A pillow sped past Sara's face in its flight from the top bunk on one side of the room to the bottom bunk on the other side of the room. "David," she said to the thrower as she retrieved and handed him his pillow, "let's not do that again." She sat down in a chair by the window and adjusted her glasses, "I know you are all excited about Christmas tomorrow; but if you don't get to sleep soon Santa won't come to the house at all."
"We don't," Albert said slowly from the right-hand top bunk, "believe in Santa. We know you and Dad put those presents under the tree."
"Oh we do, do we?" Sara said sounding as if she were surprised, "Don't any of you believe in Santa or magic anymore?"
She was answered by four less-than-definite Nos.
"Well," she situated herself in her chair, "I think this calls for a little convincing. I believe in magic. If I tell you the story of why I believe in magic, will you be quiet and try to go to sleep?"
"Yes," from above on the right.
"Yea," from above on the left.
"Uh-huh," from the bottom right.
"Yes," from the last.
"Okay. Now, listen quietly. I was about David's age when my parents had to go away for a while. While they were gone I went to live with my cousin Connor...
To be honest, I had doubts about my cousin's sanity. He took his superstitions too seriously."
"Sara! Don't ever say anything like that without knocking wood," he exclaimed if I ever commented on my good fortune. "Your luck will break." He then forced me to knock the nearest piece of wood in atonement.
"Honestly, Connor, you're too superstitious," I'd sigh. Believe me, I sighed just so on more than one occasion. Once we were walking down mainstreet on the way home from grammar school. We passed the few store fronts and the town's single stoplight along the way. Clifton was a small town, you see. This was the beginning of my discovery of Connor as more than my slightly-off-the-wall cousin who was always forced on me at family get togethers. One of Clifton, Pennsylvania's beautiful winter days was nearing completion. The azure expanse of the sky showed no clouds; it showed no smog either, in contrast to the Los Angeles sky I'd left behind a few weeks before. The sun shone brightly trying its best to get at the frost hiding in the shadows. Connor took my hand, led me to the nearest piece of wood, a creosote-covered telephone pole, and helped me knock.
I pulled my hand back. My knuckles were red and covered with a sticky coat of black goo, "Honestly, Connor, you're too superstitious. All I said was that I was having a good day."
"It would have turned bad if you hadn't knocked," he assured, "I know; it's happened to me before."
When I was a fourth-grade girl, I remember thinking Connor was an okay kid... for a fourth-grade boy. This wasn't saying a lot. As a rule the girls at our school thought of boys their age as immature and "yucky." But I was the new kid in school, and Connor was the only person my age I knew in the strangely small town of Clifton. Since I was such an introvert, I hoped Connor would introduce me to other girls. Unfortunately, Connor was a fellow introvert. We formed a two-man crew, and Connor was my leader. At age eight Connor was a lump of muted energy. He never tired, but he was too shy to make friends. So while I was there, Connor, smile on his simian face and nervous sparks in his blue eyes, dragged me around trying to expend that energy. He had none of Aunt Lou's soft good looks or Uncle Ted's angular handsomeness. Connor looked like our mutual Grandmother Winnifred.
"I'm still having a good day," I said; and before he had a chance to protest, I rapped the pole again.
Connor flashed one of his smiles, making his ears stick out even further. I rolled my eyes and turned to continue homeward when a glint of sunlight in the window of Gruber's Hardware Store caught my eye. It was a shiny new snow shovel, the perfect gift for Uncle Ted's up-coming birthday. Connor and I had broken his old one playing shovel ball against the garage. I pointed it out and told Connor my idea.
"Ha, that kind of shovel," Connor said, "what would he use it for anyway? There's a dead space over Clifton; we never get any bad weather. Years ago some weirdo, some pioneer weirdo or something, probably cursed this town with perfect weather."
Connor was also given to slight exaggeration. Only a few days before that conversation took place, we'd had a violent thunder-snowstorm. We'd gotten four inches of snow. It stuck for all of two hours, but it was pretty while it lasted. That much snow was something new to me. Oh, I'd seen a flake or two living in L.A. with my parents; but nothing awfully significant. At that time we still sort of lived in L.A. . They were making house payments on our house while they reported the news in Lebanon. They'd dropped me off in the Mid East on their way to the Middle East, proving we were the normal close-knit American family, scattered to the four winds of the states and the world. I lived with Uncle Ted, Aunt Louise, and Connor until my Mom and Dad made it back.
During the aforementioned thunder-snowstorm, I discovered Connor had developed a new superstition uniquely his own. We were sitting in class listening to Mr. Shorr, a pinch-faced weasel of a man, talk about Washington's winter at Valley Forge when I happened to look out the window and notice it was snowing.
"Connor," I whispered, "look it's snowing."
"Shhh," he shhhed.
Connor was not one to listen to a social studies lecture if a distraction were offered, "What's with the shhh? I thought you liked harsh weather."
A rumble of thunder shook the school building. Every student jumped, but the teacher took no notice. Sixty-year-old Mr. Shorr wouldn't have noticed a cannon blasting over his shoulder. Not only couldn't he hear the thunder; but as long as Connor and I didn't look as if we were talking, we could practically scream at each other.
"I do," Connor said, "but don't say that word."
"What word? I said quite a few."
"You know, the S-word."
I knew I hadn't said THE S-word, "What s-word? Snow?" "Shhh."
Again with the shhhing, "Why not?" I asked.
"Because if you do, the white stuff will stop falling."
I looked out the window again. It had stopped snowing. I fixed Connor with a look I'd perfected in the short time I'd been living with him. I raised one eyebrow, squinted, and half-grimaced. This was my are you-serious-Connor-cut-me-some-slack expression.
Of course, the odd look on my face tipped off Mr. Shorr, "Connor, Sara, are you two talking again?" No answer was expected. He put our names on the chalk board, and Connor and I got to hand copy a dictionary page that night.
Uncle Ted's birthday came and went. I bought the shovel despite Connor's protests. In fact, it ended up being a present from both of us. Connor dreamed up some forgotten debt I owed him and let me repay him by sharing the giving of my gift.
A few nights after Uncle Ted's birthday Connor and I were doing homework at the kitchen table. I remember how warm the room seemed. Aunt Lou didn't keep the thermostat higher than necessary; she decorated for warmth. The entire house was done in earth tones and rosy sun tones. The nineteenth century antiques with which she furnished the rooms added the warmth and snugness of old things. I think back on those months of living with Connor every time I smell that musty-dusty scent that permeated their house. As a fourth grader, I found the prospect of doing homework at a large, hand-carved, oak table almost exciting. Keeping my surroundings in mind, I attacked my fractions vigorously. To Connor the table was old-hat, and he was less enthusiastic about the work. I had just finished the last row of fractions I had to multiply when, once again, I noticed it was snowing.
"Connor," I said, "look it's sn--uff," I caught and corrected my mistake, "white stuff."
He smiled and continued to work. Even though he was bent over his fractions, I could see the expression on his face well enough. There was a peculiar sharpness to his eyes and one side of his grin was higher than the other.
Bedtime was nearing, and I yawned.
Without looking up he said, "Don't do that without covering your mouth. Evil spirits can get in, and you might get possessed."
Caught in mid-yawn, I gave him one of my perfected odd looks with my mouth hanging open. "Honestly, Connor," I sighed, "you're too superstitious."
We finished our math, our social studies, our grammar, our reading, our health, our spelling, and our other miscellaneous homework; and Aunt Lou shooed us up to bed. Connor and I had twin beds, one on either side of our toy-cluttered room; and we each had our own window. When the lights were out and the door was closed, we opened our windowshades; and in our night-colored room, we watched the flakes fall.
"Thanks," he whispered.
"For what?" I asked looking over at him.
"For calling it white stuff. Mother Nature can't legally stop unloading on us until I say it, and you know I won't."
I smiled, settled back in my bed, and watched ice crystals slowly creep their way up my window.
The next morning was my first snowday, and it was perfect.
Connor and I got up bleary-eyed to get ready for school. When we saw the foot or so of white stuff on the ground, we raced to the radio and squealed with delight when they listed Wheaton County Schools as closed. Skipping breakfast, we bundled up and rushed outside to play in the stuff. We built a white-stuff man, made an ice fort, and had flake-ball fights. After about a half-hour, Aunt Lou called us in for a brunch of scrambled egg sandwiches and hot chocolate. It was wonderfully warm in the kitchen. Aunt Lou in her lace-and-flower-print apron was baking a ham for dinner, and its softly salty smell filled the house.
After admiring the mounting white stuff, Connor and I sat down in front of the fireplace with crayons and coloring books. While we colored we sang along with the Christmas carols Aunt Lou had playing on the stereo.
When it came to 'Let it Snow' Connor agreed to sing it, only if we used his words. So we sang: 'Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. And since there are no leaves to rake, Let it flake, let it flake, let it flake.'
Aunt Lou stuck her head out of the kitchen and eyed us curiously. "Excuse me," she said. We all laughed.
Just then the front door burst open and Uncle Ted stomped in two hours early. He smiled at our laughter. And after hanging up his coat, he sat down in one of the easy chairs next to Connor and me. The winter-rosiness of Uncle Ted's cheeks barely hid a worried greyness he hadn't had the night before. "They closed the factory," Uncle Ted said, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. He sounded a little nervous, "They were afraid if they kept us any longer, we wouldn't get home. It's going on two feet out there. The city doesn't have enough salt to--"
Connor's face took on that sharp-eyed look and he began to laugh uncontrollably.
"Connor," his father, only half-angry, said wearily. I remember guessing he was used to Connor's weirdness.
"Sorry," Connor said. "I got her," he giggled. "I got her."
I suppose Uncle Ted and Aunt Lou thought Connor and I were playing a game and he was winning because they didn't ask him what he was talking about.
"Connor," I said as his parents left the room to finish their conversation, "What are you talking about? Who exactly do you have?"
"Mother Nature. She can't stop until I say it!" He giggled again and lay back, tired from his laughter.
"Right," I said sarcastically, nodding and wondering how he could give himself over so completely to a superstition he'd made up. "Connor, why d'you like bad weather so much?" I asked preoccupied with deciding what color an aardvark's tongue should be colored.
"I guess," he said after pausing to stare at his picture, "because Gramma did."
"Ahh," I nodded. I was sure, and I still am sure, that therein lay the roots of Connor's strangeness: too much time with Gramma Winnie. She was a mite eccentric, given to telling tall tales about non-existent relatives and mixing up home remedies. She'd lived with Connor and his parents for a couple of years before she died. I could imagine her potato-sack of a body nestled in the easy-chair Uncle Ted had just vacated. She would be smiling her happy-old-monkey smile at a younger Connor perched on her knee and telling him this story and that tale. "Did she like storms?" I asked still coloring.
"She used to laugh whenever it thundered or lightninged. She was fun."
Uncle Ted, bundled up, and with new snow shovel in hand, lumbered out the front door. Why anyone would shovel the walk before the end of the storm was beyond me.
I put my pink crayon down. "Did she say the s-word?" I asked forgetting my aardvark for the moment.
He stared at her picture on the mantel for a moment, shrugged, and turned back to his coloring book. We continued coloring until dinner.
The house seemed to get colder and colder despite the warm decor, so the family ate in the kitchen to be near the warmth of the stove. Uncle Ted brought in a tiny black-and-white portable TV, so we could watch the news. He and Aunt Lou watched and ate in silence. Every time the screen showed white stuff blowing along a deserted street or the crowded emergency relief center Aunt Lou would give Uncle Ted a worried glance.
"I stayed up once," Connor boasted, "and watched Johnny Carson. You know, if you can make it through that awake, you could probably stay up the whole night. Hey, we can--" He paused to shove a piece of ham into his mouth.
"Mom?" She didn't answer. He began tapping her on the shoulder with his fork, "Mom? Mom? Mom?"
"Yes, dear," she said quietly staring at the TV.
The newsman said something to the effect that there was no end in sight to the current storm. He fixed the fourth of July as a tentative date for the storm's end.
"Can Sara and I stay up all night since we don't have school tomorrow?" Connor played in his plate with his fork as he asked.
"Yes, dear. Shhh."
Connor became excited, "Great, we can color and play games and sing with the records and watch TV. We can bring our stuffed animals down and they can stay up with us." His eyes were sharper than ever. He continued as if it were all one long sentence, "We can even pretend to camp out in front of the TV and--"
"Connor, honey, hush and let us hear the news."
After a while, I noticed an absence of the eating noises that usually came from Connor's corner of the table. He wasn't one to let a single parental warning stop him. I looked over at him. He was staring at the TV. Through a mist of white flakes, the camera panned across a pile of twisted metal that had been a car. "This is but one of thirty some accidents on the roads tonight," the newsman said. "We've had seven fatalities and many are hospitalized. Residents are urged to stay in their homes until the roads can be cleared. If help is needed call the emergency service..." The camera continued its trip over the wreckage and focused on a stretcher being lifted into a waiting ambulance. The newsman droned on.
Connor dropped his fork. The sound broke the hypnotic spell that the TV had cast over the family. As the newsman went on about the traffic fatalities, Connor was the only one intent on the screen. His eyes were dull and his grin was gone.
After dinner, Aunt Lou insisted Connor and I get ready for bed. She seemed to have forgotten, if she'd ever known, that she had promised Connor we could stay up all night. He didn't care. He went upstairs without a protest; and being his faithful toady, I followed.
We got on our pajamas, and we were staring out our bedroom windows when Connor said, "It's pretty... isn't it?" He sounded far away.
"Yeah," I said, "it's the most I've ever seen at once. It's kinda scary too."
Connor seemed entranced by the falling pieces of whiteness. His lips moved slightly as if he were having an internal conversation. I couldn't make out what he was saying. I thought I heard 'my fault' and 'end.' Without warning he started and ran downstairs.
When I was half way down to the living room, I heard the front door open and shut. I followed, not to stop him but to comfort him when what I knew he planned to do didn't work. He was standing at the end of the front walk in his pajamas. Even though Uncle Ted had just finished the front walk, the snow was piled up to Connor's knees. Connor stared at the flakes falling around him, blinking when they hit him in the eye, and wiping off the specks of water they left on his face.
"Snow," he said quietly.
"You know, you really have no effect on it," I said quickly, "It'll go on no matter what." As if to prove me right, the white stuff continued falling, swirling slowly around him in whirlpools of white, "Besides, Auntie Lou will kill us. Come on, Connor."
"Snow," he yelled, "Snow snow snowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnow..."
"Honestly, Connor..." I tried to drag him back into the house.
Aunt Lou was standing in the doorway calling impatiently, but Connor wouldn't budge. He watched the sky, and I watched him as all around us the huge white flakes that had been falling for two days slowly... got... smaller.
"...Connor never did anything out of the ordinary after that. I doubt if he remembers it as well as I do. He probably only remembers the record snowfall and the bad cold he had after being out in the snow in his pajamas." Sara was silent for a moment. Albert was staring opened mouthed at her from his bunk, but the others had been asleep for some time. "The fact that there is magic in the world, Albert, explains a lot of the tiny daily miracles." She kissed him and made sure he and the others were tucked in well, "So go to sleep, and tomorrow you can tell your brothers why you believe in magic."