Maybe Next Spring - Russ Bedord

Mark fell once on the icy slope leading from the North Wind Bar, which showed he was drunker than usual, though he wouldn't admit it.

“Snow on ice,” he mumbled—unusual, because he rarely talked to himself. He just sang—old songs like Sweet Adeline, O Tannhauser, My Darlin' Clementine, and America—all from his few years of schooling. He occasionally warbled snatches of juke box tunes absorbed during visits to the bar. He’d catch himself singing one, stop and try to remember where he'd heard it. Unable to finish even one, the old favorites sufficed.

The wind ferreted under his heavy coat and licked his back with an icy tongue. Mark pulled his collar tight, adjusted his scarf to cover his cheeks, and yanked his hat's ear flaps down to keep out the cold.

Snow blew in swirling clouds, drifting deep. In town it quickly wiped out the footprints of the motorists who had abandoned their cars. No sensible person would choose to be out on a night like this. In a neighborhood with no guiding street signs, Mark trusted his memory to find a way across the swampy, brush filled valley to his hillside home.

Most evenings Mark puttered around his three-room shack the way he had for twenty-three years. Often in the late afternoon he sipped a whiskey and pondered in a dull way. Problems were never quite resolved. They sat there like the stars and other deep mysteries—wells of wonder. When the bottle emptied, he'd stagger to bed. Or he'd fall asleep in a worn, stuffed chair, molded after years of use to his little body. When morning came, he'd nibble something, make his lunch, then hike to town for the ride to work.

Mark had dropped out of school at thirteen. He was small, but wiry and strong, which served him well in numerous schoolyard fights. His slow wit attracted teasing and crippled his replies, so he learned to answer with his fists.

But he hated to fight, so he gravitated to a solitary occupation. Shortly after leaving school, he began pulpwood logging, which seemed the right thing to do. Being alone in the forest by day and home at night was just fine. 

It was a happy day when he bought this shack, because it gave him the freedom he wanted. No longer need he be the butt of smart ass town folks. Their blandishments and arguments quickly passed beyond his understanding anyway. When he felt like washing, he did. When he felt like changing, he did. When he felt like eating, he did. Sausage, bread, turnip, a piece of fish—was enough. Drunken reveries replaced conversation.

But Mark found he couldn't always be alone. The need for companionship led him to spend Saturday nights at the North Wind bar. The antics of the crowd there provided a kind of entertainment. When the evening's stupor grew with the thickening atmosphere of tobacco smoke and stale beer, he became invisible. The occasional fights interested him, recalling the days when he was at the center of every brawl. When the bar closed, he went home. 

Not this night, but on other nights, Mark's rare urges were sometimes satisfied by Dirty Bessie. For a drink, she would sit on the next stool, open your fly and play with you until you came. She let you put it away yourself. “Cheaper than a whorehouse” was the nicest thing Mark had heard anyone say about her.

On such a vicious night, the bar was empty. Missing the crowd, Mark drank too much. Only the cold penetrated his drunkenness, and it was hard to walk in the deepening snow.

The hooded view between his hat brim and scarf was a port for the wind-blown snow to hit his skin like icy needles. Beyond, the world was featureless, a blend of dull shades and blinding wind. At first, shallow areas between the drifts gave respite from the heavy going, and the road was partly visible. 

He held alive the image of his cozy pot-belly stove. He hoped the coals were still smoldering so they could be fired quickly. Thinking of how a house is cold until heated, he shivered. But the shiver was involuntary. Mark was too cold. He tried to walk faster but the drifts had become too deep. Only with great effort could he move.

A song rose to the back of his throat. He opened his mouth to sing, but his jaw didn't work well. The numbness of his face killed the song in birth. It would have been drowned out by the wind, anyway.

Shivering possessed his body, shaking off the drunkenness, yet his limbs seemed unresponsive. “God damn,” he said, putting more energy into walking, but it was too cold. The core of him was lonely in its warmth. He hummed to keep it company. The blizzard tore the sound away and replaced it with icy tendrils. He closed his mouth tight, but the cold had already established a firm base in his vitals. 

Pushing against the drifts sapped energy. The roadbed had disappeared under the undulating, snowy, gray landscape. Mark found himself in the dense, low brush somewhere off the road. He turned and moved a few steps, but in an unknown direction. Twigs pulled at his clothing. He placed his weight on an apparently solid spot but a buried stem gave way underneath, tumbling him into the snow. A flailing arm swept a twig into his eye. The ensuing tears threatened to freeze.

Too tired now to search for the road, he leaned back into the snow. As he lay there, the ache of the cold grew less and less. He became drowsy, almost comfortable—the situation, after all, did not seem to be of great concern.

He made a sound, a bearlike “hummmm” and “grrrrrrr” combined. From his seat in the snow, the blizzard seemed to be passing over head, albeit only inches overhead. He looked around. Naked sticks of brush poked out of the snow, creating a miniature black forest that faded into the grayness. Mark's gloved hand, seeming like someone ease’s, reached and grasped one. He bowed its black tip into the soft powder. His eyes, and a bicep rubbing against a sleeve verified the act, but there was no feedback from his numbed hand.

He laid back and shut his eyes, closing off the sight of the brush clacking soundlessly in the wind. I can last 'til morning, he thought, without conviction. I'll sleep 'til they find me.

Powerfully drowsy, he imagined his little home, and the snow soft as his old stuffed chair. Warm sunlight slants in though the window. The table is set. A hot roast surrounded by steaming potatoes, carrot , and gravy rests in a bowl. Someone is at the door, and he invites them in. It is a crowd, tumbling in like they never have. Mark is comfortable with the invasion—even Dirty Bess is welcome.

“It could be like this”, Mark thinks as he drifts away, “maybe this spring.”

Epilogue: 

They searched for a week, without success, then called it off. Sheriff Hokanson, when asked by a reporter, “When are you going to find him?”, said “Maybe this spring.”

Sure enough, the spring thaw uncovered Mark's body, a mere twenty feet from the road.