Mile Hill

The snow arrived with a vengeance, accompanied by howling wind, and plummeting temperatures. His father leaned forward and gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pure white. Cars trying to climb mile hill slid backwards or sideways or twirled like elephants on ice skates. Car after car pulled off the road, each driver humbled and frightened by the steep, icy incline. Making things worse, it was nightfall and in the darkness the hill was even more menacing.

“Dad,” said Bruce.

“Don’t bother your father,” said his mother, her voice a firm whisper.

He looked at Rodney, his older brother, who sat with his head down trying to find a station on his transistor radio. Don’t even think about touching this, he’d told Bruce the day he’d bought it. Hear me? Bruce wished he could smash his brother’s face to smithereens, but he couldn’t imagine any nine-year-old punching out a fifteen-year-old, no matter how many pushups he could do. The scratchy radio static got under their dad’s skin in a hurry.

“Rodney, put it away,” said their father in a quiet voice, though they heard it as a scream.  

“Boys, let your father think.”

That morning, when they left for Pittsburgh to visit their cousins, the sun was shining and the TV weatherman said the snow wouldn’t arrive until the next day. Bruce bounced in the back seat, he was so excited. When they arrived, he and cousin Ellen headed to her room to play Monopoly, while Rodney retreated to cousin Billy’s attic hideaway to smoke.

At noon, Bruce helped set the table for dinner. He remembered his mother telling him, “The fork goes on the left (both have four letters), and the knife and spoon go on the right (all three have five).” When he asked her “Why?” she said, “Because that’s the way it’s done.”  

His aunt had made roast beef and mashed potatoes, homemade bread and apple sauce, creamed corn, and more broccoli than anyone would ever want to eat. Bruce refused to sit near the broccoli. It smells like poop, he told his mother.

After dinner, their uncle herded all the guys into his bookshelf-lined den, where they watched their beloved Pittsburgh Steelers take on the Cleveland Browns. They booed loudly whenever the Browns had the ball. And they crossed their fingers whenever the Steelers go it back.

Throughout the game, their uncle told jokes, did color commentary, poked the boys whenever they said something funny and, in general, entertained everyone. He had been a war hero. D-day, Berlin, Silver Star, Purple Heart, Army Commendation Medal. He even had a slight limp that made him seem all the more heroic. He loved to tell war stories, each time with more detail and emotion than the time before. The boys were in awe.

Bruce wondered what it would be like to have a hero for a father. He tried to imagine his dad wearing a Superman costume or a Lone Ranger mask or walking with a limp because he got shot saving his platoon. Having flat feet messed everything up.

About ten minutes into Uncle Johnny’s first war story, Bruce’s dad left the room.

After the game, Bruce headed to the kitchen for some tollhouse cookies and found his mom and aunt hunched over the sink looking out the window, their faces pinched with worry. It was getting dark, and the snow had arrived early.

“Just flakes,” their aunt said, unconvincingly, but their mother had already shifted gears and was gathering their coats and boots and mittens.

“Honey!” she called. “Come look at this.”

His father squinted through the window, then opened the kitchen door to get a better look.

“What do you think?”

“No reason to take a chance,” he said. “Probably should leave now.”

He put his boots on over his stocking feet and went out to start the Plymouth and clear snow off the windshield. The snow was blowing sideways by the time he returned.

Driving home was normal enough at first. The city streets were only slightly slushy, and when they got on the highway, the plows were out, and the road was mostly clear. Once they exited the highway, though, it was like they’d driven into an ambush. The wind roared and the car listed this way and that. The road was slick as Rodney’s Brylcreemed hair, and there were stalled cars everywhere, their brake lights blinking like frozen fireflies. The car was quiet, not a satisfied what-a-nice-day quiet, but a tense clenched-teeth-stiffened-back quiet.

They slid several times and gasped several times, but finally Bruce’s dad found the well-defined tire tracks of other cars and crawled along at a safe, snail’s pace. Bruce could feel himself unclenching. He felt more confident they wouldn’t die, a feeling that faded twenty minutes later when they reached the steep, snake-like mile hill and saw headlights glaring in every direction, cars twisted in every position. Bruce’s heart sank. His dad pulled off the road again and they watched as car after car failed to make it up the treacherous hill.   

“I don’t know,” said Bruce’s mom. “What do you think?”

His dad reached for his gloves, buckled his galoshes, zipped his coat up tight, and pulled the hood over his head.

“What are you going to do?”

“Chains,” was all he said.

Bruce, eyes wide, heart still thumping, wondered whether anyone had ever made it up mile hill in a blizzard? Maybe it can’t be done, he thought. Maybe it was impossible to scale, too steep, too perilous.

Bruce leaned close to his brother and whispered, “Should we pray?”

Rodney looked out his window. “I don’t think Jesus is coming out in this weather.”

Their father got out, leaned into the wind and driving snow, and shuffled to the back of the car. He opened the trunk, moved a few old blankets, tossed the jumper cables aside, lifted a couple of boxes, and there they were. He grabbed the first chain, stretched it out, and checked for twists and tangles. In his hands it looked like a jangling train track, held together by loose metal ties.

He knelt beside the front tire, took off his gloves, and blew into his hands. Bruce, his face pressed against the window, watched his father’s every move. His father tried to loop the chain over the tire, but it kept slipping off. He tried several times before it stayed, and when it did, he hooked it in place, then carefully laid the rest of the chain under the tire. His hands were numb by then. He struggled to put his stiffened gloves back on, then opened the car door, and slid in quickly, bringing a gust of wind and snow with him.  

Bruce’s mom searched her husband’s face. “What do you think?”

His father raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He said, “Everything’ll be okay,” but his eyes said ‘I don’t know.’

“Dad, are we gonna freeze to death?” said Bruce.

“People freeze to death all the time,” said Rodney, fiddling with his radio. “Hey, that’s life. You never know when your time’s up.”  

“What do you mean ‘when your time’s up’?”

He pointed upward. “When you’re going to meet the Big Enchilada in the sky.”

“Mom!”

“Rodney, just stop it, do you hear me?”

When their mother wasn’t looking, Rodney nudged him, pointed to the heavens, and smirked. Bruce felt certain that when Rodney was born his parents had second thoughts about bringing him home. Unfortunately, they’d made the wrong decision.

Meanwhile, his dad was giving his mom instructions.

“When I yell, just take your foot off the brake and let the car idle forward. Then stop when I say stop.”

His father opened the door again, but before he could get out, Bruce said, “Dad, I’m scared.”

“I think we’re all a little scared, buddy.”

His mother slid into the driver’s seat and rolled the window down an inch or so.

“Okay!” called his father.

Bruce’s mom put the car in gear and eased her foot off the brake. As the car inched forward, the chain creeped up and over the rest of the tire.

His father yelled, “Stop!” He hooked the chain in place, then bent over the windshield and gave everyone a thumbs up.

He readied the next tire, and then the third. Each chain went on without any problem. He prepped the last tire, then called for Bruce’s mom to tip-toe the car forward again. This time, though, the engine coughed and died. Their mom tried to start it again, and then three times more. Nothing. Bruce was rocking back and forth, fighting hard to keep his thumb out of bis mouth.

Their dad got back in the car. He reached for the key, then stopped. “We’re just gonna sit for a moment.”

Bruce thought, What kind of plan is that? Just sit? Just wait? Just do nothing? He bet his uncle wouldn’t just sit and wait. He’d do something! Anything! He put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. We’re goners.

Then his father turned the key. Bruce felt a rush of hope, like the cavalry had arrived in time to save the day. But the engine only whined and coughed and sputtered. His father sat back and took a deep breath. “It’s flooded,” he said to Bruce’s mom. Bruce didn’t know what that word meant, but he could tell it wasn’t good, it was a word you’d never want to hear when you’re trying to start a car.  

“Let’s wait a little longer,” his father said.

Bruce slumped back in his seat. He noticed his brother’s hands shaking like leaves in a wind storm. He was tempted to call him a “baby,” since that’s what Rodney called him all the time. But the situation was too serious for that. He’d file it away, though, in case they survived this disaster and one day, when his brother was harassing him, he could bring up his shaky hands and call him a “little tiny baby.” Maybe one of his brother’s friends would be there to witness it. That would embarrass the living crap out of Rodney.

But then he thought that might be a little too petty. He might look foolish and mean. Maybe he should just forget it.

He reached out, poked his brother’s arm, and said, “Hey, you okay, man?”

Rodney snarled, “Why wouldn’t I be, weasel?”

Okay, thought Bruce, I am going to remember his quivering scaredy-cat hands for as long as I live.

Their father tried again, and this time the engine’s cough was more promising. He took his foot off the gas. Then he started her up yet again, and the engine roared to life. The whole family cheered and laughed and congratulated one another.

While all this preparation was going on, another two inches of snow had fallen and the wind continued to howl. Everyone sobered up quickly. Bruce’s dad asked his mom to get in the back with the boys. “We need as much weight back there as possible.” Bruce’s mom bristled, not appreciating the implication.

There was a dozen cars lined up behind them, each waiting for someone to take the lead. Bruce’s father looked in the rearview mirror and pressed the gas pedal gently. The back tires spun and they all gasped. His dad stopped, then tried again. This time the car crawled back onto the road. No one said a word as he turned the wheel slightly and started up the hill. Bruce leaned forward and looked at his father. His jaw was set and his eyes were steeled.

They started to fishtail, so his father took his foot off the gas. The car wavered, then settled. He forged on. Visibility was zero, so he turned on the brights, but that made it worse. The snow looked like it was being shot at them out of a cannon. “Oh, no!” said his mother. Bruce’s shoulders tightened. He chewed the inside of his cheek. Mothers don’t say, Oh no! A kid might say that when they’re scared and if they did, their mother would say, “It’s alright, everything will be okay. Don’t worry.” There’s no one left to say everything will be okay, thought Bruce.

They dragged along, their father snaking up the road, trying to avoid the cars coming in the other direction. Bruce looked at the line behind them, then turned around in time to see a car coming down the hill sideways. It veered dangerously into their lane. “Jesus Christ!” said their mom. Bruce had never heard his mother say this, except in a prayerful way. Was the world coming to an end?

The driver was terrified, his eyes popping out of his head, his mouth wide, his face white with fright. If his father zigged or zagged, he might lose control of the car. Everyone held their breath. At the last minute, the other car swerved to the right, missing them by a few feet. “Mom?” said Bruce, “Can I yell ‘Jesus you-know-what!’ now?” said Bruce. “No, you cannot.” Nevertheless, he whispered it to himself and felt much better.

Just as they were nearing the top, the car lost traction and started skidding toward the berm. Everyone held their breath. Everyone, that is, except their father. He didn’t hit the gas and he didn’t hit the brakes. He let the car go where it wanted to go. When Bruce saw this, he gulped, closed his eyes, and braced himself for the crash. When he heard his mother say, “Whoa, that was close,” he opened his eyes. Everything was okay. They’d made it. There’s got to be some kind of God stuff going on, thought Bruce, I mean, really.

Once they’d crested mile hill, the road was straight and flat. For the next few miles, no one said a word. Their mom patted their father’s leg. They smiled at each other and shook their heads in relief. Soon, the moon peeked through the clouds, and the snow, so frightening before, glistened in the surrounding fields, making them look like a Currier and Ives greeting card.

Bruce missed all this. He was so tired that he fell asleep with his head on Rodney’s lap. His brother balanced his radio on Bruce’s head, still searching for a station. Bruce woke up when the Plymouth came to a stop in the driveway. Their dad turned off the engine, and they all sat quietly. The wind had died down, but the snow continued at a steady rate, quickly covering the windshield. Everyone’s legs were stiff and their backs were knotted. It had taken three times longer than usual to get home.

“To bed with both of you,” their mother said as soon as they hung up their coats. “School tomorrow.” Both boys groaned.

Bruce rubbed his face with a dry washcloth and waved a toothbrush across his front teeth. That would have to do. He put on his Howdy Doodie pajamas and got into bed. The sheets were cold, so he pulled the comforter up to his chin and lay still until warmth engulfed him. His mom called, “Good night, boys,” from downstairs. He waited for his father’s ‘good night’ and when it didn’t come, he got out of bed and looked out the window. His father was standing beside the car, a cigarette in his hand. He blew smoke into the night, then looked up at the sky and opened his mouth, trying to catch a flake or two. Bruce smiled and shook his head.

He went back to bed and lay on his side looking out the window. Funny, he thought, maybe you don’t have to fight in a war to be a hero.

When his alarm went off in the morning, his mother called from their parents’ bedroom, “School’s been cancelled for today!” Bruce sat up, a broad smile stretching from ear to ear. More God stuff, for sure.