her neck to look at a herd of cattle that stood knee deep in snow.
She turned to me. “Do their feet get cold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
We drove. She gave up on me, leaned forward, and patted Opa on the shoulder. “Opa, why not?”
“Why not what, snickerdoodle?”
“Why don’t cows’ feet get cold?”
“They ain’t got toes.”
“They don’t?”
“Nope. No toes. Can’t get cold feet without toes.”
She settled back to think this one over for a while.
“Pioter Gustofson has been very good to us, hasn’t he.” Oma looked out into the blowing snow that went skidding across the county highway.
“Yes, he has.” Opa put his hand on Oma’s gloved hands and squeezed.
Kate tipped over and put her head on my leg.
“What else doesn’t got toes?” she asked.
“Snakes,” said her grandfather. “Spiders. Creepy crawlers.” Kate giggled and wiped her nose on my knee.
I looked down at her. My snotty little beast. I picked her up and settled her into my lap and she put her arms around my neck. She smelled of milk. She gazed out the rear window and I counted the tiny white bones of her spine that showed above the collar of her dress, each an imperfect pearl pressing up through her thin skin.
She shifted and sang under her breath, “Snakes, spiders, creepy crawlers, creepy crawlers, snakes and spiders, snakes and spiders.” She took a deep breath, and sighed.
Out in the middle of nowhere, a green sign said WELCOME TO NIMROD — POP . 561.
The circular drive in front of the funeral parlor and the wide steps up to the double doors were shoveled with precision. The two-story sandstone building sat with a sort of modest grandeur at a corner in the center of town, as if presiding over the redbrick town hall, the library, and the steepled Methodist church, none of whose walks were shoveled nearly as well.
We were expected.
Pioter Gustofson met us at the door and ushered us into the dark, silent, heavily carpeted foyer. The smell of lilies was overwhelming.
“Madge,” he said, holding Oma’s elbows and looking at her intently. She bowed her head as if she were being blessed. “And Elton.” He gripped Opa’s shoulder. Opa shook his head slowly and made a sound, as if to say, Damned if I know.
“And you’re Mrs. Schiller,” he said, reaching for my hand, which he clasped with both of his. “I am very, very sorry for your loss.”
“My dad died,” Kate announced loudly.
We all looked at her. She stared at him suspiciously. She didn’t like men she didn’t know. “Kate,” I said, “This is Mr. Gustofson.”
“Hello, Kate.”
“Hello.”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“She isn’t,” I said to him, startled.
“Yes I am. I want to go now,” she said, and turned for the door.
“Kleine,” Oma said very gently. Kate turned around and hid behind Opa’s leg.
“Let’s go down to my office, shall we?” Mr. Gustofson said.
I sat in a chair by the window with Kate around my neck like a monkey. She was heavy, seemed to be making herself heavy on purpose. She needed a nap. I squinted. The glare off the snow through the leaded-glass windows made it impossible to tell where Nimrod left off and the sky began. All flat white. The dingy clapboard Methodist church seemed suspended in midair, a black iron cross above the black iron bell dangling somewhere against sky or snow.
“Cardinal,” Kate said into my ear. “Two cardinals.”
I took the cup of coffee Gustofson offered me. Oma and Opa sat very straight in their chairs, and Gustofson sat down at his desk. He shuffled papers for a moment, then pushed them aside and leaned back.
“Well, damnation,” he said.
“Darn right,” Opa concurred.
Oma and I sipped our coffee.
“Known you folks, what, forty-odd years?”
“’Bout that.”
“Tough times, these are.”
“Hard times.”
Gustofson studied the silver pen in his hand, his mouth turned down at the corners in
She turned to me. “Do their feet get cold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
We drove. She gave up on me, leaned forward, and patted Opa on the shoulder. “Opa, why not?”
“Why not what, snickerdoodle?”
“Why don’t cows’ feet get cold?”
“They ain’t got toes.”
“They don’t?”
“Nope. No toes. Can’t get cold feet without toes.”
She settled back to think this one over for a while.
“Pioter Gustofson has been very good to us, hasn’t he.” Oma looked out into the blowing snow that went skidding across the county highway.
“Yes, he has.” Opa put his hand on Oma’s gloved hands and squeezed.
Kate tipped over and put her head on my leg.
“What else doesn’t got toes?” she asked.
“Snakes,” said her grandfather. “Spiders. Creepy crawlers.” Kate giggled and wiped her nose on my knee.
I looked down at her. My snotty little beast. I picked her up and settled her into my lap and she put her arms around my neck. She smelled of milk. She gazed out the rear window and I counted the tiny white bones of her spine that showed above the collar of her dress, each an imperfect pearl pressing up through her thin skin.
She shifted and sang under her breath, “Snakes, spiders, creepy crawlers, creepy crawlers, snakes and spiders, snakes and spiders.” She took a deep breath, and sighed.
Out in the middle of nowhere, a green sign said WELCOME TO NIMROD — POP . 561.
The circular drive in front of the funeral parlor and the wide steps up to the double doors were shoveled with precision. The two-story sandstone building sat with a sort of modest grandeur at a corner in the center of town, as if presiding over the redbrick town hall, the library, and the steepled Methodist church, none of whose walks were shoveled nearly as well.
We were expected.
Pioter Gustofson met us at the door and ushered us into the dark, silent, heavily carpeted foyer. The smell of lilies was overwhelming.
“Madge,” he said, holding Oma’s elbows and looking at her intently. She bowed her head as if she were being blessed. “And Elton.” He gripped Opa’s shoulder. Opa shook his head slowly and made a sound, as if to say, Damned if I know.
“And you’re Mrs. Schiller,” he said, reaching for my hand, which he clasped with both of his. “I am very, very sorry for your loss.”
“My dad died,” Kate announced loudly.
We all looked at her. She stared at him suspiciously. She didn’t like men she didn’t know. “Kate,” I said, “This is Mr. Gustofson.”
“Hello, Kate.”
“Hello.”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“She isn’t,” I said to him, startled.
“Yes I am. I want to go now,” she said, and turned for the door.
“Kleine,” Oma said very gently. Kate turned around and hid behind Opa’s leg.
“Let’s go down to my office, shall we?” Mr. Gustofson said.
I sat in a chair by the window with Kate around my neck like a monkey. She was heavy, seemed to be making herself heavy on purpose. She needed a nap. I squinted. The glare off the snow through the leaded-glass windows made it impossible to tell where Nimrod left off and the sky began. All flat white. The dingy clapboard Methodist church seemed suspended in midair, a black iron cross above the black iron bell dangling somewhere against sky or snow.
“Cardinal,” Kate said into my ear. “Two cardinals.”
I took the cup of coffee Gustofson offered me. Oma and Opa sat very straight in their chairs, and Gustofson sat down at his desk. He shuffled papers for a moment, then pushed them aside and leaned back.
“Well, damnation,” he said.
“Darn right,” Opa concurred.
Oma and I sipped our coffee.
“Known you folks, what, forty-odd years?”
“’Bout that.”
“Tough times, these are.”
“Hard times.”
Gustofson studied the silver pen in his hand, his mouth turned down at the corners in
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