Angels in the Snow (3 page)

She stood for a long moment before deciding to simply ignore them and continue. But after only a few steps, she paused and examined the tracks more closely. She placed her foot next to the one imprint and noticed that it was quite a bit larger than her own boot—probably that of a man. Then she placed her foot beside the other imprint to find that these prints were smaller than hers. Obviously, a child’s. So a man and a child had walked along this path today—and perhaps yesterday too. She sighed and continued on her way. She must simply forget that someone else had recently walked here—convince herself she was really alone in
her woods
. She would not consider the man and child hiking along somewhere ahead of her. But she couldn’t help herself. Unwillingly, she began to envision the two walkers on the path before her. And it was an unwelcome image—that of father and son, laughing and talking as they walked along together. Alive and well, and enjoying life! It was like a sharp slap in the face, and it felt totally unfair—unjust even.

Reaching the clearing, she noticed how the two sets of tracks had left the main trail, diverting to the right. She followed the tracks with her eyes, curious as to where they might be going. And that’s when she saw them. Like bas-relief images in white plaster, pressed into the snow were two distinct snow angels, their wings now glistening in the afternoon sun. She stood still, staring in wonder at the simple beauty of the snow art. It was the warm trickle of tears falling down her cold cheeks that reminded her it was time to move on, to force her eyes
from this sight and forge ahead. She tried not to notice where the two sets of tracks came back onto the main trail again and continued before her.

But, as she walked along, her eyes focusing on the stumps and small trees, her original image of the strangers hiking on the trail up ahead of her altered—be it ever so slightly. Suddenly she envisioned the pair—father and son—striding along with a similar loose, long-legged gait. She imagined their curly, dark-brown heads the color of burnt sienna bobbing along, their straight backs and squared shoulders moving steadily forward. The painful familiarity made her swallow hard in disbelief. Then she blinked back fresh tears as her heart began to pound furiously. And suddenly she began to walk faster—much faster—until she was running breathlessly toward the bridge.

When Claire finally reached the footbridge, the tracks just kept going. She could see them curving off to the right, heading into the trees up ahead. Going where? She clung to the snow-covered wooden railing and gasped to catch her breath.

“Claire, you’re crazy,” she said out loud. She stared at the footprints continuing beyond the footbridge and seriously considered following them. But to where? And that’s when she noticed that a thick band of clouds had rolled in, beginning to blot out the sunlight. These clouds were quickly filling the sky and were probably full of snow. But how could she not keep following the mysterious footprints? What if? She walked a short distance before she noticed that snowflakes were already tumbling from the sky. Not timid flakes, but large, heavy ones.

Shielding her eyes from the spinning flakes, she looked ahead but saw no sign of any living thing. She could barely discern the trail now washed in a swirling blur of white. These recently made tracks would soon be obscured by the rapidly falling snow—and yet . . . glancing over her shoulder, she looked at the trail behind her, only to see that it too was fading fast. Her heart pounded in her temples, echoing loudly in her ears. Whether it was exertion or fear, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. She took a few more steps forward, knowing full well that she was making a foolhardy decision—or perhaps she was just slightly crazed—then she froze in her steps. Just whom was she following,
really?
She looked up to the moving mass of white above her and tried, once again, to pray. Raising both gloved fists into the air, she raged at God for her losses. Then, several minutes later, humbled by her own audacity, she meekly pleaded for his help. But this time her prayer was more than just a few words. Partially unintelligible perhaps, but it was an honest cry from the heart.

Finally she turned around and trudged back across the bridge and down what she hoped was the trail. The falling flakes abated slightly, and she was barely able to retrace the three sets of footprints, but by the time she reached the place in the clearing where the snow angels had been, she was disappointed to see that they had been nearly obliterated by the new snow. Taking advantage of this brief lull in the storm, and before she lost her trail completely, she jogged all the way back to the cabin.

Warm from her exertion, Claire paused on the cabin’s covered porch to catch her breath as she peered out on
the falling snow. It was coming down fast again, and the wind had picked up and was now swirling the flakes into moving walls that obscured all vision beyond twenty feet. As she shook off her snow-coated jacket and hat and gloves, she realized with chilling clarity how close she’d actually come to being out there in what appeared to be turning into something of a blizzard. “Thank you, God.” She spoke the words aloud, almost startled at the sound of her own voice against the backdrop of the snow-muffled wind.

She stoked the fire and glanced up at the clock. It wasn’t even two yet. She still had several hours to fill before the day would mercifully come to an end. Walking over to the window, Claire stared out onto the drape of whiteness that enclosed her. She could feel the canvas right next to her, still situated on its easel. It felt as if it were pulling her, tugging her toward it like a magnet. Could she?

Claire went over to the card table and looked at yesterday’s pallet still stained with the stark unforgiving shade of cobalt blue. After setting it aside, she picked up a fresh white pallet, then looked blankly at the rainbow circle of paint tubes arranged so neatly on the card table. But it was as if the colors frightened or maybe just intimidated her, and finally, as if in surrender, she picked up a tube of titanium white. She held the tube in her hand, gently squeezing it, feeling it give beneath her fingers. Then she opened the cap and bravely pushed a small mound of paint onto the pallet. She stared at the stark white paint—barely distinguishable from the white pallet—then glanced up.

Peering out the window again, Claire studied the swirling, whirling whiteness before her. But it wasn’t really pure white, she observed. She squinted her eyes as if to separate the tiniest traces of color hidden within its whiteness. No, it had a faint bit of green in it. Or maybe it was blue. And just a smidgen of black, to gray it ever so slightly in places. Taking up her pallet knife, she began to spread the white paint, adding just the faintest touches of green, blue, black . . . as needed. And like a woman possessed, she began to smear paint across the canvas, working faster and faster until the entire surface was covered. Washed in a sea of white.

Feeling weak and almost breathless from the effort, she finally stepped back and studied her artistic accomplishment. She stared at the whitened canvas for a long time and finally began to laugh, but it wasn’t a mirthful laugh. Instead it was filled with self-doubt and deprecation. “Claire, you have totally lost it now.” She threw down her pallet knife and wiped her hands on a damp rag, then collapsed on her bed in hopeless tears.

Several hours later, she awoke to a darkened cabin and the sound of the howling wind. But as she rose to check on the nearly dead fire, she thought she heard another sound as well. A quiet moaning sound—or perhaps it was simply the wind crying out of pure loneliness. Or maybe . . . maybe she was simply losing her mind altogether. She stood silently before the door, straining her ears to listen. And once again, she felt certain she was hearing another sound, something other than the wind.

She opened the door to a blast of cold and snow, and there huddled on her porch, just a few feet from the
door, was some sort of animal. She started to back up and close the door as she remembered how Lucy McCullough, the owner of the small store, had recently told her about a rabid raccoon that had turned vicious on a family that had been “foolish enough to feed the durned thing.” But this looked bigger than a raccoon. The animal slowly lifted its head, and despite its coating of snow, Claire could tell it was of a canine nature. But even so, she wasn’t sure if it was wolf or dog—although she felt fairly certain there were no wolves in these parts. The animal moaned again, appearing to be in pain.

“Are you hurt?” she asked softly.

The animal struggled to its feet; she was certain it was a dog—some sort of shepherd mix. Still, she wasn’t sure what to do. What if it was vicious or rabid? It walked slowly toward her, and when it got closer to the light coming from inside the cabin, she could tell by its eyes that it wasn’t going to hurt her. She wasn’t even sure how she knew this, but somehow she just did.

“Do you want to come in?” She held the door open wide, but the nearly frozen dog just stood there in front of the door, as if it were afraid to actually step inside.

“I won’t hurt you,” she promised, kneeling by the shivering dog. She carefully reached out her hand, keeping her fingers tucked into her palm the way Scott had once shown her long, long ago. The dog looked at her with soulful brown eyes, and she gently stroked his head. “Come on in, fella,” she urged. “Come warm yourself by my fire.”

She coaxed him into the cabin and shut the door against the storm. “You wait here while I get a towel to
dry you with.” She quickly wiped the snow off her bare feet and went to retrieve a couple of towels. Then, speaking in a calm voice, she led the dog over to the fire where she gently toweled him dry with one towel and, making a bed of the other, helped him to lie down. He looked up with appreciative eyes.

“What in the world are you doing out on your own on a night like this?” she asked as she looked through her cupboards for what might possibly be an appropriate meal for a half frozen dog. Finally deciding on a can of stew that she figured they both could share since she hadn’t eaten dinner, she searched out a couple of earthenware bowls to use for the dog’s water and food. She warmed the stew just slightly before generously filling his bowl.

The dog’s tail began to thump against the floor as she situated the filled bowls before him. Then he stood somewhat unsteadily and began to lap, first from the water and then from the stew, which he quickly eliminated, licking the bowl clean as if to say thank you. Picking up the empty bowl, she noticed how he gingerly held his front left leg just slightly off the floor, as if it was hurting him. When he lay down again, she knelt to check it. She couldn’t find any open cuts or wounds but noticed that he seemed to flinch when she touched what appeared to be a swollen joint.

“Did you hurt your leg, boy?”

His tail thumped against the floor, and he looked up with trusting eyes.

“Well, you’ll just have to take it easy for now. Enjoy a warm night by the fire, and tomorrow I’ll phone the
store and see if anyone is missing you.” She’d already noticed the dog wore no collar, but it was possible he’d slipped out of it. And surely old Lucy at the store would know if a dog had gone missing lately.

Claire set her bowl of stew on the table and sat down to eat, unable to take her eyes off this unexpected visitor. She’d never had a dog of her own. Her mother had always claimed they were too messy, and Scott, although he loved animals, suffered from allergies. And it wasn’t that she’d ever really wanted a dog before, other than that short spell during childhood, somewhere between nine and ten.

She stoked the fire against the night and then refilled the dog’s bowl with fresh water before she turned off the lights and made her way to bed. As she lay in bed, she remembered how utterly stricken she’d been earlier this same evening, and suddenly she realized how she no longer felt so completely helpless and hopeless. As odd as it was, this stray dog had provided a good distraction for her. Even now, seeing his silhouette by the firelight and hearing his even breathing brought a strange sense of comfort. But he’s only a dog, she told herself, and someone is probably missing him right now.

Once again, she prayed. Only this time it came more naturally. Oh, it wasn’t easy by any means, but she was at least able to form actual words and partial sentences in her mind, and somehow they made sense to her. She just hoped they made sense to God.