Rose in a Storm (9 page)

Then he called Rose back to the house with him. She was so encrusted in snow she looked like an all-white dog. He shook off his own coat before taking it off.

He told Rose to stay while he sat at the kitchen table, both of them anxious but unable to do more. He said neither of them should go out in the storm right now, that they would be in for the day if it kept up like this.

Rose edged toward the back door several times, and each time he called her back, the last time a bit sharply. No more work today.

With no work to do, Rose drifted. She went from room to room, window to window. In the bedroom, Rose found a trunk, and when she put her nose to it she smelled Katie, whined, and wagged her tail. Rose was a quiet dog, barking sometimes when working, rarely whining. Once in a great
while, she howled at the full moon, or at the sound of a siren on a distant road. Otherwise, she rarely made much noise.

She went downstairs, drank some more water, ate some more food. It was difficult to be still; when she was moving, her senses took over, and drowned out the pictures in her head.

She lay down outside Sam’s room.

An hour later, Sam could be still no longer and was back outside, Rose alongside, trying to help the animals, attempting to keep the delicate inner workings of the farm going.

F
ARMERS KNOW
as well as anyone how nature works. You could plan and plant and hammer and nail, and run a good farm, Sam would often tell Katie, and there would be a flood or a drought or a storm, and all of your work, your whole livelihood, would be right there on the line.

He had never conceived of a storm like this, though.

Nor had he imagined being alone in this, without Katie. He had lost not only her but the family they had hoped to have, and he didn’t know if he would ever have these things again.

At these moments, he would sometimes look at Rose, who was always watching him, watching the farm, ready for anything, and he thanked God that he had her. He’d thought at first that he was getting just a dog. Now he understood only too well that she had become something else, something more. He did not even want to think of being on this farm alone without Rose.

Like all farmers, he kept going. You did what you could, until you couldn’t do any more, and fate took over. You didn’t worry about it or complain about it. Sam didn’t quit, and neither did Rose.

He brought out buckets of warm water and hauled them to the troughs. He started up the tractor again and briefly tried to move snow to make paths, so he could haul hay. This time he saw that the drifts reached his waist. He covered the tractor with the tarpaulin.

He had only one other idea for the frozen troughs. He brought out the Salamander heating unit most farmers used in the winter to thaw out engines and frozen machines. It worked like a small jet engine: A powerful diesel-powered heating unit blew fire through a three-foot tube. Sam pulled the cord and a flame shot out, melting some of the ice and snow. But the minute he turned it off, the unit froze again, and he had little fuel to keep it going. He abandoned the troughs. He could not keep up, and soon he could barely even stand up. The drifts, the wind, and the savage cold made the footing treacherous, left him numb, soaked, then shivering with cold. It was frostbite weather. Not, he saw, a time for man or beast. Time to get the hell inside.

He had hauled out as much hay as he could, and it was already covered in snow and ice. His shoveling was pointless. His machines had been quickly overwhelmed. He could not keep up.

He retreated inside again, called Rose, and again told her to stay. It was early afternoon now, but it felt like they’d been shuttling back and forth between barns, pastures, and farmhouse for days. Outside was a true whiteout, and he was losing track not only of time, but of where he was.

Sam knew this was dangerous, physically and mentally. He was alone there, he had to remember that. Being alone in a storm like this on a remote farm, even with Rose, you have to take care of yourself, keep focused. Time blurred, the difference between day and night could get lost, and the silence overwhelming.

He resolved once and for all to stay in, and to keep Rose inside as well.

I
T WAS CURIOUS
, Sam thought, what happened next. He walked into the living room, put wood in the woodstove, returned to the kitchen, turned on the radio, and made himself a cup of tea—Katie had loved tea, but he almost never made any himself and was often confused by all the choices and colors of the packets. He picked a yellow one, put it into his mug, turned on the electric stove, and waited until the water boiled.

He looked at the clock and tried his cell, but it wasn’t getting a signal. He picked up the phone, but the line was dead. Soon enough the power would be gone, too, by the sound of the wind. He was certain that many trees would not survive the storm.

Rose sat in the hallway, by the back door, watching him intently, as usual, waiting to see whether there was a chance he was going out to do work. She looked at his feet and saw the thick wool socks, which meant he would be inside. She eyed his soggy parka hanging on a hook, then watched as he made his tea. Sam noticed Rose looking at him curiously, and he realized that she rarely, if ever, saw him by the teapot on the stove. That had been Katie’s territory.

He returned her gaze, and he saw her tail twitch. She looked uneasy, he thought.

“You miss Katie, don’t you, Rose? Me too.”

At the mention of Katie, Rose stirred. She ran to the living room, and looked around, and then loped over to the front door. When she came back, she looked alert and expectant.

Sam reminded himself to stop using Katie’s name. It just sent Rose looking for her. And it just left her disappointed.

Sam took his tea out into the living room. As in many old farmhouses, where little time was spent inside, this room was sparsely and inexpensively furnished.

Farmhouses were always getting tracked up with mud, water, or worse. Few farmers had the money or inclination to decorate. What money they had went outside, into the pastures, barns, machinery, and animals.

Katie had meant to get rid of the old orange floral wallpaper, but hadn’t gotten to it before she got sick, though she did manage to get the stained acoustic-tile ceiling torn down and painted the rough plaster a soft white. She’d had plans for the rest of the house, but after she died Sam lost all interest in improvement.

The living room, as in most farmhouses, had three sofas, the big green one directly across from the fireplace, the others flanking it, the wing chairs and tables in between. In the winter, living rooms were important, a place for the family to gather and keep warm. This was where Sam and Katie had spent their evenings. The green sofa and two overstuffed wing chairs had belonged to Sam’s grandparents, as did the brass poker set in front of the beautiful green-and-blue slate fireplace. The room was lit by two floor lamps, and two kerosene-style table lamps, one with green glass, one red. The room was warm, even intimate and comfortable, if a bit frayed. Three empty vases sat on two mahogany side tables bought by Sam’s parents.

The big sofa in front of the fireplace, where Sam and Katie always relaxed in the winter, was the warmest spot in the house, especially when the fireplace was going. In the alcove between the living room and the kitchen was a woodstove, good for the coldest nights, and easier to get going than the
fireplace. It could take the sting out of that big, drafty room in ten minutes.

There were two new oil paintings of barns and pastures above the sofas—also Katie’s work—and three framed awards from the county recognizing the cleanliness and good management of Granville Farm. One cited Sam’s father as Farmer of the Year, 1964, and the other cited Sam in 1992.

On the mantel were three photographs: Sam’s grandparents (the picture cracking and yellowed), his parents (a little faded), and a newer crisp digital one of Sam and Katie getting married at the Presbyterian church in town.

Next to it was a single photograph of Rose circling behind the sheep in the main pasture. Sam loved that picture. It was the only one he had of Rose, who would never sit still to pose. She seemed to dislike the camera, always turning her head away from the lens.

A red-and-black square carpet softened the room and muffled the noise of the scratched oak floor. Rose sat by the fireplace in the winter, and when that got too warm, she would move over to the dog bed near the woodstove. Otherwise, she liked to crawl under the blue upholstered chair, which offered just enough space for her to peer out at the room, but hide herself, except for her nose. From there, she monitored the house, scrambling out if Sam headed for the back door or pulled on his boots or jacket.

Sam stirred the fire, then sat down and closed his eyes with a sigh. Every joint in his body was on fire, his knees ached, his toes were still numb from the cold. He listened to the roar of the wind and the sound of the snow hitting the windows, sliding off the roof. He called Rose into the room, and she trotted in and settled down, her eyes fixed on him.

Sam forgot himself now and then. It was, after all, only natural to reach out to pet a good dog.

“This storm is bad. It’s going to really hurt us,” he said. “Sometimes I wish you could talk.”

Although the snow raged outside, it was warm, even cozy in the room. The table lamp by the sofa cast a reddish glow over the room. Sam felt some peace for the first time in days, and he expected he might not feel it again for some time.

“When this is over, I’ll get you one of those Frisbees,” he said. “Maybe some more treats. We’ll have some more fun.” He smiled at Rose, and at himself. Fat chance, he thought, of seeing Rose chase a Frisbee. For her, work was the only fun.

She was still watching him, her head cocked, her tail thumping softly on the wooden floor.

He gave up trying to touch her—there wasn’t going to be any cuddling on the sofa—and watched as her bright eyes locked onto his. He smiled at her, reached into his pocket, and tossed her a soggy biscuit that had been there a while. She stared at it as if it were a rock, and he shook his head.

“What kind of dog are you, anyway?” he asked softly, and then closed his eyes to go to sleep.

R
OSE WAS CONFUSED
by Sam. He was standing where Katie used to stand, pouring water into a cup that Katie often used. She recognized Katie’s name when he spoke it, and she set off to find her, to find her anywhere. She was puzzled that Sam would be speaking her name and yet she could not find her. On Rose’s map, most things stood out sharp and clear. Katie did not.

Then he moved to the sofa in front of the fire and called her to him. He spoke to her, but there were no commands that
she recognized and few words she knew. His voice was soft, and she recognized the affection in it. He kept looking out the window, at the snow, and Rose sensed he was speaking to her about it, trying to communicate something.

She was distracted. The wind was breaking off limbs all over the woods and pastures, and snow was falling off barns, trees, and the roof of the farmhouse. The wind, to her, was nearly deafening, and sometimes seemed as if it would swallow the farm whole.

Rose was unnerved by the snow sliding off the roof, even though Sam couldn’t hear it in the wind. She was very aware of the storm’s power. It was different, and she sensed its menace, and the responses of all of the animals. It was a dangerous thing.

She heard the sheep speaking softly among themselves, the cows grunting and calling out to one another, the chickens clucking softly in their sleep, Carol snorting as she nosed through the snow in search of hay. She heard the coyotes out in the woods, in the middle of the storm, hunting. Of all the sounds, the snow falling frightened her the most, and she wanted to go upstairs and crawl under Sam’s bed, where she went during thunderstorms. But she couldn’t leave him.

She studied Sam intently, turning her nose to him, smelling the sadness and the sorrow, the grief that had welled up inside him for some time and was now an everyday part of him.

He reached his hand out to her, and she instinctively backed away. She did not like to be touched, and Sam almost never tried. Katie had been different. She used to stroke Rose’s head and back, which Rose had come to like after a while.

She knew Sam was talking about her, but she did not understand why now, in this place and time, though she could
read the appreciation in his voice, see it in his eyes, the way he held his body. She sensed a need in him, but not one she could fill.

It evoked something powerful in her, connected them. She laid her ears back gently, wagged her tail almost imperceptibly, all the emotion she could show. She sat there watching as he drifted into sleep, and she listened to the soft snoring and the occasional moan.

Rose drew closer, watching his body move as he breathed, shifted, and stirred. She listened to his heartbeat, the fluids in his stomach, heard the blood flowing through his veins. She sensed his dreams, even if she could not see or understand them. She knew every part of him.

After a moment, she moved slowly forward and rested her head in his hand, which lay outstretched on the edge of the sofa.

She closed her eyes, and remained there while he slept, listening to the stories the wind was carrying.

T
HE AFTERNOON
became dreamlike. Rose, not accustomed to inactivity, fell into a gauzy kind of state inside the farmhouse. She closed her eyes, rested, and dreamed, alongside Sam.

When images filled her sleeping mind, they usually came from her life: Sam, Katie, the farm. But sometimes—these were rare—they came from somewhere else, from her deepest sleep, or from great fatigue. Sometimes even from fear.

She would close her eyes and drift, and as the long, strange day wore on, the images changed, went deeper, farther.

The woodstove was roaring, and outside the wind was howling steadily; she had by now nearly grown used to the
rhythmic, almost hypnotic sounds of snow being whipped against the windowpanes.

It was almost as if she were telling herself a story. She went farther and farther back, her mind a movie reel moving so rapidly it was a blur. Everything looked different, smelled different. Houses, roads, machines vanished, and there was only the rich, primal smell of woods, grass, death, and blood. The air was especially rich in smells, and the light was clear, almost blinding, and the dark was blacker than any night Rose had ever seen, the stars so much brighter and closer.