Stout - Night of the Ice Storm

Night of the Ice Storm

David Stout

One

January 1971

January is a cruel month in Bessemer. The holiday decorations are gone, leaving the streets bleak, and winds off Lake Erie seem to cut right down to the cheekbone. Spring is an eternity away.

January is the month of snow. The snow is a blessing, at least in those brief hours when it lies fresh. It covers the gray ugliness of the factories and steel plants, covers the soot and the drabness of lives. But the blessing carries its own curse, because at some point each January, it seems, there is a brief stretch when the air hovers between freeze and thaw, and the snow that has lain pure and white begins to turn to slush.

At first the slush is a cold, gray pudding, but soon it takes on streaks of pink and orange from the mill and factory ash, so that when the ridges and valleys of slush freeze again, they lie like entrails in the streets.

Then the snow falls again, and the people of Bessemer, many of whom trace their seed back to the fields and villages of Germany, Poland, Italy, and Ireland, shrug and long for the spring that lies over a far horizon.

This night, in January 1971, would be remembered as one of the cruelest of all. During the day, the temperature had shot into the midforties (it had been in the twenties less than twenty-four hours before), but after the early sunset it turned colder. The rain went on, and the drops clung longer to the trees. Anyone who knew winter at all figured that in a few hours the rain would turn to snow.

The temperature teetered between thawing and freezing, and the rain went on. Or was it rain? Those Bessemer people who ventured outside to throw out garbage or walk the dog felt the drops on their faces. Yes, it felt like rain, but when it touched the ground, it turned to a glistening crust. The drops clung longer and longer to the trees, and the limbs sagged as the drops turned to ice. The bent branches glistened and clacked against one another.

Folks, the weather bureau says were apt to get hit with a full-fledged ice storm. Now, what that means is that by late tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning, were looking at downed power lines, loss of telephone service, problems with mass transit

And lots of fender benders, Brad. The police have asked us to tell our listeners to use extreme caution if they have to go out tonight. The streets are getting very, very slippery, and theyre going to get worse.

Indeed they are, Phil.

Now, the police are also advising our listeners to be sure they have flashlights and candles where they can find them if the lights go out.

All in all, its a good night to curl up in front of the fire with someone you like. Youll be a lot safer.

He turned off the radio. Curl up in front of the fire with someone you like. I would, he thought, except that I dont have a fireplace. Dont have anyone to curl up with either.

He did have a flashlight in a kitchen drawer, and he had made sure the batteries were good.

Some nights he did stay in his apartment, reading, watching television, reading the Bessemer Gazette, the newspaper he worked for. Many nights he cooked for himself. Other nightsand this was one of themhe had to get out.

He knew all the taverns in Bessemer. He chose taverns to match his mood: if he felt like shots and beers, and conversation to match, he would head over to the industrial section and the bars frequented by the plant workers. Other times he would feel like a thick cheeseburger or pasta or clams. Bars that served such food were one of the few charms of Bessemer. They dotted the streets of the ethnic neighborhoods, if one knew where to look. He did.

There were other places, in the university area. They offered beer, football songs, and a rich variety of food, for the university drew a lot of students from New York City, and the bars near the campus catered to them.

Sometimes he liked the university bars best. The carefree, iconoclastic attitude of the students was infectious, and some of the women so lovely that he ached just to talk to them. He seldom talked to the women, but fairly often he struck up a conversation with one or two of the young men. They talked about Nixon, Vietnam, football, golf, Kent State, the army.

He felt almost a generation gap with the students. It was not that he was so much older (there was only a few years difference) but that he had lived his own life differently, for reasons mostly beyond his control. Though he didnt like to dwell on it, going to the college bars gave him a chance to feed off the youth of others.

He put on his favorite pair of casual slacks and a comfortable pullover sweater and grabbed a windbreaker, pulling the hood over his head as soon as he stepped outside. The rain felt like cold spit on his face, and the footing was treacherous. A crust of ice glistened on everything he could see.

His car was at the curb, and he reached it without stumbling. He started the engine, turned on the defrost, and scraped the windshield while the car warmed up.

Just as he was getting into the car, he heard it: a piercing crash, followed by a series of smaller splintering sounds. Somewhere, probably within a couple of blocks, a big tree had just died, collapsing with the weight of the ice.

He drove cautiously, feathering his brakes and taking the turns slowly.

so let us say it again, folks, if you dont have to go out

He snapped off the radio.

He parked on a dark street and locked his car. His windbreaker soon gleamed with congealing drops as he walked toward the Silver Swine tavern a block away.

He heard another piercing crash, like an ax handle being broken. The sound was to his rear, a few blocks away, and as he turned to look, he saw a blue-green flash of light, then nothing. Power line down, maybe a transformer, he thought.

The taverns steamy window was decorated with a silver neon pig that winked and smiled. He pushed open the tavern door, instantly feeling the heat on his face. The place was full of the smells of onions, french fries, beef, chili, beer, peanut dust, bodies. The huge room throbbed with the babble of voices and background music and the clink of bottles and glasses from the long oak bar. Faded pennants from dozens of schools hung from the rafters. The wall behind the bar was plastered with political stickers from the previous presidential election: Nixon and Agnew, Humphrey and Muskie, All the Way With LeMay. But a dart board with a smiling Richard Nixon for a target left no doubt about the politics of the tavern keeper and his clientele.

He took off his windbreaker, shook it so that the drops fell into the peanut shells on the floor, hung the jacket on a peg.

Whatll it be?

Bud draft.

Some of the people he worked with were regulars at the Silver Swine, but he wasnt. It had been several weeks since his last visit and he had let his sideburns grow. He had also started a beard. He rubbed the stubble self-consciously, stopped when he saw himself in the mirror, took a swig of beer.

Whats it doing out? the bartender said.

Rain turning to ice. Slippery as hell.

My girlfriend just called me, the bartender said. She said trees are coming down right and left around North Park. Dragging electric and phone lines with em.

I believe it.

North Park and the surrounding neighborhood had the oldest and biggest trees in the city. The park was near the lake, and bad weather often hit that area just before it swept the rest of the city.