It dawns on Howard that there are white patches ahead of him, where he hasn't scraped. Puzzling. He reaches out a hand and the white patch brushes right off. His hand is wet. Snow is sticking to the front of his house. Now he notices it, landing in his hair, on his cheek. Well, what's a little snow? You can't let the weather boss you. He might as well keep scraping until it's really dark.

He climbs to the next step, the one just below the top. The higher he can scrape, the less often he has to move the ladder. Now he can see over the rhododendrons and down the road. By the wall of the cemetery, dim shapes are moving. A figure in white is walking toward his house—all in white, head to toe, with the white church spire behind her. Christ, has he been working so hard he forgot the wedding? Alice must be fuming—she's walking fast, coming to get him.

In spite of himself, Howard laughs—the idea of a bride huffing up the road like that, probably wearing some flimsy little slippers, her veil floating out behind her. Well, hell, she'll calm down when she sees the work he's done. He can get dressed in a jiffy, but he's got to get the paint off his hands. Maybe the guests aren't there yet. The point is, in an hour or so it'll all be over. They'll lead the people back here to their house, and a damn good thing he got it painted. Maybe they'll have their picture taken under the apple tree, white petals falling all around.

Howard steps briskly down; his foot slips, kicks at the air. The top of the ladder catches his shin; the scraper flies into a bush. He twists, lands with one knee on the top of the ladder and one on the shelf that is not a step. In quick succession he feels the shelf collapsing and the no-nonsense impact of the ground.

At nine o'clock two boys in denim jackets come tracking their footprints up the drive. They divvy up the rest of the Snickers and throw the bowl onto the porch roof. They don't steal the ladder. They don't see the old man in the bushes. He is sprawled on his back, like a man sleeping hard after a good day's work. The snow is falling straight down, calmly. It has layered him bit by bit with white—a perfect sheet of it, covering even his eyes, his teeth.

END