Something Beautiful

By Claudia Remington

Dawn could feel that it had snowed during the night even before she pushed the drapes aside to see Gramercy Avenue hung with a new, perfect whiteness. And her anticipation eased only when the icy floor on her bare feet reminded her to start dressing. Putting on everything she could find laying around her room—two blouses, a sweater, two pairs of pants, her brother’s jacket, a scarf, and gloves—Dawn ran down the hall and through the front door, stopping on the porch momentarily to listen to the stillness. She breathed in the sterile, cold air and marveled at the sparkle of the snow-covered street and houses. Then she stepped high through the snow to avoid blurring her footsteps. The maple tree branches hung down, weighted with heavy snow. Cautiously, so as not to disturb the rest of the tree, she licked the pure snow from the tip of one of its branches.

“Hey you! Stop eating that tree!” shouted a deep voice.

Dawn turned and watched Mr. Wallace walk carefully in her footsteps so as not to further disturb the white blanket. He was carrying a snow shovel. The elderly man’s uncovered hair blended with the white snow, but his red face made a marked contrast.

“What’re you going to do with that shovel?” Dawn asked.

“Now, just what do you think?” he replied, scowling good-humoredly at her.

“You wreck everything,” she teased back. “You rake all the autumn leaves into the gutter and take all the snow off the sidewalks.”

He pointed his leather-gloved finger at her. “At least I don’t eat up all the maple trees.”

Suddenly they heard a door open, and Mr. Wallace rolled his black eyes heavenward. “It’s my wife,” he whispered and quickly ducked behind a snow-laden bridal wreath bush. Dawn watched Mrs. Wallace come out onto the porch. She looked around, waved at Dawn, and went back into the house.

“Is she gone?” Mr. Wallace asked hoarsely as he reappeared from behind the bush.

“Yes, but why are you hiding from her?”

“If she caught me out here, she’d skin me,” he said, wiping his gloved hand across his forehead as though he were perspiring. Great puffs of steam punctuated each word.

“Why?” Dawn pursued, tightening her scarf under her chin.

Mr. Wallace came closer and leaned toward her. His great black eyes reminded her of the coal eyes of a snowman. They seemed to laugh even when his face was serious. “She thinks I’m sick,” he half whispered to Dawn.

“Are you sick?” Dawn asked in disbelief. Mr. Wallace was such fun to be with that she didn’t want to even think about anything ever being wrong with him.

He straightened up abruptly. “Do I look sick?”

“You look like always. But Mother says you are getting old.”

“What,” he croaked, “why, I’m only a hundred and seventy-eight.” He laughed and touched Dawn’s cheeks. “Go tell your mother I’m bringing some deer meat over.” He put his hand on Dawn’s back and gently pushed her toward her house.

Dawn was soon sitting on a chair by the stove with her feet on the opened door of the oven. Her mother stood at the counter mixing batter for waffles. “I want to give Mr. Wallace a Christmas present,” Dawn said, holding her hands out to the warm oven.

“What do you want to give him?” asked her mother.

“Something beautiful, like first snowstorms and piles of autumn leaves and maple trees in the spring.”

“We could give him an old leftover moon or something,” her mother suggested, catching her daughter’s playful spirit.

Dawn smiled at her mother and pushed a wisp of hair off her flushed forehead. A drop of melted snow trickled down onto her nose and dropped off the tip. She stared into the oven, thinking about Mr. Wallace and Christmas.

Three days later Dawn awoke to the dripping sound of melting snow outside. The sunlight pierced her drapes to make wet-looking, dreary shadows on the wall. It will be gone by Christmas, she thought, lying still in her bed to prolong the moment of seeing it. Finally she got up, put on her robe, and walked slowly down the hall and into the kitchen where it was still cold. Her mother, wearing a flowered robe like Dawn’s, was taking the frying pan out of the cupboard.

“Good morning,” Dawn said, yawning. “The snow’s melting.”

“I know,” her mother said, so quietly that Dawn had a quick feeling of uneasiness.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as she reached out to touch her mother’s arm.

Her mother turned and looked searchingly at her for a moment. Then she put her arms around Dawn and said evenly, “He died this morning.”

Dawn knew Mother meant Mr. Wallace and shivered in the cold kitchen. She wanted to ask, “When? How? Are you sure?” Anything to know it wasn’t true. But it was true without her accepting it.

“He shoveled the walks only three days ago,” Dawn said feebly. “Everybody’s walks,” she said more desperately. “Farleys’ and Jane’s and Mrs. Boyle’s, the whole block!” she almost shouted.

They were both silent with their own thoughts for a short while. Then Mother said, “Life and death can be beautiful, Dawn, like first snowstorms and piles of autumn leaves and maple trees in spring.” She looked deep into Dawn’s eyes. “Aren’t you willing to accept that?”

Dawn wasn’t sure. She needed more time to think about it, but her mother’s eyes were questioning and Dawn realized she was waiting for an answer. After a few moments of silence it came to her that Mother was right. Finally Dawn nodded her head. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, giving her mother a quick hug. “There is a kind of beauty to death as well as to life.” And for now that was enough.

Illustrated by Virginia Sargent