The Snowman Page 3

started to move away then stopped. "Mrs. Desjardins? Have you tried talking to him?" The echo again, faint but there. And nausea now.

  "Talking to whom?"

  "You know." Very strong echo, and Mamie thought she was going to pass out.

  "Talking to whom, Mary?" she managed, but the girl skipped away. "Mary?"

  Gone.

  I've worn myself out talking to George, Mamie said to herself as she made her way into the house, where she put Bobby's garments into the dryer and turned it on. After setting George's blended drink next to him, she climbed to their bedroom and lay down, waiting for the last of the girl's effects to pass. Yes, she'd worn herself out talking to her mute husband, but she had the creeping feeling that Mary Cater hadn't meant that.

  She awoke. From the shadows down on the lawn, Mamie could see she'd slept for several hours, and she hadn't meant to sleep at all.

  Downstairs her impulse, as usual, was to check on George, but she veered toward the laundry room and stopped at its entrance. The dryer door was open. The machine was empty. Who else could it be?

  Mamie hurried to the porch. He was gone. She stared out at the snowman: still there, its arms held out, beseeching.

  George was in the den, lying crumpled on the worn divan, a box on the floor nearby. Mamie knelt next to him. "Oh, honey." In the box were the dried garments with the other mitten he'd found on that fateful day. She smoothed his forehead, and he stared at her with those hopeless blue eyes.

  Bobby's eyes.

  Mamie stood. She'd tried everything else.

  This is silly, she told herself as she walked down the porch steps and towards the snowman, but what did she have to lose? She stopped a few feet away from him. They were almost the same height.

  "Why are you acting like this? Don't you know we love you?"

  This was stupid. What was she doing talking to this thing? She moved away from it, but Mary Cater's voice seemed to echo, seemed to coax. There it stood, practically holding out its arms to her. A sob came then, and she walked up to it, inches away.

  "Your grandfather loves you. I know he kept scaring you, and it seemed he would never ever stop. He'd say he didn't mean it, that he was only kidding, then he'd do it again."

  The snowman had lost something. Some part of it was gone. The hat and scarf were there; it still wore that eerie smile; the arms were still outstretched, seemingly almost touching her now—but that couldn't be. She tried not to look at them.

  "Try to understand. His father was a mean man. I don't know why, but he was always scaring Grandpa. One time, when Grandpa was a boy, his father came home from a Halloween party late one night wearing a bear suit. I-I guess he told you this, but…he hid in Grandpa's closet and growled and growled until Grandpa woke up then jumped out and nearly scared him to death. I know he told you that he loved it, but…"

  Contours. There were contours, a more definitive, a more…no…no, not human. It couldn't be. But wasn't that a hint of a nose pushing out the piece of charcoal? Ridiculous! Were those bumps on the sides if its head beginnings of…ears?

  Mamie felt it then. The arms. Touching her. Pressing. She shuddered and tried to take a step back, but the arms pressed harder, began to embrace her. "We lost you. Everybody, your mother and father, feels so bad. We love you, Grandpa loves you—he's so sorry. Please…please don't take him away."

  It was him. It had his face. She was pulled tight against him, now, the charcoal tumbling from his face, onto her as she tried—thought she tried—to get out of the embrace. She didn't want to.

  "I love you." The sculpted hair fell over the forehead the way his had. The eyes, though hollow and white, were obviously his set against the cast of the forehead and the fine little nose. The shoulders were perfectly formed now. She could feel the small hands with the slender fingers of the pianist or painter she'd always fancied he would become press against her back.

  A wind came up, sudden and strong. The tophat and scarf sailed into the azaleas. The snowman, her grandson, smiled, and Mamie smiled back, and they seemed to be sinking…

  "Noo! No, Bobby!" George was there. Somewhere. She heard him tumbling down the porch steps. Still sinking, though, so it seemed. She didn't mind. "No, Bob, take me. I'll go, buddy." She could hear the rasp of his breathing as he drew near. "I deserve to go."

  He was there. Thin and stooped and rabid. He was holding Bobby's winter things, she could see. The embrace grew stronger, the sinking faster. She closed her eyes, gave herself up to it. Then George had his arms around the both of them, those arms that had always held her so lovingly.

  "I love you, Bobby," George said, his voice surprisingly strong. "I love you more than my own life. Take me with you, Bob. Let's go together, huh? What do you say we go on this adventure together, and maybe we'll find my old man, who knows, and maybe we'll all find his old man, and…let me go with you, please? Your grammy doesn't deserve this, does she?"

  Mamie was forced to her knees with the pulling, and George came crumpling down, too, and suddenly she was released. The snowman stepped away, took a few steps back. As they watched, paralyzed, it was as if a plug had been pulled. He began to shrink, faster and faster, losing the features, the contours, the shape, until he was a disintegrating pile of snow, then slush, then a puddle and, finally, a damp spot absorbed by the earth.

  Bobby was gone.

  Tears streaming down her face, she went to George and held him. "I'm starving, Mame."

  "I'll fix you something."

  Stopping in the hall as George trudged toward the kitchen, she stared at the phone. She should thank Mary Cater. That strange but perceptive girl.

  The phone was answered on the third ring. "This is Mamie Desjardins. May I speak to Mary, please?"

  "I'm sorry?" said the woman.

  "She's an enchanting young lady. I'm sure you're having a wonderful summer. Could I speak to her a moment, Ethel?"

  "I don't understand you. Is that you, Mamie? I haven't heard your voice in ages."

  "I apologize. People get so busy nowadays. I was hoping to talk to Mary for a second."

  "Mary Cater."

  "Yes, isn't she your niece?"

  "Well…yes, she…"

  "I'll only be a minute. We really should get together one of these days."

  "I'd like that, Mamie." There was silence, then—"I thought you knew. Mary died some years ago in a car accident. She was on her way to visit us."

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