Without Pity

Abstract

Without Pity Stephanie C. Trott (bio) Back then it seemed that snow came with the shift from autumn to winter, that after the leaves broke free from their branches, something else needed to fall from the sky. We lived on the coast then, down a thin stretch of land that jutted out from town and away toward the sea. My father built the house on Calumet Road with his pension money from the war. There were three bedrooms, all occupied, and a deck that stood freely at the back. From there you could see the boats as they made their way past Butler Flats, could greet them as they returned with islands in their wake, and watch the neon-lit billboard of Paul Revere as he rode stationary in the sky. It was late in the evening two weeks after Thanksgiving when the first snow fell. Dad was out fishing on Georges Bank, and I was in bed wondering if the sleet looked the same against his boat’s pilothouse windows as it did against the one in my bedroom. My father was a highliner, one of the best fishermen around, and he never spent more than a few days at home. As the oldest son, it was my job to watch over Mom, my baby brother, Jack, and the animals we kept. Being twelve meant one more year to being a man, and men had responsibilities. That night Mom boiled dinner and sent us to bed; the snow set her to worrying and she preferred to sleep in the living room armchair, should my father come back early in the storm. While she gave Jack a bath, I took the radio meant only for checking the weather report, and when it was quiet I smothered the songs of Dion and Elvis and Fats Domino under my pillow. Eventually the static became too much and I switched over to the fishing channels in search of my father’s voice, lost in the air among my idols. My window faced the street and was often on the receiving end of rock salt kicked up from the plow, so I thought little of the sound of pebbles licking the glass. I rolled over and wrapped the blankets tighter over my [End Page 127] head so Mom wouldn’t hear the radio, and again the sound came at the window, this time louder and with more intention. Clicking the radio off, I wondered if it was my father. Dad forgot his keys sometimes, mostly after a trip to the bar, and I’d always wake up to let him in when he knocked at my window. He knew where the spare key lay in wait, hidden on the post behind the goose feed in the garage, but was usually too drunk to find it without waking up Mom. I tugged the curtains apart and saw not the face of my father but that of my classmate Bobby, who held a pair of hockey skates and an open can of Crisco. He smiled. I waved back, pulled the curtains closed, and got out of bed to join him outside. We had been waiting for the weather to freeze and last week it finally had, taking with it three inches of Deacon’s Pond. I padded down to the kitchen and placed the radio gently on the table, careful not to wake my mother in the next room. Down the stairs to the garage where we kept our slickers, socks, and skates, all of which lived in a box of Dad’s old fishing clothes. The garage was cold and smelled of gasoline and the grain we used to feed the animals. I picked a few dried pieces of corn off the bottom of my foot, jammed it into the wool socks my grandmother had made for my birthday, placed the key inside my glove, and stepped outside. “Jeez, Hatch, what took you so long?” Bobby stood at the end of the driveway, arms akimbo. He smiled and whistled through the space between his two front teeth, a high-pitched whir that echoed in the dry night air. “Had to dig around for my clothes...