This is the first snow. It comes in the middle of the afternoon, after the morning's errands have been done, after going to the mailbox to send in the cable bill, the bakery for rye bread and the pharmacy for blood pressure pills. Inside now, at the kitchen table, drinking coffee with heavy cream and sugar, eating bread with butter, he sees the first flakes. He puts down the newspaper, and finishes the rest of his lunch while looking out the window.
A week before, Nelson James buried his dog; a year before, his wife, Lila. Both of them, gone, died just before the first snow came.
He finishes his coffee and bread and gets up and looks out the window. These are the first flakes of winter. The fat, thick, drifting November snowflakes. They land briefly on the ground, but they aren't sticking.
This was the first time in 36 years when the first snow didn't mean extra work: no traffic reports, forecasts, ski reports, tips on keeping pets warm, predictions for long, cold, snowy winters. A year before, at the age of 66, Nelson retired as the weatherman at channel 8. They have a new weatherman now. Warren Phillips. He is not even a meteorologist; he went to broadcast school. Nelson watches the channel 8 news every night. Warren Phillips jokes with the other anchors. Aloud, he reads letters from young viewers with weather questions. He wears silky suits, double-breasted, and his blond hair is slicked back with just the slightest puff. Sometimes, Nelson hopes he gets the forecast all wrong.
It is almost 2 p.m. and he reads the paper in his chair, like he does every afternoon. Actually, he reads both the local papers and USA Today. And he falls asleep. Two feet away from the chair, just next to the footstool where he props his feet, the carpet is worn and faded. That is where the dog, Duke, used to sleep. Nelson doesn't look at the spot. He deliberately keeps his eyes off the carpet while he is in the living room. In his bed too, at night, he keeps his eyes on the right side, where he sleeps. The left side, that was for Lila. It is empty now and he won't look at it.
The days pass like this. He likes the days to go by quickly.
d d d
When Nelson wakes up, the dusk has already dusted the windows a deep gray-blue. The house is dark, and he feels along the end table and finds the remote control. He flips on the television and the room is filled with purple light. Then he looks out the window, and sees a steady stream of heavy snowflakes.
The new weatherman, Warren, comes on television as Nelson is standing up, getting his shoes on, putting on his coat. Nelson wants to see the snow.
"Talk about a first snow!" the new weatherman says on television. "We'll let you know how much we're going to get, after this."
Nelson flips on the porch light and steps outside. The yellow light skims across the yard, across the patchwork of red and brown leaves, slowly being buried under the powder of snow. The snow is getting thicker, the flakes fuller, whiter. He looks up and sees the half-moon, and underneath it he can see no clouds, only the swirling pink of a snowy dark sky.
Next door, he sees - kneeling in the snow, wearing a bright red snow suit, gloves and wool hat - Randy, the young boy of his new neighbors. Randy is patting the snow between his mittens. He watches the boy play, and then thinks that if he and Lila could have had kids, they would have, and it would have been a wonderful thing to watch them playing in their first snow.
Randy is 7. He has just moved with his parents to Michigan from Arizona. "Of course," Nelson thinks, "This is his first snow." And he walks across the yard to see his young neighbor.
"Hi there, Randy," Nelson says, bending down to the boy's eye level. Randy's mother, Rita, who is watching her son through the window as she talks on the phone, waves to Nelson. He smiles and waves back.
Without looking up Randy, still kneeling in the snow, runs his gloved hand through the powder. "Hi Nelson," he says, and then he puts a handful of snow into his mouth.
"Have you ever seen snow like this before?" Nelson asks.
"No."
"Isn't it wonderful?"
"Mm-hmm."
"I'll help you make a snowman," Nelson says. "As soon as we get some more snow."
He watches the boy play for a few minutes. The boy, as if he has forgotten that he has someone watching him, begins to speak softly to the snow. He picks it up and looks at it in his gloves, he touches his tongue to it. He is singing a song. Something about snow, but Nelson can't hear all the words.
Nelson is turning around to go back inside. He is cold, and he doesn't want to get in the way of the boy's first snow. He wants him to enjoy it.
"Nelson," Randy asks, "is snow alive?"
"What's that? Alive?"
"Yes. My teacher says every one of the snowflakes look different. Just like people."
"Yes, that's true."
"Are they alive then?" the boy says. He is still kneeling in the snow but now he is looking up at the sky.
"No, no it's not alive," Nelson says.
"I like to talk to the snow anyway," Randy says.
Nelson looks at the sky. The snow is falling now, sticking to branches and leaves and sticks and sidewalks and grass. Randy whispers to the snow.
"The snow is fun," Randy says. He protests a little when his mom comes to the door to tell him to come in for dinner, but he must be cold because he soon runs up the steps.
His mother stops him. "Stomp the snow off of your boots Randy, and then say goodbye to Nelson."
The boy kicks his boots and then says goodbye. So does Rita. Nelson tells them to enjoy their supper and goes home. He turns once toward his neighbor's house, and sees Randy's father, Fred, helping his son out of the snowsuit. Most of the windows in the house are lit.
Back to his own house, Nelson takes his coat off, stomps off his shoes, and makes coffee, enough for two people, because he always makes that much. He turns on the television, just to hear the voices. He sits down and flips channels. The local news over. He rests his eyes for a few minutes, the Red Wings game playing in the background. He'd like to fall asleep. His knees ache today with the new damp weather, and despite the earlier nap, he still feels tired. He thinks he could make himself some dinner, he has some canned beef stew in the pantry - that is good winter food. He bets his neighbors are eating homemade beef stew tonight, hot beef stew with large, thick slices of white bread. He watches the rest of the hockey game, and then he gets up, puts his shoes and coat back on, and goes outside.
Now, the night is very dark. It is after 9. Lights in the houses along the street start to go away, slowly, one by one. Nelson looks up and down the street, the empty white streets and sidewalks, and the air rushes past his ears with the sound of snow falling. The night feels as if it growing thicker, as if it is slowly enveloping Nelson, swirling and spinning into an icy silk cocoon. Nelson breathes deeply, and drops to his knees. The snow soaks into his khakis. And then, when he is sure no one is looking, he plunges his bare hands into the snow, now almost two inches deep, and he scoops out a handful. Drawing the scoops of snow up to his mouth, he tastes it, and then looks down at the snow in his hands. Slowly, he bends even closer to the snow. His lips begin to move and he whispers to the snow, to each of the crystal flakes he begins to talk about his loneliness.
The snow keeps falling, and Nelson is glad that the snow has come back.
MARK FRIEDMAN/Daily
A group of bikes look as if they have been locked next to the union for weeks.