The Weight of Snow

Everything is white; the snow coming down in sticky, territorial clumps, smothering the massive houses, the yards, this ritzy neighborhood road, and the whole damn tri-state area. I steer Angela, my complaining old maid of a black sedan, through the wet thickness and toward this last-minute job I agreed to. The cleaning company called when I was barely awake—and still a little drunk. Partying on a weeknight is never my best idea. But with the community college closed and all my classes cancelled today, even in my groggy state, making money seemed like a sound option. Until I hit these messy roads. Hardly anyone is out, and for good reason.

I give Angela a little more gas and pat the frayed-leather steering wheel with my bare hand. “Come on, girl. Get your old, rusty ass moving. We’re way late.” But on the unplowed road, she keeps drudging along at her own granny pace. She gave up making heat for me two years ago, and since I was rushing and didn’t grab a hat or gloves before I headed out to this job, I’m late, cold, and the only thing that could make this any worse is—

My phone rings, my mother’s name lighting up on the screen.

“Oh, Hell.” I give a reflexive push on the gas, as if I could get away from my mother’s calls. Angela groans. My cell rings. Then rings again. My mother won’t give up. With a sigh, I answer.

“Betsy?” Her voice is soft, intense, and yet still grating. “It’s your mom.”

“I know who you are, Mom. I’ve lived with you for nineteen years.”

“Where are you? I heard you leave around ten, but I know you don’t have school.” She tracks my schedule, my whereabouts. Never my older sister, Nora’s. Just mine.

“Thing is, Mom,” I say matter-of-factly, “there’s this rager going on with tons of cocaine and meth in downtown Grand Rapids, so I’m out to get lit.”

“Betsy, say you’re kidding!” Panic lines her words.

“Can’t.” I keep my tone flat. “It might be morning still, but I’ve already got my vodka chasers ready to pair with my drug intake.”

“Enough. I’m going to check your location.” Her irritated voice fades as she pulls the phone away and pulls up the app. Up ahead, the job address appears in scripted metal numbers affixed to a brick wall stretching around what could be an entire city block. Whoever owns this place must be loaded.

“Betsy, what in God’s name are you doing there?” she asks loud and clear, having pinpointed me. “You shouldn’t be driving at all. You know, you always worry me. When you do stuff like this, you don’t even think about how worried I might be.” Her voice turns squeaky. I hate that. The whininess of it. I grip the steering wheel with my frozen fingers. “And you always worried your dad. Doing things like this. It’s why he drank. All his worrying about you and the crazy things you do.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard, Mom.” Like a million times.

“It’s this kind of behavior, Betsy. This distressing behavior. It was why he was out that night he got arrested,” she continues, probably pointing her finger as if I were standing in front of her. “He was looking for you.”

I’ve heard this tons too. My fault. Betsy, the fuck-up, has ruined everybody’s life.

Out the window, the snow starts again, a gentle fall. It was the same that night, with my dad. The snow, pushing down on the world, bullying, imposing itself on our night until everything was different.

Through the wide flakes, I eye a wrought iron front gate and maneuver Angela to the curb just before it. When I turn off the engine, the old girl sputters and slumps into the snow like she just might expire there for good.

“I’ve got to go, Mom.” I get out of the car, shutting the door and locking it. “Someone just walked in with heroin laced with fentanyl, and I’m all over it.”

“Betsy, come home. Now!” Fury edges the whininess. I visualize her stamping her foot like a petulant child.

“I’ll be back later, and we can curl up on the couch in our jammies and some fashion magazines for a sleepover and girl chat.” Like that would ever happen. Yelling at me about how wrong I am in every way is more her forte. I hang up as Mom shouts my name again. Then I silence my phone, which is what I should have done in the first place.

Through the front gate, the mansion sports various wings folded into other wings, the whole thing lit up and looking like an intricate piece of very expensive origami. This place could hold ten houses the size of mine and still have room for a pool, a tennis court, and a dozen antique cars.

I trudge through the snow to the wide front entrance and ring the bell. A harried-looking woman with a gray topknot and a fitted business suit immediately answers.

“The house cleaner?” An odd urgency pushes out each word.

“That’s me.” I suddenly wonder how I’m going to clean something so large. And, also, why doesn’t this house have its own team of cleaners living in servants’ quarters like in Downton Abbey?

“Follow me.” She whips around, leaving me scrambling to wipe my boots off on the front mat and hustle inside, closing the door behind me. I sprint after her, then follow closely behind as she ascends a wide staircase framed by a dark wood banister.

“You’ll be cleaning only one room today,” she says over her shoulder, not breaking her stride as we move through the second floor.

“Just one room?” I was really hoping to get in several hours so I could at least make this hellacious journey through the snow worthwhile.

“The most important room,” she says, angling once, then twice around slight corners, before stopping in front of a door at the end of a long hall. Beside the door, a bucket sits, overflowing with a feather duster, several rags, and a bottle of spray cleaner. The woman turns to me, the weight of her stern expression and intense stare keeping me frozen. She motions to the door. “Inside, is Mr. Marcus Weatherington. If you don’t know who he is, he is one of the most influential men in our state. He’s dined with presidents, donated to more causes than I can count, and his family has been a fixture in this town for generations.”

“Sounds fancy.” I say, for lack of anything better.

“He is very, uh, fancy.” She sniffs, her eyes darting low to my wet boots, up my weathered jeans, to the chipped, black nail polish on my fingernails before she returns her stare to my face. “He’s also in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s.”

I’m not sure what this has to do with me cleaning. “I’ll just clean and not bother him. No worries.”

“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “He needs to see you. See, the thing is, Mr. Weatherington has always liked his routines. Every day, we bring him his meals in the same way at the same time. We help him bathe promptly when he wakes up in the morning, and he insists that his study be cleaned every Tuesday and Friday. Today is Tuesday.”

“Can’t argue there.”

She nods. “Normally, we have Sandy do it. Do you know Sandy?”

She thinks all of us cleaning ladies are connected. “Can’t say that I do.”

“In any case, her daughter’s school was closed due to the weather, and she was unable to come. Clearly, the company called you instead. Therefore, you need to clean. Understand?”

“Clean. Be seen. Got it.”

Her forehead wrinkles in worry. “He’ll talk to you. He’ll chat. Ask you questions sometimes. But he often confuses people, so don’t be surprised if he thinks you’re someone else.”

“Right.” I take off my jacket and drop it on the ground by the door, then grab the handle of the bucket. “I’ll be anyone he wants me to be as long as I get paid.”

She lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. Great. Okay.” She twists the handle of the door and cracks it open, leaning close before she lets me go through. “If he gets combative, knock on the door. I’ll be right in.” My eyes widen as she swings the door wide.

A fragile-looking man in a thick sweater and slacks sits in an armchair in the middle of a high-ceilinged room. The walls are white, except for one clad in shelving and filled with books and other knickknacks. A newspaper and a glass of water with a straw sit on a table beside the man’s chair. His face is set in a scowl beneath thin, white hair.

A fragile-looking man in a thick sweater and slacks sits in an armchair in the middle of a high-ceilinged room. The walls are white, except for one clad in shelving and filled with books and other knickknacks. A newspaper and a glass of water with a straw sit on a table beside the man’s chair. His face is set in a scowl beneath thin, white hair.

“Mr. Weatherington?” A smile bursts from the woman. Her tone is beyond cheery, bordering on comical. “The cleaner is here for your Tuesday cleaning. This is—” Her gaze darts to me.

“Betsy,” I offer.

“Betsy,” she sing-songs, then gives me an encouraging nod; so I get to it, pulling out the feather duster and heading to the bay window behind the man’s chair. The door clicks shut, signaling I’m now alone with Mr. Weatherington in this tall, white room.

I work in silence for a few minutes, the whispering shuffle of my duster and my booted footsteps the only sounds in the room. I work my way past the window to the wall of shelves, finding a ladder neatly tucked against one end of the shelving.

“Don’t forget to clean everything up,” the old man growls, his unexpected voice startling me.

“Of course.” I sound squeaky. Like my mother. And hate myself for it.

I set the ladder up, yearning for this situation to be less awkward. “You have an impressive collection of books here, Mr. Weatherington,” I say, climbing up the ladder to reach the top shelf with the duster.

“Yes,” he rumbles.

I notice several shelves with not just books but some figurines, one with a crystal-like bowl in a display holder, and another with what looks like a small Asian gong.

“Have you travelled much?” I ask, dusting a whole shelf before realizing he hasn’t answered. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s staring at me, his scowl replaced with a far-away look.

“Last time I travelled I was with you, Penelope.”

This is what the woman was talking about. “Right. Where did we go again?”

His jaw tightens. “Your mother insisted I take you to Paris.” There’s an edge to his voice that makes me uneasy, but I smile.

“Paris. I really loved Paris.” I say it with such whimsy and longing that I almost convince myself I’ve been there. No way could my parents have afforded that. Not on the measly earnings they made and how my dad drank most of that money away.

“You didn’t deserve to go,” he says, low and jagged, a dangerous sound.

“Why’s that?”

He points a bony finger at me, his eyes turning to slits. “You should have gone to Harvard. I got you in. I made it happen.” He pulls in a deep, labored breath. “You were supposed to go to Harvard and then take over my business. That was the plan.”

His words strike something in me, a sensitive place. Expectations, disappointment, guilt. It all rattles until everything inside tightens. “What if I had my own plan?”

He laughs, a bitter tumble of noise from his throat. “I had to sell my business when I retired. The Weatherington name is no longer a part of it. That’s your doing.”

I turn to face him, ready to defend Penelope as if I know her. But his face has fallen, a blankness taking over again, his body slumping like a simple pile of sinew and bone. “Don’t forget to clean everything up,” he mutters.

“Of course,” I say, the circle of it like an odd dance of illogic.

I step from the ladder, move it over so I can reach the next part of the shelving, then climb again. The top shelf has a stack of atlases, large reference books with maps of exotic and faraway places. I swipe the duster across them, reaching around to clean the texts, and find a dark, leather-bound book pushed against the back of the shelf. It must have fallen back there, so I pull it out and search for a place to sit it upright.

“No!” I turn to find Mr. Weatherington out of his chair, unsteady as he stands, but rooted in a deep fury that has turned his face to a snarl. “I told you never to touch that book!”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“You know I didn’t mean to hit him, Penelope. Or kill him. It was almost dark. Snowing. I didn’t see him. You know that.”

My breath stalls. I nod slowly, the book in my hands heating, almost vibrating with a truth I’m not clear about yet.

“The policeman told me it wasn’t my fault, Pen. You heard him. You did. That boy had black skin. It was getting dark outside. He was walking back from town. I was going the speed limit. I didn’t see him.”

Mr. Weatherington lumbers to the bottom of the ladder and aims a frown up at me. I hold on tighter. “And I didn’t throw that boy in the well outside of town.”

I know that well. It’s a town landmark. And apparently, a grave.

His fingers wrap around the ladder’s wooden legs, gripping tightly. “The officer made the choice to hide the body. You know that. And you and I promised not to touch that book again.” He releases a low, raspy grunt. “Are you going to turn me in, Penelope? Your own father?”

I scan the room, the white walls, the high white ceiling. I’m trapped with my feet perched on the ladder’s spindly rungs. And this old man just confessed to murder.

His gaze sets into a glare. “You’ve always been unruly, obstinate. I should have known you’d turn on me.” He starts to shake the ladder, somehow mustering enough force to rattle me. “I won’t let you. I didn’t see him. The sun was going down. I didn’t see him. I didn’t.”

He shakes and jostles the ladder. One leg of it slips forward, but he keeps pushing, pulling with a frenetic rhythm. He’s going to pull me over if I can’t get him to stop. The ladder will land on him and hurt us both.

I cling to the top rung with one hand, and with the other, I throw the book at the door. It thuds, and within seconds, the woman is in the room.

“Ah, Mr. Weatherington.” Her voice is a lullaby. He freezes, turns and stares at her, confusion, then blankness overtaking him. “Look at what I brought you.” She holds up a tray of food. “Your lunch. Right on time.”

She’s lying. It’s too early for lunch. But I don’t care. As she eases the old man back into his chair, I scurry down the ladder, grabbing the book as I head out of the room, snagging my jacket as I hit the hallway. I don’t stop moving until I’ve run out the door, through the deep, heavy snow, and to my familiar black sedan.

I close myself in, turn the engine over, and then breathe. In. Out. The book in my hands and the image in my head of a boy being run down by a man.

The night my father went looking for me, drunk off his ass, he hit a woman, maiming her. I was only an hour late for curfew, but he went looking for me anyway. I showed up at home after my dad had been booked, after he was sitting in a jail cell and knew he’d be there for a while. I didn’t know what had happened. The snow was falling, the way it had been all day; so I’d taken the roads slowly even though I was no longer drunk from Diana Belchuck’s parents’ red wine. Didn’t want to spin out and give my parents a serious reason to be pissed at me. Diana and I had talked. Laughed. Become closer. I’d had a great night. Until Mom came outside in just her robe and her slippers.

“Where were you, Betsy? Where?” She screamed and yelled and pointed her finger. “He went looking for you! He was out because of you!” Then she cried. And didn’t stop. “Our lives are ruined,” she said. “Because of you.”

I stood there, confused, the snow falling down around me, lazy and weightless, as if it were innocuous. Innocent. It fell on my shoulders, against the chest of my jacket, into the wavy strands of my long hair. It fell around me until it framed my frozen face, and I was the only thing my mother could see.

The book is clutched in my hands. I crack it open to the title page – The Ways of White Folks by Langston Hughes. And on the blank page beside the title page, an inscription.

Mama,

Happy Birthday! Thank you for teaching me

the ways of God and the world. I love you always.

Your son,

Samson

1/19/91

I search his name and the date online. There’s no mention of his death, but an old interview from a local paper pops up. A grieving mother talking about her son having disappeared. A Mrs. Vera Hensley. One more search and I find she’s still alive. And she lives close by.

I drive. Out of the bougie neighborhood. Through town. Even past the old well just outside the town line. Samson’s in there. Long gone. I think about stopping, staring down into the blackness with all this snowy white everywhere else. But instead, I go to Mrs. Hensley’s. Park down the street and clomp through the deep snow until I’m in front of her tiny bungalow.

I head up the three front steps and place the book on the concrete stoop, a slight overhang keeping it free of snow. I push the doorbell and rush through the yard to a nearby bush, hiding.

An older woman, soft and round in a flowered housedress, opens the door. She glances at the yard, my footprints clear and deep. I shut my eyes as if to hide, and when I open them, she’s reading the inscription. Her body frozen for a long moment. Then, she turns, shuts the door, and moves back inside.

I stand and trudge back through the snow to my car. I check my phone to find my mom has called a dozen times and left as many messages. I turn on the engine and ease old Angela past the woman’s house, stopping for a moment in front of it, my brain snagging on whether I did the right thing. But I know I did. Blame should be placed where blame belongs. My father’s in jail because he deserves to be. Mr. Weatherington is being plagued by guilt and fear as penance for his crime. And I am here, trying to make things close for a boy and his family who never got closure.

And then, Samson’s mama is standing in the front window, staring right at me, my face exposed, my car so easy to tell the make and model and license of if she wanted to tell the police. But again, I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not to blame. And she’s hugging that book to her large chest and eyeing me in a way that makes me feel seen.

Between us, the snow starts to fall again, lightly, working to cover up my prints in front of her house. Working to blanket the world in a way that seems different than before. Making a clean slate. Wiping away what was.

Vera Henley has her hand against the book against her heart, and she nods, her gray curls bobbing and bobbing. And I feel that nodding right past my bones, down to a place inside that’s never been touched before.