The Blizzard
by
Jack Francis
"He shoots, he scores!"
"Hurrah!" shouted his grandmother. It was good to see her relaxed and cheerful. When he first got there she was edgy; something was bothering her.
He had knocked several times with no response at her back door. It wasn't until he tapped on her kitchen window that there were signs of life. A curtain moved slightly, then his grandmother's worried face appeared and burst into a big smile as she waved. When she flung the door open, she hugged him tightly.
"Hey, Gramma, I'm glad to see you, too, but I saw you yesterday, so it's not a long lost relative you have here," he had said with a laugh.
"Oh, Peter, it's so good to see you. Come in, come in."
Peter enjoyed the NHL hockey games on television at his grandmother's house. She was just as big a fan of the Phoenix Coyotes as he was. Only she called them the Winnipeg Coyotes in deference to a time when the team was the Winnipeg Jets.
At age 10 Peter still remembered that earlier time, but while he had long since accepted the franchise move, his grandmother refused to acknowledge the American status of their beloved team. His grandmother was like that. He had heard his father remark that once she got an idea into her head, she just couldn't consider other possibilities.
After the goal, there was a storm warning. A blizzard, which had been expected next morning, was moving into the area sooner than forecast earlier. Heavy snowfall with drifting caused by high winds had already swept through Portage la Prairie and was due in their area near the Winnipeg perimeter within the next hour or two.
"You better get going right away, or you'll be stuck here all night. The road to the farmhouse drifts in really badly when the wind gets up. Even the highway can get blocked." She looked crestfallen, worried again.
"Aw, Gramma, I don't want to miss any of the game. Maybe I could stay overnight."
She brightened immediately. "That's a good idea," she enthused, adding, "If it's okay with your folks. Call home and see." Peter picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone. He handed the phone to his grandmother. She hung up and started over a few times, but the line was dead.
"Maybe the storm has caused a problem somewhere. Your mother will be worried. Peter, You better get going."
Peter often dropped in at his grandmother's house a kilometre away by road, a half kilometre along the secondary highway, and another half kilometre down a gravel road. In good weather he rode his bike, and the trek on foot in winter was no problem. He had done it many times. Her small bungalow was on an acre of garden land in a corner of the family farm. Peter lived with his family in the house where his grandmother and grandfather used to live when Peter's father was growing up.
After Peter's grandfather died, the family had invited his grandmother to move back to the main house, but she insisted on staying in the small home she and her husband had shared for the last ten years since their son had taken over the farm. They worried about her living there alone, but she loved her garden and her cozy house full of hobby supplies. And the family had to admit, she was happy there. So Peter was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to see his grandmother so upset.
"Tell you what, Gram, when I get home I'll get Dad to get the four-wheel drive out and we'll come for you so you can stay the weekend at our place." She nodded. "Yes, that would be good. Now get a move on and get back soon as you can." The wind was howling through the yard as she opened the back door, and sifting snow was already adding to the drifts along the nearby windbreak. "You may have to use the snowmobile if the blizzard hits very soon," she added. "Right, Gram, see you soon" and he loped up her driveway and onto the highway shoulder, thinking how surprising it was that she had agreed to come to the main house to stay over—never had before except on Christmas Eve. He wondered if he dare cut across the fields to gain some time. There was some bush and deep snow in spots. Maybe, maybe...but the snow was heavy now and it was difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction once he was away from the yard light.
Back at the house, Peter's grandmother got out her newspaper and re-read the front page. There it was, the news that had frightened her earlier. A report that police were searching for a convict escaped from the penitentiary and thought to be in the area. He was a murderer and rapist and said to be extremely dangerous.
Nobody is going to be wandering around out there in this weather, she tried to reassure herself. Of course, if he's looking for some place to hole up and wait out the storm he could be hiding in a nearby barn, or even in her own garden shed. Or looking for a house to break into.
She tried the phone every few minutes, but it was still dead. She went back to the hockey game, but couldn't get into it again. She shivered, feeling cold all over, though the house was warm. She boiled some water and made herself a cup of steaming tea—a comfort drink. It helped a bit.
About an hour after Peter had left she heard noises at the back door. Her hair stood on end. If her grandson had returned with her son she would have heard the truck engine or the snowmobile engine, surely. Or seen the flash of headlights in the yard. There were none of those welcome signs.
There it was again, sort of a thump, not quite a knock, but definitely a noise that wasn't there before. She turned off the television set, turned out the lights and slowly edged up beside the kitchen window, where she eased back the curtain and tipped back a corner of the blind to peer out.
She saw a shadow moving there, and jumped back. A scream dried up in her throat and no sound came out. Thump, thump. She heard it again. He's trying to force the door, she thought. Oh, Peter, please hurry back, hurry, she said almost out loud.
She moved slowly, silently in the dark, over to the phone. It was still dead.
She slumped to the floor, barely breathing, listening, listening, straining to hear any clue to what was happening at the back door, hearing the occasional thumping. She sat there for what seemed like a long time. She wasn't sure of time, becoming gradually disoriented in the dark.
At one point, she started, bolt upright, clear-headed for a moment wondering what she was doing on the floor, then remembering, she felt sick. Had she dozed off, she wondered, or gone into funk? Maybe fainted?
The wind was still howling around the house. She strained to hear more than the wind. There was nothing else. She got onto her hands and knees and crawled over to the kitchen window and tried another peak toward the back door. The snow had stopped and a hint of dawn light was leaking in around the window blinds as she peered out. There was a pile of snow against the door, but it was a hump rather than a drift. There was something under the snow, or somebody, maybe.
She didn't move a muscle for what seemed like a long time, and the lump of snow didn't move either. Suddenly, a gust of wind dug into the snow pile revealing some fur. An animal? she wondered hopefully. No, oh no. It's the hood of a parka!
Her heart was beating so hard, she felt dizzy. She slumped down, flat out on the floor. A sudden noise jarred her to sitting position. The phone was ringing. She felt a wave of relief wash over her. The phone was working again. She got up awkwardly, trying to get her stiff legs moving. The phone kept ringing till she got to it and lifted the receiver.
"Hello, hello," she almost yelled. "Hello, mother. We're snowed in here. I guess you are too." It was her daughter-in-law's voice. "Can I talk to Peter?"
"Peter? Peter? Peter went home hours and hours ago..." her voice trailed off. The phone slipped from her hand. She turned in a daze and went to the door; unbolted the lock and stared at the parka-hooded frozen hump which slowly toppled onto the kitchen floor.
"Peter, Peter, Peter..."
