The Sudden Weight of Snow Read Online Free PDF Page B

We had learned trees and fences already, ways to climb seemingly flat surfaces, ways to land with the minimum sting to the soles of feet. Pool covers were easily folded back or rolled up. It was the undressing that was the hardest part. Even though we wore only shorts over our bathing suits to straddle fences, and sandals for grip, taking those off was a final statement: we’re going in; if we get caught, we’ll be close to naked. We both prided ourselves on our stealthand ability to slip into water without a sound. The feeling of pool water then, in those moments of heightened awareness of slight movement and the possibility of lights, was like nothing else. The water, a smooth secret on every inch of skin.
    That night, we got on the bikes – one mine, one Nick’s – and pedalled to the top of a hill, bracing ourselves against the cold. The road led away from my house like a ribbon unrolling in either direction. One direction led to town. The other eventually met the highway and led out. My hair whipped back from my face and I could feel the ends meeting violently behind me, forming knots. The air was as sharp as pins on my cheeks and uncovered hands.
    The 7-Eleven was new in Sawmill Creek. It had arrived on my fifteenth birthday, erected on the strip of town closest to the highway. Across the street there was a Husky gas station and diner. I had memories of Husky diners and they all involved Jim Harper. On our road trips, Vera liked to prepare food in the van to save money. She had some kind of kitchen rigged up – a cooler, milk crates full of plastic plates and cutlery, blue jugs of water, orange plastic sinks. Jim had even built a storage space into the van that held all these things together and a makeshift counter. It was Vera who did the grocery shopping, Nick in the safety seat of the cart, me in the back. She placed the food around my limbs. The last thing in was always ice for the cooler. Vera preferred a block; it didn’t melt as fast. To me, grocery stores are still this: the feeling of the metal mesh of the grocery cart beneath my backside, holding ice between my legs.
    Jim, on the other hand, was a great crusader for theintegrity of roadside diners. Ma-and-Pa diners were the best – the backbone of the road, and thus the spine of the North American landscape – however, Husky’s presence right across the continent impressed him. He felt a kinship with truck drivers through their shared appreciation for the lure of the road. Even as a kid, I could tell that the truckers felt uncomfortable when Jim waxed poetic about this. I was most often too happy with the grilled-cheese sandwich and fries that my father always let me order to be concerned for long though. Collecting paper Husky placemats on each of our trips, I traced our routes along the map of Canada, hearts on the places where my parents got along, Xs on the places where they fought.
    Sawmill Creek did not register on the Husky-placemat map of Canada. It was on the way to and from places that made it onto the map and towns that didn’t, but were quainter and had more endearing name – Cherryville, Summerland, Peachland. The name Sawmill Creek had its own charm. We did have a huge carving of a lumberjack wielding a chainsaw to welcome people to town, but when the tourists found out that there was nothing there but dead boring main street and a dark mall, they moved on. On their way to bigger lakes, vineyards, and golf courses, they were able to pull off the highway, fill up with gas and eat without ever having to see the town that extended past the strip. They could get back into their cars and never get caught in the back roads that tattooed the landscape in grids, mapping out fields and orchards in never-ending squares.
    The 7-Eleven in Sawmill was a meeting place for those without cars and those looking for passengers. A terminalwhere everyone’s destination was a party. When there were no parties to be found, the 7-E become a destination in