stroke; Penny Draeger (18), shock. Most of these died during the worst of the snows, and their bodies, along with those of Washington de Souza and several others, had to be kept, stacked and covered with sheets in one of the unused utility cells in Walter Hardesty's tiny jail-the wagon from the morgue in the county seat couldn't make it into Milburn.
The town closed in on itself, and even the ice skating on the river died out. At first, the skating went as it always had: every hour of daylight saw twenty or thirty high school students, mixed in with kids from elementary school, dashing back and forth, playing crack the whip and skating backward: a print by Currier and Ives. But if the high school juniors and seniors who swept off the ice never noticed the death of three old women and four old men and did not much mourn the passing of their dentist, another loss hit them like a slap in the face as soon as they glided out onto the frozen river. Jim Hardie had been the best skater Milburn had ever seen, and he and Penny Draeger had worked out tandem routines which looked to their contemporaries as good as anything you saw in the Olympics. Peter Barnes had been nearly as good, but he refused to come skating this year; even when the weather paused, Peter stayed at home. But Jim was the one they missed: even when he showed up in the morning with bloodshot eyes and a stubble on his cheeks, he had enlivened them all-you couldn't watch him without trying to skate a little better yourself. Now even Penny did not show up. Like Peter Barnes, she had drifted away into privacy. Soon, most of the other skaters did the same: every day more snow had to be shoveled off the river, and some of the boys doing the shoveling thought that Jim Hardie was not in New York after all; they had a feeling that something had happened to Jim -something they didn't want to think about too much. Days before it was proven, they knew that Jim Hardie was dead.
One day during his afternoon break Bill Webb picked up his battered old hockey skates from his locker behind the restaurant and walked over to the river and looked dully at the two untouched feet of fresh snow blanketing it. For this winter, the skating was dead too.
Clark Mulligan never bothered to book the new Disney film he always brought in at Christmas, but ran horror movies all through the season. Some nights he had seven or eight customers, some nights only two or three; other nights he started up the first reel of
For the first time in most of their lives, Milburn people saw the weather as malevolent, a hostile force that would kill them if they let it. Unless you got up on your roof and knocked off the snow, the rafter beams would crack and buckle under its weight, and in ten minutes your house would be a frigid ruined shell, uninhabitable until spring; the wind chill factor sometimes brought the temperature down to sixty below, and if you stayed outside for much longer than it took to run from your car to your house, you could near the wind chuckling in your inner ear, knowing that it had you where it wanted you. That was one enemy, the worst they knew. But after Walt Hardesty and one of his deputies identified the bodies of Jim Hardie and Christina Barnes, and word got around about the condition of their bodies, Milburn people drew their drapes and switched on their television instead of going out to their neighbor's party and wondered if it was a bear after all that killed handsome Lewis Benedikt. And when, like Milly Sheehan, they saw that a line of snow had worked in around the storm window and lay like a taunt on the sill, they began to think about what else might get in. So they, like the town, closed in; shut down; thought about survival. A few remembered Elmer Scales standing in front of the statue, waving his shotgun and ranting about Martians. Only four people knew the identity of an enemy more hostile than the murderous weather.
Sentimental Journey
2
'I see on the news that it's worse in Buffalo,' Ricky said, talking more for its own sake than because he thought the other two would be interested. Sears was driving his Lincoln in extremely Sears-like style: all the way to Edward's house where they had picked up Don, and now back to the west side of town, he had hunched over the wheel and proceeded at fifteen miles an hour. He blew his horn at every intersection, warning all comers that he did not intend to stop.
'Stop babbling, Ricky,' he said, and blasted his horn and rolled across Wheat Row to the north end of the square.
'You didn't have to blow the horn, that was a green light,' Ricky pointed out.
'Humpf. Everybody else is going too fast to stop.'
Don, in the back seat, held his breath and prayed that the traffic lights on the other end of the square would turn green before Sears reached them. When they passed the steps to the hotel, he saw the lights facing Main Street flash to amber; the lights switched to green just as Sears put the entire palm of his hand down on the button and floated the long car like a galleon onto Main Street.
Even with the headlights on, the only objects truly visible were traffic lights and the red and green pinpoints of illumination on the Christmas tree. All else dissolved in swirling white. The few approaching cars appeared first as streamers of yellow light, then as shapeless forms like large animals: Don could see their colors only when they were immediately alongside, a proximity Sears acknowledged with another imperious blast of the Lincoln's horn.
'What do we do when we get there, if we ever do?' Sears asked.
'Just have a look around. It might help.' Ricky looked at him in a way that was as good as speaking, and Don added, 'No. I don't think she'll be there. Or Gregory.'
'Did you bring a weapon?'
'I don't own a weapon. Did you?'
Ricky nodded; held up a kitchen knife. 'Foolish, I know, but…'
Don did not think it was foolish; for a moment he wished that he too had a knife, if not a flamethrower and a grenade.
'Just out of curiosity, what are you thinking about at this moment?' Sears asked.
'Me?' Don asked. The car began to drift slowly sideways, and Sears turned the wheel very slightly to correct it.
'Yes.'
'I was just remembering something that used to happen back when I was a prep school student in the Midwest. When we had to choose our colleges, the staff would give us talks about 'the East.' 'The East' was where they wanted us to go-it was simple snobbery, and my school was very old-fashioned in that way, but the school would look better if a big proportion of its seniors went on to Harvard or Princeton or Cornell- or even a state university on the East Coast. Everybody pronounced the word the way a Muslim must pronounce the word Mecca. And that's where we are now.'
'Did you go East?' Ricky asked. 'I don't know if Edward ever mentioned it.'
'No. I went to California, where they believed in mysticism. They didn't drown witches, they gave them talk shows.'
'Omar never got around to plowing Montgomery Street,' Sears said; Don, surprised, turned to his window and saw that while he had talked they had reached the end of Anna Mostyn's street. Sears was right. On Maple, where they were, hard-packed snow about two inches deep showed the treads and deep grooves of Omar Norris's plow; it was like a white riverbed cut through high white banks. On Montgomery, the snow lay four feet deep. Already filling up with fresh snowfall, deep indentations down the middle of the road indicated where two or three people had fought through to Maple.
Sears turned off the ignition, leaving the parking lights on. 'If we're going through with this, I see no point in waiting.'
The three men stepped out onto the glassy surface of Maple Street. Sears turned up the fur collar of his coat and sighed. 'To think I once balked at stepping into the two or three inches of snow on Our Vergil's field.'
'I hate the thought of going into that house again,' Ricky said.
All three could see the house through the swirls of falling snow. 'I've never actually broken into a house
