568
FRANK CONROY
edge of the bed, bending over to open the buckles. "My God, it's
cold. We should have stayed in Florida."
"I vote for that," I said.
"Just get your ass out of that bed." He rubbed
his
stocking feet
and twisted up
his
face. "How about sorpe coffee?"
"Just a second," my mother said, still fussing with the stove.
Guy stood up and undid his belt. "O.K. Let's go." He waited
till I was out of bed, took off his trousers and climbed in. The heavy
black and red flannel shirt he wore in cold weather was left on,
buttoned tight over his narrow chest. He ran a finger over his
moustache and waited for
his
cup of coffee.
Mother made it for him while I fixed myself a bowl of Com
Flakes.
"It's not very much to ask to keep the stove going," my mother
said. "I never ask you to do anything."
I ate my Com Flakes. The stove was beginning to give off a
little heat and I pulled my chair closer, arranging it so my back was
to the bed. I heard Mother undressing, and then the creak of the
rusty springs as she got in beside Guy. From that moment on I was
supposed to keep quiet so they could sleep.
There was no place else to go. Outside the land was hidden
under two and a
half
feet of snow. The wind was sharp and bitter–
(I found out only a few years ago that locals considered
it
the worst
winter in forty years) -and in any case I didn't have the proper
clothes. Even indoors, sitting in the chair with the stove going, I kept
a blanket wrapped around me Indian-style. The time dragged slowly.
There was nothing to do. I tried to save the few books for nighttime,
when my need of them was greater. I drew things with a pencil ...
objects in the room, my hand, imaginary scenes . . . but I was no
good and quickly lost interest. Usually I simply sat in the chair for
six or seven hours. Guy snored softly, but after the first hour or so
I stopped hearing it.
Midway through the morning I remembered the candy bars.
Certain Guy had forgotten them, I looked anyway, getting up from
the chair carefully, tiptoeing to his clothes and searching through the
pockets. Nothing. I watched him in bed, his face gray with sleep,
his open mouth twitching at the top of each gentle snore. My mother
turned to the wall. Guy closed his mouth and rolled over. The room
was absolutely silent. I went back to the chair.
