Snowy

SNOWY

The boy lay stretched out on the small bridge, hanging over the edge, looking in the water. Beside him was a tote sack, wiggling as though alive. The creek flowing below was at high water, thanks to a late summer rain, but even that sound wasn’t enough to drown out the anxious meows of the kittens he had carried here in the sack. He was under orders from his grandfather to throw the sack in the creek, weighed down with a rock, to euthanize the kittens. “There isn’t enough for them to eat,” his grandpa said. “It would be cruel to keep them and let them go feral.”

He’d heard it before. Farm life in the mountains of eastern Tennessee in 1917 was a hard life.The boy knew it to be true. Just a year ago, he stood by the side of his mother’s grave as her beautiful body was lowered into the ground. Six months later, he stood in the same cemetery as they buried his red-headed baby sister, the one his mother died giving life to. His father abandoned him, his older sister and brother, and his two younger brothers—farming them out to relatives while he left and moved to Chattanooga to find work. He loves workin’ on them boilers more than he loves me, the boy thought.

As near as he could tell, his grandpa hated him. The boy was taken by his mother’s parents after she died. He was only eight years old and a sickly child, making him incapable of “pulling his own weight,” a characteristic held in high esteem by mountain folk. His grandpa blamed his daddy for murdering his mama. She wasn’t supposed to have a sixth baby. The doctor said so after his little brother was born. But, in the eyes of his grandpa, his daddy “got” her pregnant anyway, and it ended up killin’ her. She just wasn’t strong enough to have another baby.

The boy rolled over on his back and squinted at the blue sky that seemed to be working hard to give way to autumn. He smelled the freshness of the earth, listened to the water splashing below him, felt the chill that was trying to invade the late afternoon. Without realizing it he had started crying, and he felt tears trickling down his face and into his ears. He slapped at them, wiping them away so hard the pain made him stop his blubbering. What good is it? Won’t change nothin’.

He rolled back over on his stomach, angry at himself for acting like a baby. That’s what his grandpa called it. “Stop acting like a baby, you young whelp!” he would yell. Grandpa had never hit him, except to spank him, but he had threatened to backhand him more than once. The worst was the night Grandpa worked up a full head of steam about Mama. He was so angry the boy had crouched in a corner trying to hide from his fury.

It didn’t work. All of a sudden, the man was towering over him. Grandpa was half-Cherokee. He stood over six feet tall, slender, and stern. He stared at the boy over high cheekbones and a large nose. His lips were drawn back, creating a terrifying specter. Without warning, Grandpa had grabbed the back of his head and pushed him forward, causing him to fall on his face. The giant latched on to the boys’ overalls, picking him up like a worn-out suitcase.The boy was helpless, hanging in mid-air. “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna have that murderer’s son under my roof!” Grandpa bellowed. “This ends now!!”

The sound of a shotgun being cocked draped a pall of silence over the small, two-bedroom cabin. Grandpa turned and found himself staring down the double-barrel held in his wife’s hands. “Put the boy down, and don’t lay a hand on him again,” Grandma said. “If’n you do, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Grandpa opened his massive fingers, and the boy dropped face-first to the floor, knocking the wind out of him. “Fine,” Grandpa said. “From now on, he’s your responsibility,” and he turned and marched out the door, slamming it behind him.

Grandma returned the shotgun to its place above the mantel. Without a word, she walked back to the kitchen. “You comin’?” she asked.

The boy got up and went with his grandmother.

That was six months ago. True to his word, his grandpa never touched him again. He never hugged him or tousled his hair. Wouldn't even shake his hand! He rarely spoke to him unless it was to give him an order. The boy was like a haint, occupying the place that was supposed to be his home but not really living there. He was given a small space in the attic to call his own, and he would come down the ladder before sunup every morning to help his grandmother fry bacon, make gravy in the drippings, and bake biscuits. He stood on a stool by the huge wood-burning stove, one of his grandmother’s aprons wrapped around him to protect his overalls, and fried the eggs, after he fought the chickens for them!! The adults ate first, and when the men left to work the fields, he and his grandmother would sit and eat the leftovers for their breakfast.

Afterwards, they cleaned up and started preparing lunch or putting supper on to cook all day. While the food cooked, he learned to do laundry and other “women’s work.” He was his grandmother’s shadow as she went to visit friends or shut-ins from church, and he helped her with the garden that fed the family.

He would stand in the doorway of the kitchen and stare wide-eyed when Grandpa’s friends would come over the mountain from the reservation and spend an afternoon in front of the fire. He listened as they spoke their native tongue, and he giggled quietly when Grandma would fuss, “Y’all quit with that Injun talk! Speak English!! I cain’t understand that heathen mess.”

The men around the hearth would chuckle and ignore her.

The sound of horse’s hooves woke him from his reverie. He sat up and saw the Methodist circuit rider approach. The minister stopped next to him, staring down from the saddle, and asked, “Boy, what’cha doin’?”

“Drownin’ cats,” the boy replied.

The minister looked at the wiggling tote sack, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Well, it’s better than letting them starve or turn feral. Your grandparents at home?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Alright then. Carry on. God bless you, son,” the minister said and rode away.

The boy stared at him, eyes narrowing to slits. God bless me?, he thought. God blesses little boys by killin’ their mamas and taking the breath of life from babies. He blesses ‘em by leaving ‘em with old people who barely put up with ‘em? That’s being blessed?

Something inside him snapped. This was more than he could stand. He swung his legs around and dangled them over the edge of the bridge. He stared at the water, longed for it to surround him, fill his lungs, and leave him lifeless on the shore. Who would miss me?, he mused as hot tears threatened to escape their prison once more. Ain’t nothin’ but a helpless baby, a murderer’s son!

Partly in anger, partly in terror the boy quickly lay on his stomach, head once more over the edge of the bridge. He yanked the twine off the tote sack and reached inside, jerking one of the wiggling, mewing kittens free. It was the calico. “Don’t worry, kitty,” the boy said. “I’m gonna free you from this life of misery.” He plunged his hand below the surface of the water, holding the month-old kitten there until it stopped wiggling. He let it go and watched its lifeless body drift down the current, disappearing into the approaching sunset.

Not allowing himself to think about what he was doing he reached in the sack and pulled out the next kitten, spoke the words of freedom, and repeated the ritual. Again and again he performed his macabre task. Each time a kitten stopped moving, he felt a sense of release.

There was one kitten left. He knew it was the white one because he had played with the kittens ever since their eyes opened. When he went to the barn to fetch them, they had run to him in anticipation of hugs and pets. Now that his anger was spent, the only thing left was fear. He was frightened of how good the water continued to look to him, how badly he wanted to take this last kitten he called ‘Snowy’ and drop in the water with her. He just wanted to stop hurting.

“Let the cat out of the bag, child,” a voice said.

The boy jumped up and looked around, but no one was there.He slowly sat back down and lay his hand on top of the shaking mass in the sack. The kitten reacted to his hand, even through the cloth, and began to calm.

“Let the cat out of the bag,” the voice repeated.

“Who’s there? Who are you? Show yourself!!” the boy shouted.

Silence. Utter stillness. The afternoon breeze quieted, the animals were mute, the creek muzzled itself. The air around him seemed to wrap him in its arms.He closed his eyes and smelled jasmine.

“Mama?” the boy whispered. “Is it you?”

“Let the cat out of the bag, baby. Let her go. Don’t drown her,” the woman said. “Daddy wants to make you hard, sweetheart. He thinks you need to be hard like him to survive in this world. He suffered so, being a half-breed. But you aren’t hard, love. You aren’t hard---you’re strong. Stay strong, baby. Be strong enough to love and to forgive.”

"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered. He looked at the creek and added, "What I done was really bad, wasn't it?"

"Forgive yourself first, love," the voice echoed in the trees.

The boy opened his eyes and gently reached into the bag, retrieving the kitten. Feeling the safety of his mother’s presence, he held the white ball of fur in his arms and comforted her. He knew he wouldn’t drown her, no matter what his grandfather did to him. He wouldn’t drown her—and he wouldn’t drown himself.

The breeze kissed him gently on one cheek, and the animals sang a chorus of approval. The creek sighed in relief that no more bodies would float in it today. The smell of jasmine lingered in the air as the boy stood, picked up the tote sack, dumped the rock in the creek, and began the walk back home.

He felt…blessed. And unafraid.