Marilyn’s 8-year old son Buster was inconsolable.
He’d been saying for weeks that his snowman was alive, and she had humoured him. But this morning, they had found the door to the house wide open. The snowman’s scarf, carrot nose and button eyes strewn up the steps leading upstairs, and his top hat upside down in front of Buster’s door. Everywhere else, tragically was a trail of water.
“What happened to him?” wailed Buster. “What was he trying to tell me?”
It seemed, to anyone who believed in living snowmen, that ‘Mister Winter’ had come inside during the night and melted on his way upstairs to Buster’s room.
Marilyn felt a lump in her throat. It had been a tough year for her, let alone Buster, since his dad had left. She suspected someone had played a joke on them, maybe one of the neighbour’s kids or an extended family member? Or even his dad, who still had keys to the house for the time being, and was going to get an earful if he was behind this stupid prank.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” she said, mopping up the last of the water into a bucket.
When she was about to dump the water down the sink, Buster freaked out. “No!” he cried. “I want to save his water and freeze him and maybe he’ll come back!”They were late for school, and she had no strength to deny him this indulgence. So they put the bucket in the freezer downstairs.
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That evening, before dinner, Buster took the frozen block of water and put it outside, wrapping the hat and scarf around it. Marilyn watched from inside as he knelt before it, talking to it and listening intently. She wondered if this imaginative streak was going to require any type of therapy later in life.
At dinner, Buster was quiet and pensive. “So,” she asked him. “Did Mister Winter tell you what happened?”
“Yes,” he said sullenly. “But I didn’t understand it.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. What does ‘blind meth rage’ mean?”
