Selections from: THE HANGING OF LITTLE TIMMY TIPTOE

CHAPTER 18: The Big Spring Snowfall

Wilbur awoke to the trill of women's voices. “Snow, snow, snow...”

"Impossible."

"How deep can it be?"

He threw on his clothes. A breeze in the hall led him to a group of girls clustered around the window in a third floor dormer. The view was astonishing, an endless snowscape in which nothing was familiar. The roads, hedges, fences, walls and homes that defined the valley had all vanished. Trees were ten, fifteen, twenty feet shorter! It was awesome to behold. In the history of Appletown there had never been such a snowfall.  

One of the girls leaned out the open window. "Look, I can touch the top!"

"The drifts must be thirty feet deep!"

They were thirty feet deep, Wilbur observed silently. It put a definite kink in his plans. Throughout the night he had wracked his brain for a way to help Timmy to overcome his fears and learn how to fly in the open. Self-confidence and self-control were the solution but to provide these Wilbur needed a way to communicate with Timmy when he was airborne. A four AM brainstorm reminded him that water commissioner, Ed Moppit, was also an amateur electronics whiz and would be Wilbur’s best source for a lightweight, portable two-way radio. But Moppit who lived on the other side of town was no longer a pleasant bike ride away. It was either wait for the snow to melt, which, judging from the quantity could take weeks, or do it now. And after hours of speculation about what Father Fundle and Judge Armpt might or might not do, a deep-seated anxiety told him to do it now.

Wilbur ran downstairs to the hall payphone and anxiously popped in a quarter. Although he knew the water commissioner well enough to nod and say "Hi Ed, what's on tap?" he'd never really talked with the man. A dial tone was the first good sign. The number ringing was the second. 

"Hello?"

"Ed Moppit?"

"Yeah."

"Wilbur Filthbore here, snow enough for you?"

"I'll say... had to go up to the attic to see daylight."

"Drifts all the way up to the third floor of Minnie Marble's." rejoined Wilbur, "Still pretty cold out, gonna be a while before it melts."

"Somethin' I can do for you Filthbore?"

"Well, sir, actually there is -- Everyone knows you're pretty handy with electronic devices."

"It's a hobby."

"Can you make a battery powered two way radio?"

"Reckon I can."

"Mind if I come over?"

There was a long pause. The big hand on Minnie's 3-D novelty breast clock stroked twelve, while the little one gave the finger to nine.

"You drunk?" asked Ed, finally.

"No sir, quit three days ago." Silence. "It'll probably take me a couple or three hours."

"Just how do you plan to get here?"

"Well, Minnie's got snowshoes in the costume room and it's a nice morning -- thought I'd walk. Is there anything I can bring you?"

"I'd kill for a good cigar," said Moppit with a sigh.

"You're in luck Ed, I just happen to have access to a full panoply of Cubano Carros -- your choice -- Stilettos, Productos or Carambas."

Moppit's voice grew faint with longing, Carambas?

"Si," said Filthbore.

The room Minnie referred to as the "costume closet" was huge. As Wilbur entered he gave thanks that his boss was an organization freak. What he sought would be in the "P's". A set of pearl handled pistols and a general's uniform told him he was in the neighborhood, then an angel outfit with a set of keys, getting warmer. Then, next to the pickled peppers, he saw it, the arctic cap, sealskin coat, boots and, most important, the snowshoes of Admiral William Perry.

Perching on the third floor window ledge, Wilbur rested his snowshoes on an enormous sloping drift. Cold wind sent fine crystals of snow whirling about his face. Staying upright was imperative. If he tumbled headfirst into the snow there would be no one who could help, he'd have to get himself out, and wearing snowshoes, that might prove difficult. 

"You're out of your mind, Wilbur," said Charlotte, Minnie's second in command.       

He nodded, checked the straps of his back pack, shouted "Banzai!" and slid off the ledge. When his downward momentum stopped he was waist deep in snow. But he hadn't tipped over. It had worked!  Climbing to the surface wasn't as easy. Snowshoes, he discovered, were every bit as good at keeping you under the snow as on top of it. But once upon the surface they held him up quite nicely.

Out past the trees, cold winds had formed a crust on the snow and the going became easier. But the landscape remained alien. Then he realized that what his mind had first catalogued as an odd looking fence was, in fact, the line of telephone poles that ran along Delicious Avenue, some so deeply buried their sloping wires almost touched the snow. He had his bearings. Turning toward town, Wilbur caught a glimpse of what he took to be the steeple of the Episcopal Church, and set off across the vast blanket of snow.

Edna Appleseed peered out the third floor window and marveled that all she could see of Betsey Tremble's rambling ranch house was the tip of the TV antenna. Still furious from an unresolved confrontation with Waldo she had come up to see if there was any real reason for him to refuse shoveling the walk. It seemed there was.

Edna looked out over the blanket of white and wondered why it had taken her so long to see the truth. For years she'd ignored what was going on, insisted on keeping the status quo. Then, Timmy went flying, she and Wilbur spent their naughty hour together and nothing had been the same since. Now she hid in closets, ran around the house with her clothes off, and occupied every free minute thinking about sex. It was wonderfully liberating. Last night she'd had the courage to confront Harold Armpt and this morning her husband. Over a bowl of Apple Crisps she discovered that Appletown's foremost lawyer did not think he could defend his own son in court.

Having worked herself into a fury for the second time today, Edna headed downstairs to give Waldo another piece of her mind. She found him in the vestibule, standing before an open front door, staring out at an impenetrable wall of snow. 

"Where would I put it," he asked, of no one in particular.

"I have a suggestion," said Edna.

Waldo jumped as if caressed by a cattle prod. "Are you still hung up on that?" he queried, voice an octave higher than usual.

"Hung up? Waldo, he's your own son!"

"I didn't say I wouldn't defend him, I said I wouldn't be allowed to."

“Where did you hear this?"

He looked away.

"Don't tell me it was Harold, he's the one man in this town who stands for something!"

"Edna..."

"Who??? I want to know who?!" 

"It’s just talk."

"Talk? He's a little boy. He hasn't done anything wrong! Where is there a law saying a little boy can't fly if he wants to?"

"Please, Edna."

"Where?" demanded Edna, leaning so close that her nose almost touched his chin.

"Any high school physics book."

"Oh, that's rich! Tell me you're not citing the law of gravity!"

Waldo stepped back into the snowdrift.

"It was mentioned."

"Get out!" Edna gestured dramatically to the cave of snow encompassing the front porch.

Waldo looked out nervously, "Edna, there's a reason I've never lost a case..."

Edna threw open the hall closet with a bang, grabbed the snow shovel and thrust it toward her husband. 

"Dig!"

"How'm I supposed..."

"Dig!" She handed him his jacket.

"If anything happens to me, Edna..."

"I'll make sure you're remembered as a hero."

Waldo took a tentative scoop out of the snow wall and stood looking for a good place to put it. "I really have no problem taking the case."

"You just get deeper and deeper."

"Can I have the flashlight?"

"It's in your jacket pocket."

She knelt, brushed the threshold clean of snow, then pushed the door closed behind him and quietly turned the lock.

Exhausted and perspiring, Wilbur dragged his snowshoes toward a smoking brick chimney. It was the first solid ground he'd seen in well over an hour. Dropping to his knees he embraced the chalky brick, heaved a sigh of relief and murmured gratefully into the apple scented smoke, "Ohh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Well, Thank you too!" came a faint voice from the chimney.

Wilbur leaned closer, "Hello?"

"Hello back."

"Who is this?"

"Leroy Delacroix."

"Wilbur Filthbore."

A pause. "Sorry, I just finished the last of the Sherry."

"That's OK, I quit two days ago."

"Really?"

"I just walked up to your chimney."

"You walked up to my chimney?"

"Yes."

"I'd offer you some tea but the door's full of snow."

"That's OK, I've got a thermos. Everything all right in there?"

"Well, I'm in my yellow jammies, curled up with a box of Norma Brodrick's candied orange peel and Miss "Why-then-oh-why-can't-I" on the CD player. All this snow is very spooky. I'm sure it's got something to do with that boy." 

Wilbur inhaled a mouth full of smoke and tried not to cough Leroy continued. "You know, he was in my dreams that night. I was having this really good one about a firing squad and there he was, in a Little Pucks hockey shirt, peeking over the wall. Armpt tells us you've seen him."

Wilbur pulled back from the chimney and sucked in some clean air. It seemed everybody knew about Timmy. He leaned into the plume of hot smoke and said, "I have."

"What's it like?"

"Pretty incredible."    

"Is his bed really on the ceiling?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I want to see it!"

"Have to wait ‘til the snow melts."

"Mr. obvious."

"Got to go, Leroy... Does your phone work?"

"Yes."

"If you need anything leave a message with Ed Moppit and I'll try to drop it off on my way back."

"Sweetheart, what I need won't fit down the chimney."

Wilbur chuckled, said good-bye and continued on. 

"Jeez, you came!" said an astonished Ed Moppit as Wilbur struggled through the octagonal attic window into a pool of yellow sunlight.   

"Warming up," said Wilbur.

"About time," replied Moppit, "Bet you're hungry."

Mary Moppit had been in Apple Park the year Wilbur mooned the ladies' auxiliary picnic, so it took a while for her to warm up. But, twenty minutes and two helpings of chicken potpie later, she was complementing him on his new found temperance and hearty appetite. Wilbur drained the last of a large glass of milk, heaved a contented sigh.

They adjourned to Ed's basement laboratory, a well lit, cluttered room with a large workbench at its center strewn with a chaos of wires, transistors, meters, and other electrical paraphernalia. 

Even before the bare bulb hanging over the table stopped swinging Moppit had begun to mutter about coils, transistors and electrolytic condensers. It seemed part and parcel of his thinking process. Just like Al, thought Wilbur, remembering his old mechanic. Except Al had been short, stocky and nearly bald while Ed Moppit was tall and thin with a mop of wiry brown hair and a bushy mustache that gave him the appearance of a mad scientist.

"What do you need this for?" asked Ed absently, bringing Wilbur back to reality, "Indoors, outdoors? What kind of distance are we talking about? Does it have to penetrate walls?"

Wilbur felt relieved. "Outdoors, no walls -- close range, say, five thousand feet?"

Moppit nodded and selected one of the coils.

"I mean, if it could go farther, no problem."

"Up to ten thousand I should think, depending on weather. You mentioned 'light weight'."

Wilbur nodded, "The airborne part, yeah, base can have weight. You know those headsets receptionists use?"

Moppit stared absently at the ceiling. "I don't have one but I know what you mean."

Feeling it was time for encouragement, Wilbur removed a bundle of white toilet paper from his backpack and began to unwrap it. Ed's eyes came into sharp focus and did not stray until five hefty, hand-rolled Carro Carambas were laid out on the workbench. 

"Wow," said Ed appreciatively, "those are five bucks apiece!"

"Smoke?" said Wilbur.

"After," said Moppit, now gathering components from all corners of the room. 

The smell of a hot solder and flux took Wilbur back to the old days at Gravenstein Field, when he and his mechanic, Al, would confab an hour before flight time, sipping their coffee on tall stools in the hangar's shop. Remembering their last day together, his eyes began to shine. Someone's altimeter had been on the workbench and outside a steady rain fell. It was a week before Wilbur was to appear before Judge Armpt and there wasn't much to say. Both knew what the outcome would be, and neither wanted to talk about it. Al had put down the soldering gun, looked up and asked point blank, "Why'd you do it, Wilbur? Why'd you have to pull their chain one last time."

"I crash-landed," he'd answered, lamely.

"Why?"

"I lost control."

"You never lose control, Wilbur -- not unless you want to."

That was it. Al went back to his altimeter and Wilbur wandered out of the hangar and into the rain. It was about as angry as he'd ever seen the plump mechanic. Being a close-to-the-vest sort of guy, Al kept his feelings to himself. But Wilbur's grounding meant the end of their friendship and he took it personally. 

"Here you go," Ed Moppit handed him a small metal box, "This stays with you, clips on your belt, keep the switch off to save the batteries, your headset plugs in here. The boy wears this," he handed him another much smaller box, "Sorry, I don't have the kind of headset you need for him. Ohh, you know what? Dahlia Bascomb -- she's on your way home, she's sure to have one, all those telephone operators do. You want to try calling her?"

"I might," said Wilbur, "But Ed, I never mentioned the boy."

Moppit smiled and arched his eyebrows. "Wilbur, I've seen him with my own eyes."

"He's something, isn't he?"

Moppit nodded. A wisp of smoke from the hot soldering iron rose up into the air above his workbench.

"Priest thinks he's possessed or something," Wilbur added.

"I never was much for religion," Moppit said dryly. "I sure hope I get a chance to see him again."

Hot sun greeted Wilbur when he opened the attic window. The snow ledge was two feet lower than when he'd arrived. In just two hours the air had warmed up twenty degrees.

"Looks like it's gonna be one of those see-saw springs," said Wilbur. "Thanks a lot, Ed."

Ed held up an unlit Caramba as though it were the shroud of Turin, "Thank You!" 

As Wilbur started away from the house, Moppit struck a match and puffed intently until the cigar glowed red. He took a long, satisfying draw and slowly blew the smoke into a beam of sunlight. When Wilbur was a half a mile away he slipped a small receiver from his pocket and switched it on. The signal was loud and clear. Nodding with satisfaction, he nudged the switch and returned the small device to his pocket.

Spongy from the sudden melt-off, the snow gave way at unexpected moments, causing Wilbur to lurch and lose his balance. He could almost hear it melting. Sympathetic rivulets of sweat trickled into his eyes and salted the corners of his mouth. Soon Admiral Perry's jacket was open, then slung across his backpack.

Not once in the past seven years had he subjected himself to such exercise. His legs were worn beyond imagination, every misstep threatened muscle cramps whose fierce, unrelenting pain could be totally incapacitating.

Which way to the Bascomb house?  He'd been there as a child. Like many in Appletown, Mrs. Fern Bascomb had been his second grade teacher. He'd once come by after school to deliver a model plane he'd made for her. But that had been 35 years ago. He had no idea where to go.  

He paused for a moment to wipe his dripping forehead and the muscles in his calves began to seize! He forced himself to push on and the threat of leg cramps withdrew. He'd overdone it. His legs would surely lock up the next time he stopped. Now it was essential that he find Ms. Bascomb and her sister.  To forget the ache he concentrated on remembering her smile. That, and "quiet time," numbered among the few good memories from his childhood. Most kids had hated quiet time but not Wilbur. She would say, "All right children, five minutes of quiet time, by the clock. No giggles." And everyone would have to sit as still as possible not making a sound, with nothing to do but watch Ms. Bascomb who would sit in absolute stillness at the head of the class, smiling, unflappable, and ever so silent. She would look at the noisy ones but she never, never, never said a word.  

How he wanted to find her. It would make him feel whole again. She'd know what to do about his aching legs and stinging eyes. "Go wash your face and when you come back we'll have a cool glass of lemonade." With each step he felt better. With each step his confidence returned. Then he understood. This was the right direction. Indeed, the house in front of him, just beyond the big Ash tree. That was her house. It had to be! 

Two paces from the second story window the snow behind him began to give way. The sudden effort to regain his balance transformed his calf muscles into rocks of excruciating pain. His arms flailed and with a bellowing cry he tumbled backward through the spongy drift, plunging upside down into freezing whiteness.      

Pain, terrible pain, his calves in excruciating knots and snow pouring down his pant legs and the back of his shirt. Shouting was a mistake because every time he did his mouth filled with snow. He stopped struggling and let the cold embrace him. Cold, cold, cold, it was everywhere, especially on the back of his legs. As it penetrated his cramped muscles, they began to flutter spasmodically. The pain eased and relief washed over him. Then he heard voices through the snow.

"Hello?"

"Hello!"

Much 'hellowing', a number of 'where are you's?’ And though it seemed to take forever they eventually got him and his snowshoes down to ground level. Then, another bout of cramping and he climbed through the window and into the front room.

Wilbur dripped all the way to the bathroom, where, under orders, he removed his clothes, donned a pair of too-small white pajamas and wrapped Ms. Bascomb's bathrobe around his shoulders.

When he re-emerged, sister Dahlia, the telephone operator, was mopping up the mess he'd made and Fern warmly invited him into the living room for a "nice cup of tea." 

Wilbur had never seen the two sisters together before.  Except for the clothing, they were identical. He heaved a deep sigh and let the soft fabric of the armchair envelop him.  The tea was warm and sweet with just a hint of jasmine. 

Looking around, he felt seven years old again. The intervening decades seemed not to have changed the house at all. A copy of Van Gogh's last self-portrait still hung on the wall behind the armchair and the faint scent of bayberry lingered in the air.  His teacher was older, her hair had become gray, but the perfect posture, feminine figure and twinkling eyes – none of that had changed. A request to call her Fern went unheeded. To Wilbur she would always be "Ms. Bascomb." Of all his teachers, he-who-hated- school loved her the most. How enthusiastic she'd been when he delivered the model airplane. They had talked for an hour about the places he would visit and the wonders he would see when he became a pilot, and he'd gone home feeling enriched and proud and filled with certainty that he would someday become the greatest pilot in the world. Strangely, in a way, it had all come true, but not the way he had planned.

"What a joy to see you Wilbur." Her voice was still the same.

"It's good to see you too, ma'am."

"You know, ever since you brought me that model airplane, we've been so proud of you!"

Inside, Wilbur winced. The kind words burned him. It was as if they had no knowledge of what he had become. What was there to be proud of? Losing his license, becoming the town drunk, his arraignment on public obscenity charges? How could she sound so sincere, smile so warmly when the little boy who dreamed of the sky had betrayed her so thoroughly.

"Wilbur, dear, what's wrong?"

There was a pillow pressing against his heart, he couldn't breathe, tears came to his eyes. What was wrong? He'd grown up, flown too close to the sun, and lost his wings. He was yesterday. And here in the place where yesterday began, tomorrow meant his downfall, and it was evident he could never change.  

"Doc Waters told us you stopped drinking," said Fern.

"You should be very proud," smiled her sister.

"Oh," said Wilbur, wiping at his eyes and feeling foolish.

Fern reached out and patted him on the arm, "Remember dear, no two paths are ever the same, even for Dahlia and myself."

"...And we're very similar," said her twin.

"For some people the road has all kinds of detours. Some have to struggle much harder than others," Fern made a fist for emphasis.

"But because of that, they see much more than the rest of us," smiled Dahlia.

"Good things."

"Bad things."

"And in the end they are the richer!" Fern folded her hands in her lap.

"And much more is expected of them. Remember the prodigal son!" said Dahlia.

Wilbur nodded. "I always felt sorry for the one who stayed home," he said quietly. 

The twins looked knowingly at one another and sighed in unison.

"Well, there are other rewards," said Fern.

"For those of us who are ready to wake up and smell the coffee," said Dahlia with a pointed glance toward her sister.

“You see, Wilbur, we've all been affected by what's happened. On the night of dreams Fern and I learned something very personal about ourselves."

Wilbur saw anxiety spread across his teacher's face, "That's enough Dahlia!"

"Oh, lighten up Fern, I'm making a point."

"Which is?" Fern demanded.

"Keep going," said Wilbur, supplying the answer.

"Precisely," replied Dahlia.

"No matter how difficult it may seem at the time," muttered Fern.

As one cup of tea turned into two, Wilbur's clothes dried and the subject turned to Timmy. Fern described the City Council session, and Wilbur shared his personal experiences. 

"He says he's "awake" in his dreams. That he can go places and see things," said Wilbur.

Fern shrugged, "Some children have vivid imaginations."

"He feels responsible for the Night of Dreams. He thinks he caused everybody's dreams to get mixed up. And he claims that when this happened he saw into a lot of people's private thoughts."

"Oh, the poor child!" exclaimed Fern.

"He needs help," added her sister.

"Unless, of course, he actually did see into people's private thoughts," said Fern uneasily.

"Either way," replied Dahlia.

"I worry what people might do to a child who seems to possess supernatural powers and who claims to see into other people's minds," said Wilbur.

Fern responded indignantly, "I'm sure it's all his imagination! And even if it's not -- what could they do?"

"Children were hanged as witches in the middle ages," said her sister.

"These are not in the middle ages, Dahlia."

Wilbur spoke. "When I was little, I always believed people could fly, if they just tried hard enough. I came close. I'd lie in my bed and concentrate on becoming lighter and lighter and I'd get to the point that I was almost off the mattress. Sometimes I'd fall asleep and think I was flying. But I could never put it all together."

"But you followed your star, dear, you took up aviation!" Fern smiled proudly.

Wilbur nodded, his grin a mirror of swelling inner buoyancy. "Yes, but he can do it for real! Only he's afraid. For me it was so easy! Thrust, lift, air speed, cross winds -- I knew it instinctively before I opened the book! It was everything I imagined lying there in bed all those nights. Flight is indescribable, Ms. Bascomb, it's God's gift to the angels and maybe that boy is one of them. I don't know, right connections in the brain, purity of spirit, the holy, blessed breath – whatever it is he's got it. And it's my job to protect him and teach him to survive." 

Wilbur's smile was radiant and sad. "That's the irony isn't it? He has the gift of gifts - and doesn't know how to use it." 

Revitalized, refreshed and in possession of two of Dahlia's spare headset, Wilbur reluctantly took his leave. He had little more than an hour to make the overland trek to Minnie's. By then the sun would be setting and it would be impossible to find his way.

They decided it would be safest to launch him over the top of the unheated tool shed. At this point Fern went to the kitchen for some cookies and Dahlia hurried over and secretively pressed a letter into Wilbur's hand.

"Wilbur, would you give this to the woman who runs – the establishment where you live?" 

"Minnie?"

"Yes. But put it away, Fern can't know anything about this."

Wilbur tucked the letter into his backpack.

"It's very private," she added apologetically.

"I will deliver it into her hands personally," he said.

"Thank you," said Dahlia. She seemed extremely relieved.

Wilbur struggled up the last 100 yards to the brothel looking like a man on fire as mist rose like smoke from his perspiration soaked clothes.

The first girl to spy him thought she'd seen a ghost. Then the darkening sky opened up, pouring rain upon the steamy specter. Moments later she gleefully announced the news of Wilbur's return.

He sat on a bench in the kitchen wrapped in a blanket with his feet in a bucket of hot water, alternately shivering and perspiring while Minnie forced glasses of hot tea and lemon juice upon him. 

"Some brandy," he moaned.

"Fat chance." she replied.

"Not to drink, I want to smell it."

"Hardy har har."

Suddenly the only thing he could think of was sleep. He heard Minnie say "a little help in here!" and felt himself walking down the hall between two of the girls. 

"I've got to make a phone call," he muttered as they put him into bed, and pulled up the covers.

"Who're you going to call?" asked big Susan.

"Edna," he whispered, falling fast asleep.

Cradling the phone against his ear, Mayor Badget plunged his fingers as deep as they would go into the jellybean jar. Missing the pink, he settled for a yellow while Doc Waters continued the weather report. 

"Big thunderheads coming straight across the valley. Rain looks like a wall and it's headed right at us."

"What's the air temperature?"

Doc peered at his $65.00 mail-order weather station complete with barometer, inside/outside thermometer and rain gauge. Actually it came with a wind gauge too but he'd never found time to get up on the roof and mount the damn thing. "53 degrees, up two in the past hour, and here it comes!" said Doc.

Mayor Badget listened to the rain beating against Doc's window.

"You hear that???" Doc waters shouted into the phone.

"Sounds like a gully washer!" the mayor said loudly.

"Keeps up an' this snow'll be gone by morning!"

Mayor Badget mused for a moment. Ten to fifteen feet of snow, an inch or two of rain, temperature in the mid 50's, like to be the flood of the century. "Everybody in the flats'll be washed out."

"Yup, have you told Armpt?"

"No answer."

"Probably asleep."

"He never sleeps!"

"Exactly. He was a wreck at the hospital yesterday. It catches up."

"Too bad we're not in Butternut," said the Mayor with a sigh, imagining how spectacular the falls would be and readying himself for a long night of phone calls.

"Can I give you a hand?" asked Doc.

"Most of the swamp folk have boats."

"They'll be all right." Doc replied without conviction.

"Sorry, Doc. Yes, I sure could use a hand, especially since your phone's working. What say I contact the churches and you take the schools? Have Principal Popper open the gym and ask Helen Bisk at the grade school to ready up the music rooms and the auditorium?"

"We're gonna need food."

"I'm sure Riley'll have some apples to donate."

Mayor Badget hesitated. The trickle of water across his snow-covered front window suddenly increased to a stream. "Let me know if you have a problem getting through. After that, call everyone you know with a house in the flats. Under all this snow they're not going to know what's happening till water's coming under the door."