The first desperate rays of light had barely clawed their way into the dark winter sky when Ricky trundled out into the cold, swaddled head to toe in ten pounds of fleece and nylon, dragging a snow shovel that had a good four inches on him in one hand and a bucket of rock salt in the other.
Ricky placed the bucket to the side of the driveway and set to work. He liked the way the shovel sounded as it cut through the snow and scraped against the pavement. It was a definitive sound, a tiny victory cry, a sign that another patch of concrete had been liberated by him, a mere boy, steadily working against God himself who had blanketed the world with snow. Foot by foot, Ricky cleared away what God had made. He’d expressed this sentiment to his mother once only to be told that it was blasphemy. He didn’t think God would mind.
Bit by bit, Ricky cleared the driveway as the world around him began to awaken. Soon, he heard the sound of the plow as it entered the cul-de-sac. The plow was nothing more than a diesel truck with a blade attached and it was owned and operated by Jim Perkins, whose son, Craig, sat in the passenger seat, taking advantage of his father’s route through the neighborhood to deliver his newspapers. Craig threw a paper into Ricky’s driveway and waved. Ricky returned the gesture with a limp movement of his hand, then, as the truck continued on its way, he moved the newspaper to the porch where it belonged.
It was not long before the drive and walkways in front of Ricky’s house were devoid of snow. He pulled the bucket from its resting place and scattered a liberal coating of salt over the concrete. As he finished, he saw Mrs. Collins, from across the street, peer out her front door.
Her husband had passed away last year.
She wore a men’s wool coat over a fluffy, flowered robe and she huddled over her cane as she set foot from the house, rubber rain boots slipping and threatening to throw her into the snow as she walked. She was heading out for her paper, as she did every morning at the same time, except her paper wasn’t where it belonged either.
Ricky’s stomach lurched and he hurried across the street, sliding and correcting himself in a manner reserved solely for ten year old boys in full snow regalia. He scooped up the paper and brought it to Mrs. Collins, who had halted her journey a few steps from her door.
“Here ma’am,” Ricky said, as he held out the paper to her.
The hint of a smile graced Mrs. Collins’ face as she took the paper. Her gaze fell and focused upon the snow near Ricky’s feet.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet.
“Snow’s dangerous,” he replied.
She nodded.
Ricky returned the nod gravely then turned and hurried home. By the time he’d arrived in his own yard, Mrs. Collins had returned to the warmth of her home and her door was firmly closed. He retrieved the shovel and bucket and turned to stare at the house across the street. After a moment, he straightened his spine, puffed out his chest, set the shovel at an awkward state of readiness, and set off once more to Mrs. Collins’ rescue.
With alacrity, Ricky set about shoveling Mrs. Collins’ walkway and drive. He noticed at one point that she peered out at him from behind a lace curtain, he waved then put his head down and kept pace.
When he finished, he found Mrs. Collins standing in the doorway, her robe pulled tight around her. She was staring at the air about five feet above the boy’s head.
“Do you like hot cocoa?” She asked.
Ricky nodded vigorously, “With marshmallows?”
“Yes,” she said and she glanced across the street. “You’ll have to ask your mother first, but if she agrees, I have some cocoa and cookies for your help.”
“I’ll ask,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
His mother didn’t like for him to have marshmallows, she thought that cocoa was sweet enough by itself. Ricky was sure his mother had never been his age, or else she’d know that’s not true. He dragged the shovel and bucket with him as he went to ask his mother for permission to visit with Mrs. Collins for cocoa. His mother smiled and told him he was a very good boy for helping shovel the walk and of course he could have cocoa with Mrs. Collins as she was a very nice lady. He was reminded to say please and thank you and was sent off with his mother’s blessing; her being none the wiser about the involvement of marshmallows or cookies.
Mrs. Collins was waiting for him. She silently led him into the kitchen where he sat on a stool so he could see everything she did.
“My mother never lets me watch her in the kitchen,” he said as he settled his elbows onto the counter and his chin into his hands. “My grandma used to, before we moved away.”
“That’s too bad,” Mrs. Collins replied as she poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the range. “Every man should know how to cook.” She paused and added, “My son can cook. I taught him. He moved away too. Far away.”
He imagined what Mrs. Collins’ son would be like. He’d never seen him before. The idea of a big strong man wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron while tasting spaghetti sauce populated itself into Ricky’s imagination and he nearly giggled before he caught himself and suppressed the impolite noise for decorum’s sake.
He shook the image free and focused on Mrs. Collins who dumped a few large spoonfuls of cocoa into the now simmering milk and stirred until all that remained was a swirling pool of velvety chocolate. A silver tea service sat upon a nearby shelf. She caressed the bright metal of the teapot with her fingertips and smiled, then pulled the whole set down and set it on the counter. Once the platter had been filled with oatmeal cookies, marshmallows, and a steaming pot of cocoa, Ricky helped her carry it to a little table in the living room.
They sat together upon her doily laden couch. Mrs. Collins poured him a cup of cocoa and motioned that he should help himself to the sweets. She took up her knitting. Ricky sipped as quietly as he could, so as not to upset the rhythm of the clacking needles.
Soon, his cocoa was gone, but he sat and watched as Mrs. Collins continued to knit. After a while, she paused to rub her fingers.
“My grandmother used to knit,” Ricky said, feeling that it was fair to speak while the needles were at rest.
She looked up at him then, her eyes meeting his, and her gaze was soft.
“She’s gone now?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.
Ricky nodded, “She fell. Last winter.”
“Last year was a hard winter,” she said, her gaze shifting to a nearby cabinet.
He followed her gaze and saw a row of tiny metal soldiers lined up on one of the shelves. With an air of reverence, Ricky stood and approached the shelf. The soldiers wore uniforms that he had seen in textbooks: Union and Confederate. Paint was chipped away in the places where the soldiers would have been held by a boy, just like Ricky, as he played at charging into battle.
“Mom says father was a soldier,” Ricky said quietly, his hands stilled and held before him.
“They belonged to my husband, who had them since he was your age. My son used to play with them,” Mrs. Collins said.
Ricky nodded and solemnly saluted the metal rank and file before he turned back to Mrs. Collins.
“Would you like help cleaning up?” He asked.
“No,” she said with a smile and a tiny laugh like a bird chirping. “But you should offer to help your mother with the dishes sometimes. A man should know how to clean too.”
The idea of donning the pink smock his mother wore while cleaning made him smile.
“I will,” he promised. He thanked her for the cocoa and the cookies and let himself out. When he got home, his mother saw his grin and asked if he had ruined his appetite for lunch. He hadn’t. After all, he was a growing boy.
For the next several snowstorms, Ricky repeated his feat and was given the same reward of cocoa and a visit with Mrs. Collins and the metal army. They never spoke much. He spent hours imagining battles for the toy soldiers to the tune of the soft clicking of the knitting needles. She always wanted to know who had won. The Union always won.
One day, a strange car with Washington plates was parked outside of Mrs. Collins’ house. Washington was far away. The following evening, an ambulance arrived and parked beside the car with Washington plates. It had appeared with sirens blaring but left again in silence. Ricky’s mother stood with him as they watched from across the street. He wanted to go visit Mrs. Collins at the hospital. His mother pursed her lips in an odd fashion and told him that they would call the hospital in the morning. The hospital visiting hours wouldn’t start until eight.
Ricky couldn’t sleep, and, as soon as he could manage, he crept out of bed and began flipping through television channels, trying to distract himself from worry. Later, his mother awakened and wandered into the living room. She rubbed her eyes and told him to turn down the volume.
There was a knock at the door and Ricky’s mother pointed at him and told him to stay where he was. He wrung his hands but stayed put. Soon after, she returned with a man Ricky had never seen. His mother explained that the man was Mrs. Collins’ son, David.
David said that had come from far away because his mother had been ill.
She didn’t make it.
He was sorry.
There would be no funeral because he had something big going on at work.
David had a box and an envelope. He said that his mother had wanted Ricky to have them. He set the items upon the coffee table then patted Ricky on the shoulder in an awkward fashion and said he had to leave. Ricky’s mother showed the man out.
Ricky stared at the box and the letter. He gently lifted and opened the envelope. Inside was a note written in a shaky cursive that simply said: Gone, but not far away.
With care, Ricky opened the box. The tiny metal soldiers greeted him in rank and file, their bases poked into Styrofoam to keep them upright.
“Can I please be alone?” He asked his mother, his eyes still affixed upon the toys.
She told him to take all the time he needed and left the room.
One by one, Ricky removed the soldiers from the box and set them upon the coffee table. When he was finished, his eyes burned. He scrubbed his face with his palms, and then drew himself to attention.
There were no words for the feelings that threatened him with tears. He wiped his eyes and puffed out his chest. With a crisp and deliberate motion, he saluted.
Once again, his eyes burned, but he stood tall. He gathered the soldiers and moved them into his room, giving them a place of honor where he would see them every morning when he woke. Once the soldiers were settled in, he set out to find his mother.
She was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Her eyes were red. Ricky greeted her with a shaky smile and gave her a hug. She clung to him tightly for a long moment before letting go.
“I want to help with breakfast,” Ricky said.
She stared at him as though in shock then she laughed a laugh that was also a sob. “Sure,” she said as she pulled out a step stool and helped Ricky climb up.
Once he was on the stool, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his mother. Her eyes were bright with tears. She smiled and brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead. “Look at you,” she told him. “So brave. My little soldier.”