ISBN-13: 9781735330105

Media Type: Paperback

Publisher: Brian Malloy

Publication Date: 06-30-2020

Pages: 244

Product Dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.55(d)

Brian Malloy is the development director for The Loft, the largest independent literary arts center in the U.S., as well as grants director for Open Book, a community center for the literary and book arts. He lives in Minneapolis. The Year of Ice is his first novel.

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THE YEAR OF ICE

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By BRIAN MALLOY

ST. MARTIN'S PRESS

Copyright © 2002 Brian Malloy.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-312-28948-0

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January 1978

Aunt Nora always says that people can still surprise you. I never got what she meant by that until last fall. I mean, Floyd Anderson always seemed normal enough. He's an old Swede who has been our neighbor for as long as I can remember. He's always had a good word for everybody. He always told the same jokes, always talked about the weather, and always kept his sidewalk clean as a whistle even during the worst snowfalls. You could set your watch by Floyd Anderson.

Then he began wearing a pyramid on his head right around Halloween. He bought it at one of those hippie shops on the West Bank, where all the sixties burnouts live. They sell them in stores that are full of body oils and incense and rolling papers and bongs. Floyd's pyramid's not a hat; it's this kind of dumb-ass thing that's supposed to make you, like, calm or happy of some weird shit like that. It wasn't until a couple of weeks after he got it, when the thermometer dropped below zero, that he'd put a hat on underneath it. I'd watch him from my bedroom window, shoveling his walk, covered from head to toe against the windchill, the dull brass of the pyramid reflecting the winter sun.

His wife left him about three weeks ago. They'd been married almost forty years.

Dad said, "Makes you think." But he was wrong; it didn't make me think. Not much does. I'm not proud of it or anything,I'm just telling the truth.

When I see Floyd at Red Owl, where I bag groceries after school, he smiles at me and says, "You really have to get one of these." He means his pyramid. "I feel psychically healed. It'll bring you peace."

Floyd's not lying. Rumor had it that he'd wanted to leave his wife but never had the nerve.

"I don't think so, Mr. Anderson," I always tell him.

"You don't know what you're missing," he says as he grabs his bag of Kellogg's Corn Flakes and Del Monte pudding cups from me. "Don't know what you're missing," he says again, like I hadn't heard him the first time.

Once he's out the sliding doors, Lorraine, the checker who works with me at register three, says, "Is he seeing anyone, do you know?"

I look at her like she's mental. "You mean Floyd Anderson?"

Yes, Floyd Anderson, she nods, showing me her black and gray roots.

"You're too good for him," I tell her.

She sighs and says under her breath, "Let me be the judge of who I'm too good for, thank you very much."

Lorraine gave up on my dad around Labor Day. He kept telling her he wasn't ready to start dating yet. Dad's a good-looking man and what they call in my biology class an endangered species: a single middle-aged man. He had to stop going to a Catholic support group for people whose spouses died 'cause the widows wouldn't leave him alone. They'd call him at all hours, sometimes drunk, and once he stopped answering the phone, they'd ask me for advice:

"What does he like to do?"

"What's his favorite meal?"

"Would he like to go to a Northstars game, do you think?"

I'd just stare at the receiver, feeling a little sorry for these women who'd been cheated out of a husband so early in life. Out of loyalty to my mom, who died in a car accident, I'd tell them that Dad had a girlfriend and to stop calling our house. But they didn't, not until Dad broke down and paid the extra money for an unlisted number.

When that happened, they started dropping by with little gifts for him. Now he has to go down the basement or hide upstairs in his room anytime the doorbell rings. It's my job to put the widows off his scent. A tot of them bring ties, something Dad doesn't need—he works day shifts at the Highland Park Ford plant—and I wonder if all these male presents used to belong to the dead husbands.

"I never see your father at church anymore," one of the widows said to me, a brightly wrapped box of cuff links in her shivering hands.

I had Dad's permission to say whatever I needed to to get rid of them. I told her, "He's converting."

With her teeth chattering—I never let the widows inside—she asked: "To what?"

"Islam." We were studying world religions during fourth-period history.

The next time she showed up at the door, she was wearing one of those veil things over her face and had the Koran with her.

Okay, so she didn't show up in a veil with the Koran. She never came back at all; I think I kind of freaked her out with the Muslim stuff. But as Aunt Nora says, "Any story worth telling is worth exaggerating."

The smart widows bring something for me. One gave me a twenty-dollar gift certificate to Positively Fourth Street, a record store and head shop near the U. To these women I'm polite, but no more encouraging.

"He's out on a date."

"He's gone on a vacation with his girlfriend."

"He's engaged."

Mom's funeral had to be held on my sixteenth birthday. To compensate, Dad gave me a hundred bucks. I still have it stashed in my sock drawer, along with the money I make at Red Owl.

I've been thinking about Mom a lot lately 'cause the second anniversary is coming up. For example, I remember my first day back on the school bus after her funeral. A really weird girl, Laurie Lindstrom, tried to be nice to me. Laurie always read books about horses and had no friends. Her parents had been murdered when they were camping up on the north shore. A motorcycle gang beat them to death as part of some weird initiation for new members. It made the national news, and somebody wrote a book about it that's being turned into a TV movie of the week. Far as I know, Laurie hasn't gotten any money from it.

She'd sat next to me on the bus and said, "I know how hard it is to lose your mother. I got a postcard from mine two days after she died."

I tried to imagine what it must have said.

Dear Laurie,

Aiiiiiiiiiiiie! Help us! For the love of God, HELP US!

Love, Mom

Or maybe:

Dear Laurie,

Daddy and I are being hacked to death by satanic bikers. Wish you were here.

Love, Mom

I told her, "Thanks."

"If you ever want to talk—"

"Thanks," I told her again, my voice a NO TRESPASSING sign.

I don't see Laurie much now that I don't take the bus to school anymore. Tommy, my best friend since I was a little kid, got a '71 Dodge Challenger and picks me up every morning when he can get it started. It makes a blub-blub-blub sound and stalls out whenever he makes a right turn. Still, it's very cool. Tommy and I belong to a clique that wears flannel shirts, smokes Camels, and goes to keggers every weekend. As members of the class of '78, we've already been counseled to go to vo-techs after we graduate this June so we can learn a trade. Tommy's gonna be an auto mechanic; I haven't decided what I'm gonna do.

Dad wants me to go to the U—they have to take any idiot with a high school diploma of GED in the General College program. In four years I'd graduate with a general degree and begin a general life. I told Dad that I'd think about it, but last week he told me: "Oh, you're going, young man. Don't think you're not going." Dad hates his job; he has for as long as I can remember. Some weeks he drank himself sick because he couldn't face one more day at the plant. When he was drunk he'd say, "That goddamn plant's killing me."

He wants me to get an education so I can get a higher-paying job of my own to hate.

Tommy says that General College is a waste of time, I should go to Dunwoody with him and become an electrician of draftsman of something. Or cooler yet, go to Brown Institute over on Lake Street and get a job in radio. We're lined up at one end of Van Cleve Park waiting for the kickoff. Most Sundays we play Snow Football with some guys I guess you'd call our friends. I've dragged Tommy here every week for a month, even though he'd rather be inside cranking tunes and smoking weed.

"I dunno," I say. "It's only January. I got time."

Tommy tells me that he's already applied to Dunwoody Institute. He's making plans for his future, even if I'm not. While we wait for the kickoff he pushes his long dirty blond hair behind his ears. He looks like one of the Allman Brothers, except with normal-colored skin.

The ball flies at us and I catch it, but it's frozen and slick and it pops out of my hands like a wet bar of soap. The challenge of snow football is possession; that's what makes it so much better than regular football.

"Shit!"

Jon Thompson's already made it down the field and snags the ball, bad news for my side. The good news is that I'm six-two and weigh 185 pounds so it's easy for me to knock him on his ass. On the way down I hug him hard; Jon's a fox. He's got these really big eyelashes and hair that's the same color as chocolate. You could say that I'm in love with Jon. So I just lie there on top of him. This is like the only time I can get away with it without people shitting their pants.

"Get off a me," he says.

"Okay, tough guy," I tell him and I slap the side of his head. I do this for two reasons, really. First, 'cause if I smack him, nobody will guess that I want to pick him up in my arms and kiss him really hard, right on his lips. And second, he's got to be reminded that I'm tougher than he is. Wolves do this all the time to keep order in the pack. I'm the alpha; he's the beta. That's the way it always has been and that's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh. If anybody knew I liked KC and The Sunshine Band I'd have to drop out.

We wait for the snap and Tommy says, "One of these days somebody's gonna beat the crap outta you."

I shrug and say, "Nobody here."

Tommy looks around. "Nah, I guess not. But someday, somebody will."

Rick Foley falls back with the ball and I pound into Jon Thompson again. This time he doesn't yell at me to get off him, he's afraid to. He just waits quietly for me to get up. I smile and wink at him. He thinks I'm being a jerk, but my wink is sincere. And it's a thrill, maybe the only one I'll ever get to have.

Wherever Jon is on the field, I'm soon on top of him. He feels like heaven underneath me. We don't say a word to each other and he never looks me in the eye. It's easy to pretend that he's in my bed and that I'm holding him.

Tommy notices that I won't cut Jon a break. He says, "You got it in for that guy, or what?"

I choose what.

That night, alone in my bed, I pile up the pillows and hold them in my arms. Here, Jon Thompson's in love with me, his head on my shoulder and my hand stroking his cool chocolate hair. I kiss the fabric of the pillowcase and squeeze Jon tighter. We talk about the game. He tells me how much he loved being tackled by me. If people only knew, he says and laughs. I laugh with him and then I kiss him again, but harder this time.

He pulls away and holds my head in his hands. He looks at me like he's gonna cry and he says, I love you, Kevin. I'll love you forever. Promise me you'll never leave me.

Don't be mental, Jon, I'm never gonna leave you. I love you.

He puts his hand on my cheek, and that's when I hear the scraping of Floyd Anderson's shovel against the sidewalk. We've only had a dusting but Floyd spazzes out if there's even one speck of snow on the concrete. Somebody might slip in front of his house and sue him, and then he'd lose everything, and then what'd he do?

I leave Jon alone on my bed and look out the window at Floyd. He's in his blue snowsuit, and the snowflakes sparkle in the light of the streetlamps. He's resting, or maybe he's reveling in the absolute stillness of the white like Mom used to do. Or maybe he's receiving secret messages from the CIA through the pyramid on top of his head. He doesn't budge for a minute, maybe two, and then the scrape, scrape, scrape begins again, echoing off the houses and apartment buildings and making the Bartochevitzes' dog Max bark.

I go back to my bed and Jon's gone; the stack of pillows is just a stack of pillows. I stare at the ceiling for a long time, blankly, the same way Mom used to stare when she'd sit out on the front stoop in her ugly plaid coat and watch the snow fall. She'd be out there for hours, not budging an inch. When I do fall asleep I dream of snow. Of the absolute stillness of the white.

There's a widow at the front door when I leave for school in the morning. She's one of the regulars; her name's Jackie Shaw. You can tell that she used to smile a lot. She has these really deep crow's-feet like the canals on Mars that we're studying in science class. Rick Foley thinks that Martians made them, but he can be a big fucking burnout 'cause he's done way too many drugs. Still, it'd be cool if there were Martians. Maybe on their planet guys can marry guys.

"Why, good morning, Kevin," Jackie Shaw says, sweet as you please. "I just wanted to drop these off for you boys. I bet you don't get many hot breakfasts these days."

Steam comes from the box she hands me.

"They're cinnamon rolls with real cream icing," she tells me. "Just the thing to warm you up."

"Thanks."

She looks past me, into the sitting room. "Is your father at home? Maybe he'd like me to make a pot of coffee to wash these down with."

Dad's upstairs getting ready for work, but I don't tell her that. Instead I say, "Dad had an early shift today. He's left already."

Her face falls a little bit, but then she rebounds. "Well, you enjoy those then. Would you let your father know I stopped by?"

I hear the blub-blub-blub of Tommy's Challenger. In exactly three seconds he will honk the horn twice.

"Yeah. Thanks, Mrs. Shaw."

Beep! Beep!

This is when Mrs. Bartochevitz opens her front door and yells at Tommy for blasting his horn. I think she waits there for him.

"Do you have to do that?" she shouts at his car.

In exactly five seconds Mrs. Bartochevitz will put her hands on her hips and scream across the street at me.

"That's my ride," I tell Mrs. Shaw.

"Does your friend have to do that?" Mrs. Bartochevitz wants to know.

I wave in Mrs. Shaw's direction and jump in Tommy's car.

"What's that?" he asks, pointing at the box.

"Cinnamon rolls," I tell him. The love potion of widows.

Exactly two years ago, this very minute, everything was normal. I walked the halls oblivious to Jon Thompson and his chocolate hair. Mom was alive and at the Midway Target, getting paper towels and laundry detergent, and a bag of Old Dutch ripple potato chips for me. The house smelled like lemons and my father was busy stacking palettes of cardboard stock against a plant wall. Exactly two years ago, twenty minutes from now, Mom's car slid off East River Road, rolled down an embankment, and crashed into the ice covering the Mississippi. Exactly two years ago, one hundred and forty-three minutes from now, my teacher told me to report to the school nurse's office where I found my Aunt Nora waiting for me. She said I should come live with her.

But right now, I'm late for English Lit.

I see Jon Thompson in the hallway and I say hey. He looks at me weird and says, "Hey." He keeps walking but I reach out and touch him on his bony shoulder. He stops and turns toward me, maybe waiting for another smack. Guys are always pissing on each other's trees; it's like we can't help it.

I say, real casual, like I'm asking what time it is, "Any parties this weekend?"

"Haven't heard," he tells me.

I look at him. What do you say to the boy that you love when you aren't supposed to love boys? Everything that I can think of sounds faggy to me.

"Okay," I say.

He frowns. "If I knew of any, I'd tell you," he says, all defensive-like.

"It's cool, man," I say, and I bolt, down the hall and away from him. Away from his deep brown eyes with the big cow lashes. Away from his scrawny shoulder that makes my hand shake like I'm a spaz or something.

Class has started by the time I get there. I sit on the white side of the room next to Rick Foley, who's nodding his head in time to a tune only he can hear. He smiles at me; he's drawing a pair of biker-chick boobs in his notebook and the teacher thanks me for being so kind to stop by. His name is Mr. Hayes, a.k.a. Fey Hayes, the faggiest teacher at Northeast High. He looks like he's sixty and in pain. All the time.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from THE YEAR OF ICE by BRIAN MALLOY. Copyright © 2002 by Brian Malloy. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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