a mailbox coming up on the right side of the road—‘Dale Woodbey’, a warming if painful sight.

"I know that guy," he said softly to himself with a sigh and a shake of his head.  "In my book he's a damned fine fella."  Dale slowed his truck and turned toward the driveway by the box. Gazing off through the dark, he thought of Jayne.  Never in his life had he been so puzzled, so unsure of himself.  It gnawed at him constantly.

In a few hundred feet, another mailbox revealed in the lights from his truck—‘George Arley Woodbey’.  Dale cranked the wheel hard to his right, slid down into this drive and moved slowly toward lights in the kitchen.

"Mornin' Pops, what's for breakfast?" Dale said, closing the door quietly.  "That drive in the morning, 'specially this time of year, makes a man purty hungry."  He placed his hand gently on the older man's back.  "Ya know it's snowin' out there don't cha?"

"We got waffles."

"And bacon?"

"Yeah bacon.  You wanna do the bacon?  It's the thick sweet stuff a-Charlie's… in the refrigerator.  Sure wished I knew his smokin' secret."

"Is Roman comin'?"

"He'll be down.  Out late... man of fortitude.  I remember when I could do it.  Can’t blame 'im none, y'aint young forever."

"How's the shop?" Pops continued, "Got backlog?"

"Yeah, plenty… and Rod likes my work, says I’m a fast learner and wants me to buy in.  Says he needs a partner and I'm thinkin' about it—he'd make it easy.  Might be good for me and Jayne, steady money ya know… though I'd rather work my own place."

"Yep, might be good, you and Rod."

"Ya s'pose we might get a buck this morning?"  Dale said, "The snow'll help with the trackin'."

"Well, there's plenty around 'n the limit's up—we could fill the truck.  But if the snow keeps up, it'll cover their tracks and likely they’ll huddle back in the brush."  Pops walked to the window, wet with kitchen steam, rubbed a spot and peered out though it was still too dark to see.

"Hi ya big brother, how's the single man?" came from the doorway.  "Ya gettin' anything to cozy-up with in that city place a yours ...  a'course I doubt it!"

"Mornin' Roman.  Say, you look some tousled li'l brother, ya sure you’re up to a hunt today—takes a steady hand and clear eye, ya know."  Dale Woodbey stiffed his younger brother on the shoulder with his palm, pushing him slightly off balance. They laughed.  Roman was taller and darker than Dale and a bit heavier though both were well over six feet. 

"Ya better have your coffee black… and tall", Dale said with a grin.

George Woodbey chuckled.  He liked the palling around—these were his boys and they were good men.  There was little he could offer them now and that made him proud.  He and Emma had agreed, they'd done a good job.  He’d worked the farm mainly—couple hundred acres in the Ozarks isn't small.  She’d guided the boys when they were young and impressionable, later he took the reins. 

George was the salt they all said—strong of character, light on personality but with good humor and a quiet appreciation of the human condition.  He might drink a little occasionally but then there was ‘church on Sundays’. 

"I can see him, an eight pointer, standing on a knoll, steam snortin' out of his nostrils—about four hundred pounds.  He senses me and runs but I got a bead.  I squeeze and he falls—stone dead before hittin' the ground," said Roman.

"Drink some more coffee here, you gotta wake up," said Dale.

"Bacon ready?" asked Pops.

"Perfect," said Dale.

"Let's eat, the sun'll be up 'fore long."

They sat to a new pot of coffee, darkly browned waffles with melting butter, hot syrup with a touch of molasses, and a heaping plate of Charlie's special bacon, fried crisp.

"How you an' Jayne gettin' along?" asked Roman.

Pops glanced up a little startled, too reserved to ask the question his self, but little trouble with its askin’.

"Oh… I don't know, Rome, I'm as much in the dark as those white perch in the caverns.

"She won't talk to me much," Dale continued.  "Hard to figure.  She sets over at our place, doin' her stuff and won't give me no mind—I jus' pay the bills."  He took a big bite of waffle, graced with a fork load of bacon.  "Umm, pretty damned good," Some coffee went down.

"I'm trying to work it out—not sure what she wants," he got out through his chewing,  "She's not very clear.

"Now she says this and then she says that.  It was drinkin' and carousing at first she complained of, and the company I kept.  Then it was how I dressed at the table—undershirt and that.  She didn't like me spittin' from the porch or the language I used or where I left my boots—and more by the day.  Every time I'd abide, there seemed somethin' new.  I'd likely do what she really wants if I knew what it was."  He stroked the stubble on his chin feeling better for its presence.

"Shit," said Roman, "All women are crazy if you ask me.  I'm never gettin' married and besides, ya know… why own the cow when the milk's so cheap."  He chuckled.  "You take ol' Ramsey, he don't need a wife.  Got every skirt in the county—any time he wants… to hear the talk."

Dale cringed at the mention of Jake Ramsey.  Maybe handsome, but wily and lacking in character he thought. 

Jake had been Jayne's sort-a-steady before he came along, Dale recalled with some entertainment.  All Jake had then were his good looks and some mystery about his beginnings.  But now Jake was part owner of the feed store in town and gaining big in respectability—though the mystery was still hangin' around.  Jake didn't cotton much to Jayne's marrying Dale although she never seemed important to him— like losing a car to the repossession man, not makin' the payments regular, still hatin' to see it go, Dale had thought.

"Well, they don't stick with him long, I’ve noticed.  Anyway, he's got nothing to do with it," said Dale.

"Horse shit! What about yur mom?" piped up Pops, swallowing hard on the last of a big mouthful of waffle, a little late in response to Roman's allegation of the universal craziness in the other gender.  "She's a steady one and don't say she ain't."

Of course they all knew it.  Emma was a jewel with all the bright facets.  Tolerant but not soft, straight but not righteous, loving but no push-over and quietly smart—she had shown the right amount on them all and they were much the better for it.

"Wudja do to get booted out a yur house anyway, Dale— it is your house, idn't it?  So what caused you ta leave?  I'da put my damned foot down—harder," Roman exclaimed.

"You don't know a thing about love, Roman, not a blame thing.  Jayne… well she's my soul mate."  Dale considered this statement, he didn't know much about that phrase but he’d read it somewhere and it seemed like a fit so he stayed with it.  He did know, for certain, he was plumb crazy about Jayne and had been since the day they had met.

"We belong together," he continued.  "Oh, I could go in and tell her to leave and she'd be surprised and hurt, there'd be a squabble, probably then a divorce and that'd be the end… but I don't want that.  Grown-ups try to work things out, right Pops?  They don't just throw up their hands… go to the end at every little thing that comes along."

"So whata' you gonna do?" said Roman.

Dale reflected.  He’d been reading up... one positive thing comin’ out-ta that stinkin’ little hole of an apartment.  "I'm gonna give it some time and I'm gonna try to understand what it is I'm doing wrong—maybe be more gentle, try and see things her way, you know, be flexible. Yeh that's it, be more flexible.  I know she loves me," he looked directly into Roman's eyes, "cares deeply for me and, if I could jus' get it together… soften up… improve my… my relationship skills, she'd take me back and I know we'd do fine.  She wants to take me back, Roman.” 

"Maybe I'll buy into the cabinet shop—Rod wants me to."

There was a lull and Pops was mullin'. "That's right boy.  Your mama and me… 'course we think you're both near flawless, but ya might have a tad a correctin' to do. Guess none a us's perfect."  He turned to his younger son, "Roman, you sure as hell ain’t."  There was a grin on his face and a glint in his gray and wiser eyes.

"An' I don't wanna be, Pops.  I got oats to sow an' honeys to do, and tonight I'm goin' into Davenport… to the dance, Pops.  Remember dancing?"  Roman jumped up, "You do remember dancing, don’cha Pops?  Tra la la, tra la."  He twirled around the table, put his hand on the old man’s cheek and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

"Cut it Roman!" Pops said, a smile trying to break forth. 

Roman sat.

"Do you ever go over to see her Pops, see how she's doing?"  Dale said.  "Remember when we built that place…  you cuttin' out the parcel and Rod comin' in to help us and how happy she was then—her own little house."

George Arley Woodbey stared through the wet window toward his son’s house. His eyes teared up.  He would like the day when both his boys had places next to his— his and Emma’s.  George put big stock in family and everyday hoped for reconciliation between Jayne and Dale.

"Your Ma goes… now and again," he said as his eyes drifted toward the door leading to the back of the house where all could hear movement.

Emma came in and took her apron from a hook.  "The sun's up you boys, I thought you was goin' huntin' and what I perceive is gabbin'," she said as she tied it around her trim waist.  "If you're going, git!  I'll clean my kitchen."

The sky indeed was its early pearl gray, the snow seemed to be waning and in answer to Emma, the chairs screeched back on the old fir floor and they all stood, stretching hard toward the ceiling. 

"I got slugs for my twelve-gauge", said Pops.  "What-a-you taken' Roman?"

"My thirty-ought-six and she's loaded and ready for that eight-pointer."  He looked over at his brother.  "Dale's gonna read a poem to his buck, win him over with love… and agreeable behavior."

"Get your gear, Dale.  We'll take the crew-cab," said Pops.  He loved truckin' through the rough with his four-wheel drive diesel, especially on a hunt in the snow.

They left the warmth of the kitchen and its revelations and stepped out into six inches of fresh snow.  "Dang, it's cold out here. You couldn't pee to the ground," Pops said as he buttoned up his collar, pulled on his gloves and started toward the diesel.

The sun was comin' over the horizon, the new day was emerging and Dale was glad to be here, glad to be alive and glad there was snow. This was his place, with his Pops and his brother, together in the crew-cab and out on a hunt.  Today was indeed a good day.

At the road, Pops cut a left and headed down toward Dale's place and, as they passed the mailbox, he slowed and they all turned in their seats to look down the driveway.

Roman said, "Say Dale, ain’t that ol' Jake Ramsey's truck, down there at the side of your house?"