After I paid for the elderly woman’s groceries at the store, she whispered quietly to me, “When your husband leaves, do not touch the snow in the yard.”
I laughed it off at the time but decided to listen and did not shovel the driveway. And when I stepped out onto the porch the next morning, I was stunned by what I saw.
I was standing in line at the checkout of our local grocery store, clutching my worn-out tote bag to my chest. Outside the windows, a blizzard was sweeping through the streets. December had turned out to be especially snowy this year.
Fifty-eight is the age when you stop running around supermarkets looking for sales and start going to the familiar place near your house, where the clerks know you by name. Ahead of me, right at the register, a hunched-over elderly woman in a faded shawl was fumbling around. She poured loose change onto the counter from a tattered wallet, counting the coins with trembling fingers.
On the belt lay the most modest of purchases—a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, three potatoes, and a small onion.
“Ma’am, you are short,” the cashier, a young woman named Candace with tired eyes, said wearily. “You are short about a dollar.”
“How can that be, baby?” the old woman muttered in confusion, sorting through the coins again. “I counted at home. I counted everything.”
Behind me, someone sighed in annoyance. The line was growing, and people were in a hurry to get home out of the bad weather. I looked at the shrunken figure of the old woman, at her hands red from the cold, at her cheap groceries, and something tugged inside me.
How many times had I walked past someone else’s grief, pretending not to notice? How many times had I turned away so as not to see someone else’s need? But today, something made me step forward.
“Candace, ring it up with mine,” I said, handing a twenty-dollar bill over the old woman’s shoulder. “I will pay for it.”
“Oh, honey, really? You do not have to,” the old woman flustered, turning around. “I will just put something back.”
“Do not worry about it, ma’am,” I smiled warmly. “It is nothing, not even worth mentioning.”
The old woman raised her eyes to me, and I involuntarily shuddered at her strange, piercing gaze. Her eyes were not old at all. They were clear, deep, as if they saw right through me, straight into my soul.
The woman was small and fragile, her face furrowed with deep wrinkles, but in those eyes shone some unusual power, an ancient wisdom.
“Thank you, daughter,” the old woman whispered. She scooped her purchases into a worn plaid bag, and her voice trembled with gratitude. “Your kindness will not be forgotten; it will come back to you.”
I shrugged, paying for my own groceries: chicken for a stew, vegetables, bread, and a couple of cans of goods.
Vernon was leaving this evening for another long-haul run for a week, maybe ten days. I had to cook for him for the road, and also stock up on everything necessary for myself while he was away. Thirty-two years married, and all this time I had seen him off on trips, waited for his return, cooked, washed, cleaned.
Life flowed in a well-worn groove, monotonous and predictable. I had already picked up my bags, intending to leave, when I felt an unexpectedly strong grip on the sleeve of my old coat.
The old woman stood beside me, clutching the fabric with her wiry fingers with such force that I could not immediately pull away.
“Listen to me carefully, daughter,” she whispered, leaning in very close so that I could feel her breath. The old woman smelled of mothballs, dried herbs, and something else elusive and ancient. “When your husband leaves for the night, do not touch the snow in the yard.”
“Do you hear me?” she continued intensely. “No matter what he tells you, do not shovel until morning. Let the white lie untouched.”
“What?” I blinked in confusion, trying to understand the meaning of these strange words. “What snow?”
“Do not touch the snow until morning,” the old woman repeated slowly, distinctly, as if hammering every word into my consciousness. Her fingers gripped my sleeve even tighter, almost to the point of pain. “Promise me. This is very important. Your life depends on it. Believe an old woman.”
“Yes, okay, okay,” I agreed mechanically, freeing my arm and involuntarily stepping back. My heart beat anxiously; I felt uneasy from that intense, almost hypnotic gaze. “I will not shovel, I promise.”
The old woman finally let me go. She nodded slowly, as if satisfied with the promise, and quickly—surprisingly agile for her age—walked out of the store, dissolving into the snowy whirl beyond the glass doors.
I watched her go, then shook my head, chasing away the strange sensation. The poor old woman must not be all there. I felt sorry for old folks—lonely, poor, living in their own world of fantasies and superstitions. Maybe from need and loneliness, the mind gets confused, and so she spouts nonsense about snow and husbands.
Outside, I was immediately blasted by a snowy vortex. Icy flakes plastered my face. I shivered, wrapped myself deeper into my old scarf, and walked quickly to the bus stop, where a small group of chilled people had already gathered.
Vernon and I lived on the outskirts of the city in a quiet suburb where the houses stood on large lots. The house had belonged to my parents, a sturdy old place with thick walls, built back in the seventies. I had been the mistress of it for many years.
I had revitalized the once-neglected garden, planted apple trees that now gave a harvest every summer, and cultivated flowerbeds—roses near the porch, peonies along the walkway. Thirty-two years married, and for the greater part of them, almost thirty years, we had lived in this very house. It was home to me.
The bus was stuffy, crowded, and smelled of wet wool. I squeezed to the window, leaned my forehead against the cold glass, and remembered the words of the strange old woman again.
Do not touch the snow! What sort of eccentricity was that? Honestly! Just this morning, while hurriedly eating breakfast before heading out, Vernon had grumbled that the driveway absolutely needed to be cleared. He said the drifts were piling up high and the walkways were completely covered.
He ordered me to take care of it by evening so the paths would be clear; otherwise, he could not turn the car around. And here some strange, senile lady whispers weird things about snow. A stupid coincidence, nothing more.
The house met me with dark, empty windows and cold air. Vernon had gone to the depot in the morning to prep the truck for the haul and had not turned up the heat.
I went in, shook the snow off my boots onto the mat, and took off my wet coat. I walked across the cold floor to the kitchen, turned up the thermostat, and put the kettle on the stove. I unpacked the groceries and neatly put everything in its place—vegetables in the pantry, chicken in the fridge, bread in the box. Every movement was habitual, practiced over the years.
The house gradually warmed up, the baseboards creaked cozily as the heat rose, and the kettle began to whistle. Vernon was supposed to return by six in the evening to pick up his things and food for the road. I began to cook with the same method as always.
I cleaned and cut the chicken, put it on to boil for a rich broth, chopped vegetables for the salad that Vernon liked to take with him, and took out the meatloaf from the freezer, which I had prepared a week ago especially for his trip. He preferred home-cooked food to roadside diners. He said there was nothing but chemicals and dirt there.
At exactly six o’clock, the front door slammed, and the cold burst into the house along with Vernon. He walked in with a heavy tread, shaking snow from his jacket right onto the floor, paying no attention to the puddles.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a weathered, hard face and cold gray eyes. At fifty-nine years old, he looked solid and strong despite a quarter of a century behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler. Twenty-five years of roads, thousands and thousands of miles across the country.
“Well, is everything ready?” he asked instead of a greeting, not even looking at his wife, walking straight into the kitchen.
“Yes, Vern, I am packing it now,” I replied.
I had already taken out the prepared containers and began neatly arranging the cooled soup, meatloaf, salad, and cornbread. Vernon sat at the table, heavily poured himself tea from the old ceramic pot, added three spoons of sugar, and stayed silent. He stared at his phone screen, typing something quickly, never once looking at me.
I stole a glance at him, at the profile I knew down to the smallest detail. When had this begun? This alienation, this wall of ice between us? A year ago, two, maybe five or ten?
Before, in the early years, he would return from trips tired but happy. He would hug me at the threshold, tell me about the road, about the people he met, joke and laugh. And now, only silence. Only irritation in every movement, in every glance, as if I were not a wife but a tiresome servant.
“Clean the snow this evening once it gets dark,” Vernon threw out, not looking up from his phone. “The driveway is completely buried; it might drift even more tomorrow.”
“Vernon, it is already almost dark, the blizzard is bad,” I started, but cut myself off when I saw him raise a cold gaze to me.
“I said this evening,” he cut in sharply. “You are not a child, you can handle it in half an hour. I did not have time. The haul starts early tomorrow morning; the cargo is important.”
I pressed my lips together, continuing to silently pack the containers into the large travel bag. The old woman’s words came to mind: When your husband leaves for the night, do not touch the snow.
A coincidence strange to the point of impossibility. Although what sort of coincidence really? It is winter after all; you have to shovel snow every week or even more often in this weather.
“When exactly are you leaving?” I asked quietly.
“In about an hour,” he replied. “The load is already packed and sealed, the paperwork is all ready and signed.”
Vernon finished his cooled tea in one big gulp and stood up heavily. “I am going to take a shower, grab my things, and head out.”
He went upstairs to the bedroom. I remained in the kitchen alone, slowly eating the cooled soup I had made that morning. Outside the window, the wind howled, and snow fell ceaselessly in large flakes.
I walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out into the yard. The single streetlamp by the gate barely pierced through the thick, snowy veil, illuminating the swirling snowflakes. The path to the gate was indeed almost completely buried. The white drift reached almost to the knee.
About forty minutes later, Vernon came down, already dressed in his road clothes with his heavy duffel bag on his shoulder. I handed him the bag of food, wrapped in several layers.
“Will you call when you get there?” I asked, knowing that usually he did not call, but asking out of habit anyway.
“Yeah,” he threw back shortly, taking the bag. He did not even look me in the eye. He did not even kiss me goodbye, as he always used to do, just gave a short nod.
“Look, make sure you shovel the snow, you hear? Or it will drift up again overnight and you won’t be able to get out in the morning.”