Snow Job

David Dewell never understood why adults hated snow so much. After all, it made the earth look a little like heaven, didn't it? White. Quiet. Peaceful. Clean. And let's face it: for some people, it was just about as close as they were going to get. As far as David was concerned, days didn't come any better than this one. The classic comma-shaped cyclone had just wended its way through the heart of Illinois the day before, dumping almost two feet of snow on Forest Oaks. Light snow showers fell in the system's wake, freshening up the previous day's coat and producing a pleasant Winter Wonderland effect for the whole neighborhood. Families frolicked in the drifts, making angels, throwing snowballs and catching flakes on their outstretched tongues. Even the Heitzes, the trash-bucket family in the run down ranch across the street (Dad called them "the hilljacks") were out enjoying the snow, even though David heard Mr. Heitz say "goddamit" once and "shit" at least twice while trying for what seemed like the 100th consecutive weekend to get their rusty '74 Pinto to start. With four flat tires and not much more than a scraping metallic cough, it didn't look like it was going anywhere soon.

While the other kids in the neighborhood were throwing themselves into their revelry with reckless abandon, David was waging war with the family's broken green shovel in an effort to help his father clear the driveway. The screws on the right side of the shovel were loose, causing every other heap of snow that he lifted from the driveway to slide off and plop right back down on the swath of concrete he had just cleared (wrenching his wrists in the process). He didn't particularly enjoy this endeavor, but he certainly wasn't being forced to do it. It was part of a broader strategy, you see. A strategy that, if cards were played correctly, would yield a finely crafted snow fort by afternoon's end. David was not your average fourth grader.

It was working, too. The plan, that is. Section by section the driveway was cleared, and the excess snow was dumped around the basketball pole, as it had been for the fort from two years ago. Part artist and part engineer, David's dad used the shovel to shape and mold the mound into the beginnings of an impenetrable fortress. In his mind, David could already see where the snowball stockpiles, scaling indents and emergency exits would go. Little did he know that his visions of a snowbound stronghold were about to be foiled by one of his own. No sooner had the heavy work been done than David's five-year-old brother Jimmy came bolting out of the garage, already starved for attention. Of course he came running right over to the fort and began to climb all over it. He just had to be involved in everything.

"Hey! Go make your own fort, loser!" David shouted at him, earning a reprimand from Dad. The exhortation was about to kick Jimmy into full tantrum mode, but he switched gears immediately upon spying a large pile of snow toward the end of the driveway, near the street. He ran over and threw himself onto it, trying furiously to scale it, and kicking a good percentage of the debris back onto the freshly cleared concrete in the process. It only took him a couple of moments to slip off and fall on his face, prompting a tearful wail. Jimmy wasn't your average kindergartener.

David's dad took one look at his blubbering son and the mess he was making, then made the only call that he felt he could: He pulled David off the fort project and assigned him to Jimmy duty. "Hey Big Guy," Dad said in a tone that offered no possibility of compromise. "Why don't you help Jimmy build a snowman or something out in the front yard?"

"I still have to finish the trap entrance on the snow fort," David protested. But it was too late. The mere mention of a snowman had stoppered Jimmy's fecund tear ducts. He got up, brushed himself off and began to hop gleefully up and down. Anything short of a snowman would certainly send him tumbling back down his emotional precipice, perhaps for the rest of the day. With a babysitter coming that night, it was a gamble that Mr. Dewell couldn't take.

"Come on," Mr. Dewell persisted. "It'll be fun. You can build it right in front of the window, so Mom can look out and see it." Involving Mrs. Dewell was a stroke a genius - the coup de grace, if you will. Nothing pleased either boy more than pleasing Mom. The fervor with which they curried her favor sometimes unnerved David's dad, but he was more than willing to trade some disquiet for a little peace and quiet in this case.

"Oh, OK," David relented, doing a poor job of playing it off like a sacrifice.

Truth be told, David did not mind looking after Jimmy. There weren't any kids Jimmy's age on the block, and he could be a little helpless, even for a five-year-old. He cried all the time, often at the slightest provocation, and appeared to be much more interested in little girls' pursuits - unicorns, boy bands, and his mother's jewelry - than those of little boys. Mr. Dewell was convinced that he was going to turn out gay, and wasn't handling it very well. But more than that, there were simple things that Jimmy just didn't seem to get. David's mom would sometimes wonder aloud about why he still couldn't talk and take care of himself as well as David had done at an earlier age. With only two kids, she had no way of knowing which one was closer to normal. Closer because she knew David wasn't exactly "typical" either. He was extremely intelligent, but had an imagination that could override his logical impulses and make him come across as a little dense, if not dorky. He was also big for his age – both tall and chubby – and was constantly being mistaken for 11, and sometimes even 12. Yet there he was, out in the yard playing with his little brother all the time. Frankly, it made him look like an overgrown sissy. The kids in the cul de sac – the true center of the neighborhood – only came down to the Dewells' end of the block when they were short of players for whatever game they were putting together. In short, when they needed a space heater. Most of the time David declined the offer, knowing that doing otherwise would leave Jimmy on his own (he was too young and way too temperamental to be included). On those rare occasions when David did join them, he always came back before he had to – before the game was over – and always with the explanation that nobody taught him the rules or that they hadn't used his idea. He just wasn't used to playing with kids his age.

In the case of the snowman project, the word "help," was code for "build it yourself and let Jimmy take the credit," so David dutifully began to roll the snowman's base and torso, tapping into the rich region of virgin snow in the side yard, while Jimmy wandered around in the front yard, intermittently pushing along a clump of snow that resembled nothing more than a lumpy, slightly larger than average potato. David didn't mind; he was lost in his work – imagining that he was erecting a statue of the great and powerful god of some ancient Ice Age civilization. He was doing not the work of two, but of 200, and he would be rewarded for his efforts with the throne of this grand yet lost culture.

After David had rolled his two sections into place in the front yard and stacked them, he walked over to jump start Jimmy, who sat spaced out on the front porch, lumpy potato in lap. Together, the two boys rolled the final snowball into shape, with David letting Jimmy pretend that he was providing all the muscle. Finally, after some mock conferring with his younger brother about how to proceed next, David picked up the head, held it up in his hands, stood on his tiptoes, and carefully rolled it into place. David took an exaggerated step backwards to behold their creation (a gesture mimed faithfully by Jimmy). "Well, what do you say?" David asked his younger brother. "Cool?"

"Supercool!" Jimmy replied. David held out an open palm, which Jimmy tried to slap, but missed. The body was in place. Now, they had to bring it to life. As David made his way toward the house to get the snowman some clothes and a face, he felt a chill for the first time all afternoon. He turned to the street and saw a long gray '77 Monte Carlo sliding slowly past the house. The driver, not much more than a murky silhouette, was leaning toward the passenger-side window and taking an extra special interest in the boys' new friend. The car continued to creep along in this fashion until it passed the neighbor's lot, at which point the engine rumbled deeply, the tires spun on the slushy street, and the metallic shark lurched quickly around the block's slight bend.

David didn't have to see the driver's face to know who it was. It was Rick Hedde – his arch enemy. The boy who had terrorized him on foot, on bicycle, and now by automobile for what seemed like all of his life. The fear triggered by the mere sight of him made David feel sick and helpless, like he was drowning. Had there been a neighborhood before Rick Hedde? Or a time when he did not prowl its sidewalks and streets? And more importantly, would there ever be a neighborhood without Rick Hedde? A neighborhood of kind hearts and unfettered playing, biking and big-wheeling? It was doubtful. With Hedde, humiliations were constant, beatings routine. One of his favorite tricks was to make you, under duress that could only be described as extreme, pick up some random item lying on the street (like a tennis ball or an empty bottle) and put it in your mouth. Not even the cul de sac kids could escape his wrath, but as a loner, David was an easier and more frequent mark. A couple years earlier, before David's first growth spurt, Rick Hedde had found him (David Doodoo, he called him back then) alone on the short side of the block, and after chasing him down, he picked him up and locked him in one of those enormous plastic garbage cans that the village gave out for yard waste, then kicked it over. Although Mr. Woods found and released him from his humid, rancid smelling cage over an hour later, his big wheel was never recovered.

Rick Hedde taking an interest in any activity of yours was never a good thing. Today, they had gotten off easy, probably because of the number of adults being out of doors this afternoon – especially Mr. Longatini. That past summer, during the period when Rick Hedde ritually raced his Monte Carlo up and down the street in celebration of his newly acquired driver's license, Mr. L had taken offense and heaved an open bottle of beer through his open driver's side window. He and David's dad still talked about what an "incredible toss" it had been. Yeah, they were lucky, David thought has he made his way to the house. Very lucky.

After a short time, David returned to the front yard bearing one of Dad's old golf hats, two green apples, a carrot, a string of bright red cinnamon flavored gumballs, and a raggedy old pink scarf of Mom's. The boys began to experiment with their frozen creation's visage (which Jimmy decided should face the window, rather than the street), taking him from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of agony and back again. They never did get it quite to their satisfaction, and it wasn't until an hour later, when David's dad came out to bring the day's outdoor activities to a close, that they finally stopped fidgeting with the snowman's features.

"Wow, that looks great," said Dad. He stood on the porch and admired his sons' handiwork. Maybe they weren't such misfits after all. But then mild perplexity set in. "Hey, uh, guys...don't you think that Mr. – what's his name?"

"Jon-a-than," replied Jimmy, with pride.

"...Mr. Jonathan..."

"No! Just Jonathan."

David's dad cringed with the correction. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed deeply, defeated anew, "Jonathan." (there may have been a "fucking" in front, just under the breath.) After a shake of the head, he continued, "Don't you think it might be better if Jonathan faced the street?"

"Jimmy wanted Mom to be able to see his face from inside. If we did it the other way, she wouldn't be able to."

"Yeah," Jimmy added in a rare flash of authority.

"Oh," replied Mr. Dewell. "Well, I just think it's a shame that nobody in the neighborhood will be able to see what a fine job you guys did on" – he stumbled over name- "Jonathan."

"That's OK," replied David. "He's really not for anybody else. Just us and Mom."

With that, Mr. Dewell gave up and walked dejectedly out to the car. The boys finished smoothing out Jonathan's rough edges until Mrs. Dewell called them in, shortly before dark. Cold, wet, and a little more tired than they had realized, the boys retreated into the warmth of the house – but not before stopping to take one more look at their new – and, for all practical purposes, only – friend. They had given him all of their effort, energy and affection, and in the process, created a strange but appropriate symbol of their peculiar bond.

Once inside the house, the boys thrilled their mother with the tales of their toil and hung on her every word of praise. And when Mr. Dewell returned bearing Happy Meals for all, well, the sun was able to set on a Saturday more perfect than either of the boys had imagined in their short lives. Outside, the light from the house illuminated and appeared to warm the edges of Jonathan's smiling face.