Eddie Lew

Tears to Snow

In a small Maine town, Greg Crowly is about to close his general store early because of an approaching snowstorm.

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“It looks like a doozy. Better head home, John.”

Now empty of customers, Greg looked through the store’s plate glass window. “It’s 4:30, I doubt anyone will show now. “Wow, the snow is covering the road already … the rush passed … I’ll take over. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay, Boss. The slicing machine is clean.”

John finished sweeping the floor and reached for his boots. “I’ve got a paper to finish; leaving early will give me time to proofread it again. There’s talk of canceling classes tomorrow, but I’m eager to polish it. I put everything away. You mentioned pâté, fancy charcoo … shar … the fancy salamis and cheeses, and those little pickles. Text me a list, and I’ll call Phyllis in Bangor to order them tomorrow.”

“When you talk to her, pronounce it correctly, charcuterie and cornichons.” Greg added good-naturedly, as he stared out the window. “I’ll show you how to pronounce them in the text. When the season starts, we need to get fancy….”

“Hey, Portuguese is my language. French is weird.”

“French is weirder than Portuguese?” 

“To me, yes. I heard Portuguese all my life. Hey, be careful, or I’ll make you pronounce my real name, João.”

Greg lifted both arms into the air. “You win.” They both laughed.

“You’ll soon see Bologna and American cheese, which the townies love, won’t do for the skiers. From now on, Ben and Jerry’s, bongs, and rolling papers will spike sales along with charcuterie and cornichons.” Greg exaggerated the French. They chuckled, recognizing that swells and traffic jams would soon overtake their cozy town.

“Lovely seeing your mother before. She’s so proud of you and how you treat the customers. You’re so darn polite. After 35 years, you learn to fake ‘polite.’ Good haul today,” he smiled, bundling the notes with rubber bands from the day’s take to place in the safe. “Get going already. I don’t want you driving in this weather.”

“You sound like my mom.” The young man laughed as he put on his parka.

“Need an advance?”

“No, Boss. I’m good ‘till payday. Thanks.” Lifting his backpack, gave a thumbs-up, smiled, and ran out.

The “Boss” melts when the 19-year-old part-time clerk smiles, accentuating his dimples. He saw John grow up from a gangly, rowdy kid to a stunning, 6-foot athletic young man. He’s not handsome, but sexy as hell. Greg once had a crush on him, but it turned into a fatherly affection. He grew into a levelheaded boy, so different from the small-town dolts.

A warm relationship developed when his father died two years ago. His mother, a teacher at the local middle school, is struggling with tuition money. He accommodates John’s flexible hours studying business administration at the community college, which augments his mother’s salary. Greg hopes his life turns out well.

He’s now dating Jessica Wharton. I’ll miss him once he leaves and charts his own path, I’ll become “Uncle Greg” to him and his family. I wish the best for him; I’ll cover the cost if John wants to continue to university.

The jolly bell hanging on the door sounded announcing a customer, disturbing his thoughts as they lingered over the sound of the young man’s car driving off.

A sliver of a person entered, the face, obscured by the hood of the parka, thumping the floor to loosen the snow from his boots. The noise forced Greg to focus, and he saw it was a woman when she lowered the hood.

“Alma…!”

“I just read your latest novel, Greg. It was lovely, so poetic.”

“I’m touched. Thank you.” He put his hand to his heart.

“How’s Gerri? Dr. Gould was evasive when I asked him … but I already knew … You know how small towns are. He’s coming over tonight for our weekly poker game….” He stopped himself because he wasn’t sure how to proceed with the conversation.

“Thank you for asking. Sis has good days and bad. I always say where there’s life, there’s hope.” She approached him; Greg stopped placing cash in a paper bag. “Today was chemo, so all she can do is sleep,” Alma added and began to cry.

He stepped from behind the counter, his six feet towering over her. The porcelain face he remembered–they had known each other since kindergarten–changed. The radiance of youth and hope now pressed inward with disenchantment and spinsterhood. It broke his heart to see her so fragile.

She looked at his chiseled features, noticing his tousled black curls showing silver streaks.

“You have white in your hair,” she grinned through her tears.

“Time waits for no one.”

“The roads are dangerous, and I didn’t want to drive farther into town to the supermarket, so I stopped here. I need some probiotic yogurt. It’s the only food Gerri can hold down….” She took out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“Of course.” He asked, happy to change the subject, “plain or fruit?”

“Raspberry, she likes raspberry. I’m sorry Greg, I can’t stop crying….”

“Please, don’t be.” He brought four containers. “Are these enough? Do you need more?”

“These are fine, thank you. How much do I owe?”

“Nothing. Tell Gerri they’re from me.”

“Thank-you. She’ll be glad we spoke,” she said, averting her eyes and placing the containers into a string bag. “Please excuse me. I must get back….”

Greg followed her to the door, relieved she was leaving. The snowstorm was now relentless. Her car disappeared into the whiteout; he glanced up, watching the white flakes.

They’re tears that change to snow when they reach the cold ground.

A chill entered, forcing him to close the door, but he remained looking through the glass; a shadow crept over him, releasing dreadful memories. He returned to the counter, from where he scanned the charming, country general store; pride fought through the bank of his life’s experiences, coiled in his psyche.

When he finished with the cash, his thoughts turned again to Alma and the recollections of when his life collapsed, the anxiety building to that dreaded date and the awful aftermath, the pain he endured from his alienation from small-town life, from being different, the depression, the night he tried ending his life after destroying poor, innocent Alma, and traumatizing his late, loving mother.

Greg battled those trials, becoming a published author and an honored citizen of the town, accepted even with an open relationship until AIDS took his partner.

He put the day’s take into the safe under the counter, stood, and looked around, breathing the atmosphere. His grandfather left him an inheritance that allowed him to go to college and travel to Europe for a year. With what money remained, Greg restored the dilapidated store his alcoholic father ran to the ground to its original charm. Proudly, Greg continued the family legacy his great-grandfather founded in 1904. The store became a tourist attraction, a reminder of small-town America.

Demons still spooked him, though, his long-dead father’s hurtful, rejecting voice, the beatings…. He battled to feel pride in his achievements, writing four well-received novels and a book of poetry in the upstairs apartment where he lived. The store was his haven. Refurbished, the beautiful place turned into a poem, a town treasure. Yet. Yet ghosts lurked behind white clouds that obscured them.

Alma’s arrival opened a wound, more of an embarrassment between them. They avoided each other since he broke their marriage engagement and didn’t see each other for many years. He attended her mother’s funeral seven years ago to give his sincere condolences to the two sisters. He felt an affection toward Alma and sensed her reciprocating it when he approached, taking her hands at the receiving line, but they did not interact again after that day.

She’s an experienced driver, Alma would not have feared a snowfall to keep her from the supermarket in town. I wonder if she wanted to see me, and the yogurt was a ruse.

He smiled at the irony of it all. They are two adults, yet….

The phone’s ringing interrupted his thoughts. It was the police chief. “Hey, Mitch, what’s up.”

“Just checking in. We’re on tonight, right?”

“Since when do we cancel a game because of a snowstorm? Jimmy and Dr. Harold are good.”

“Great. The town’s closing up. It should be quiet. I’ll be over at 7.”

The melancholy lifted when he hung up. He guessed there would not be any more shoppers, and he prepared to close for the day; there was a buzzer outside for emergencies.

Greg never minded helping a customer at strange hours, like his great grandfather happily did.

I can just see him tiptoeing to not wake his wife, in his union suit, a Sears Roebuck flannel bathrobe, and a white sleeping cap, yawning, carrying an oil lamp down the stairs, with sleep still in his eyes, to help a neighbor late at night.

Now Greg does the same in his silk pajamas and robe he bought in London. His neighbors never took advantage of his kindness unless they had an emergency, like replacing fuses or needing a bottle of liquor for the cold winter nights.

He locked the door and grabbed a large bag of corn chips, a tub of guacamole, and three six-packs of beer. After shutting the lights before going upstairs, he heard a car pull up, its tires crackling the piled snow. Through the window, he noticed a couple approaching from a black BMW. In the darkened car, a young boy sat looking through the rear passenger seat, the window catching the falling snow. His eyes stared at him, but the boy’s face faded behind the white flakes clinging to the glass.

Greg turned the lights on again, unlocked the door, and they swept in, greeted by the tinkling of the bell. She wore an extravagant fur coat and matching hat, with high leather boots, holding her head aloof with entitlement; he wore a man’s fur coat with a Russian Cossack fur hat and a scowl. Before Greg could greet them, the man demanded, “You have a USB charging cord for my iPhone? The fucking one I have frayed, and it’s not charging.” The wife walked farther inside, inspecting the store, her detachment offended, as if she smelled something not to her liking. She chimed in after her husband’s question.

“This place won’t have it. I’m sure the lodge has cords.”

The little bell announced the young boy peering in, then he entered, catlike.

“I have cables.” Greg stared at the lady and walked to a display of electronic accessories. The boy, about ten years old, insinuated himself farther into the store. He wore a similar fur coat and hat to his father. The man grabbed the charger cord and snapped,

“Get in the car,” while inspecting it.

 “I’m hungry.”

“Get in the fucking car! We’re going to the lodge for dinner.” Greg recognized the father’s malignancy.

“I can give him a power bar or chips till then,” he suggested.

Without disrupting her inspection, the mother said, “He doesn’t eat that crap. He’ll survive until dinner.”

Greg scrutinized her serene iciness but turned distracted after hearing the bell; the door had closed, and the boy was already on the cold street. Silence returned except for the noise of the man ripping open the plastic wrapping around the cord and throwing it on the counter. Greg reflected, remembering….

The lady endured enough of the store’s charm and asked Greg if he sold postcards. He fished out a vintage black-and-white photograph of the interior taken in 1934 from a revolving display on the counter.

“No charge.” He smiled and handed it to her. She glanced at it.

“I must tell them about this place back home,” she said toward no one with irony. “I’ll need four more.”

Greg gave them to her, and she walked toward the door, waiting for her husband’s transaction to finish.

He put away his credit card, and asked, “Hey, is this the way to Chilton Lodge? It seems like we’ve been riding forever.”

“He won’t put on the GPS because he insisted he knew the way; we were last here twelve years ago. I’m surprised he’s asking you for directions.” She frowned at her husband, convinced he had taken the wrong road.

“That’s enough of your yapping, Grace.”

Greg glared, catching her eye. “You’re on the right road.” She fought to keep the smug expression after the sharp retort. He turned to the husband. “Continue for about four miles, and you’ll notice their sign. Turn right and climb the mountain for about seven miles. I’m sure the lodge is clearing the snow by now, so you should be fine before the storm peaks.”

“Come on, Grace,” he growled; Greg walked them to the door to lock it and glanced toward the car. 

The snow is obscuring the boy behind the window.

When he shut the inside lights, he saw the father opening the car door for his wife while they bickered. She lingered, looking at the Victorian storefront. He turned the sign on the door from “Open” to “Closed” and flipped the switch, darkening the facade, which prompted the lady to enter the automobile. Muffled voices emanated, but the sound of the windshield wipers obscured whatever discussion Greg could hear. A quiet descended over the street as the BMW disappeared into the whiteness.

He entered the dark store, gathered the snacks, and ascended the stairs.

While putting them on the kitchen counter, the bright glow from the window, radiating from the streetlight below, beckoned. The remorseless snow reminded him of Alma’s visit. Then his thoughts brightened, picturing John and his mother, cozy, safe at home. But the young boy’s haunted look from the BMW disrupted his thoughts.

Those eyes told me that my grief lives in another. Will he conquer the ache he will inherit? Could such hurt travel to an innocent from…?

The buzzer sounded.

I hope he manages….

The buzzer called again. He looked down from the kitchen window and saw his poker buddies huddling around the front door.

They burst in with rowdy greetings, shaking off the snow from their boots and removing coats and hats, as Greg relocked the door after them.

His spirit brightened, leading them upstairs; their laughter concealing who knows what.

A warmth and occasional laughter radiated from the lighted windows above the darkened Cowley’s General Store that night, shutting out the fierce weather and all cares of those inside, with a poker game.

Eddie Lew is a theater director, who began writing short stories after joining a writing workshop four years ago at SAGE, under the tutelage of Lujira Cooper.

All rights to this story are retained by the author. Thank you for allowing its publication on this site.