Snow Day

They said it was an emergency, so there he was. Out in the storm like some Inuit Santa Claus.

By the time C.J. picked up the sled of back-up supplies and drove his snowmobile through the total white-out conditions to Pine Lodge Retirement Home of Nome, he was completely caked with snow and ice. Parking in the back, he slapped the snow off himself, trailing in a pool of slush as he entered through the utility entrance. Taking a quick mental inventory of the commissary, he figured they had enough food for 130 people for a week. It was going to be a long haul. Nobody going in and nobody going out. Except him.

The wind screamed outside. The hall lights flickered but didn’t go out, as he made his way to the locker room. Pine Lodge had two backup generators, just in case.

He hung up his snowsuit on a hook to dry and changed into house slippers.

Padding down the hall, he hoped most residents were sleeping soundly. Pine Lodge was built low to the ground to withstand the northwest Alaska weather. The heating system thrummed in the background. The antiseptic smell of Pine-Sol permeated the air.

Rounding the corner, C.J. saw a group of five in wheelchairs parked around the nurses’ station. Francine, the night nurse in charge, was holding court. The T.V. was turned to low volume, the words “blizzard warning” in the news ticker at the bottom of the screen.

“Can’t remember anything like this in thirty years,” Sonny said in awe.

“You haven’t remembered anything in thirty years,” Laura said, poking Sonny in the arm.

Sonny reached for one of the mugs of hot chocolate that Francine was preparing, working it off the counter. C.J. grimaced. There would be extra assisted trips to the bathroom tonight. Hope Francine was ready for that.

C.J. walked into the circle of wheelchairs. “What are you all doing up so late?” he asked.

“Helping Francine here,” Mabel said.

“Francine doesn’t need any help. The best thing you all can do is get a good night’s sleep,” C.J. said.

The group drank their hot chocolate in silence, staring at the T.V. weatherman droning on with his report. As they finished, C.J. started wheeling them back to their rooms.

Aput was last to finish. She cradled her mug in her lap, humming to herself.

C.J. leaned forward to catch the melody, but it was nothing he’d ever heard before. It must be some traditional Inuit song.

“Can we go to the craft room?” Aput asked as C.J. began rolling her down the hall.

They took a left turn and entered a darkened corridor. At the end was the craft room, unlocked as usual. C.J. flipped on the lights, wheeling Aput to her favorite spot at the back table with the pottery tools.

He pulled a piece of soapstone the size of a large potato out of his pocket. “I brought something for you.” He placed it in front of her on the table.

She picked it up, studying it. “Just like what my grandmother used to use,” she said with approval. She dug her index fingernail into the corner, flaking off a small piece. “Perfect. Just soft enough that I could use these.” She gestured to the clay sculpting tools.

C.J. fished a wooden figurine out of his pocket. “I whittled this last week,” he said, handing it over to Aput. She turned the carved seal over in her hands. Placing it on the table next to the soapstone, she reached into her dressing gown pocket and pulled out her signature stone polar bear and cub carving. “Your work is getting better,” she said. “Almost as good as my grandmother’s.”

They observed a moment of silence.

Aput sighed. “You are Inuit,” she started. “You care about the old people and the traditions.”

C.J. shifted from foot to foot. “I hardly know anything,” he said.

“You can’t speak the language, but you understand the ways of the heart.”

“All I know is what you have taught me,” he said.

“You must know more.” She reached for a cloth to polish the soapstone. “I am alone now. I have no family to look after or to look after me.”

C.J. was used to hearing this from the residents. “Pine Lodge is your family now,” he said.

“You are like a good son. I appreciate you.” Aput pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. C.J. reached for the blanket in the pouch on the back of the wheelchair, draping it over Aput’s lap and under her feet in their pink fuzzy slippers.

“In the old days, the old people got out of the way.” Aput stared off into the corner of the room. “It was a question of practicality.”

C.J. tipped his head to one side, letting her talk.

“It was different back then, of course,” she continued. “No warehouses for the elderly. No living until 90 with no memory of where you came from or what you were there for.”

C.J. listened.

“It was a form of assisted suicide. It was completely voluntary.”

C.J. thought back to an earlier conversation with Aput. “Are you talking about putting elderly people out on ice floes again?” he asked, surprised at his own flash of anger. “I think it’s late. I think you should get some rest.”

Without a word, Aput handed the seal back to C.J. and pocketed her own carving and the soapstone.

“And did you take your meds tonight?” C.J. asked as he wheeled Aput back down the hall to her room.

Later that night, with everyone put to bed, C.J. suited up to head back out for more gasoline for the generators. As he reached for his snowmobile helmet, he noticed Aput’s grandmother’s carving next to it. By the back door were Aput’s pink fuzzy slippers. Charging out into the sheet of white, he spotted a single track of footprints leading out into the snow.