The Winds of Marble Arch and Other Stories (18 page)

By
noon Eastern Standard Time, it was snowing in every state in the lower forty-eight.
Elko, Nevada, had over two feet of snow, Cincinnati was reporting thirty-eight inches at the airport, and it was spitting snow in Miami.

On talk radio, JFK’s assassination had given way to the topic of the snow. “You mark my words, the terrorists are behind this,” a caller from Terre Haute said. “They want to destroy our economy, and what better way to do it than by keeping us from doing our
last-minute Christmas shopping? To say nothing of what this snow’s going to do to my relationship with my wife. How am I supposed to go buy her something in this weather? I tell you, this has got Al Qaeda’s name written all over it.”

During lunch, Warren Nesvick told Shara he needed to go try his business call again. “The guy I was trying to get in touch with wasn’t in the office before. Because
of the snow,” he said and went out to the lobby to call Marjean again. On the TV in the corner, there were shots of snow-covered runways and jammed ticket counters. A blonde reporter in a tight red sweater was saying, “Here in Cincinnati, the snow just keeps on falling. The airport’s still open, but officials indicate it may have to close. Snow is building up on the runways—”

He called Marjean.
“I’m in Cincinnati,” he told her. “I managed to get a flight at the last minute. There’s a three-hour layover till my connecting flight, but at least I’ve got a seat.”

“But isn’t it snowing in Cincinnati?” she asked. “I was just watching the TV and…”

“It’s supposed to let up here in an hour or so. I’m really sorry about this, honey. You know I’d be there for Christmas Eve if I could.”

“I know,”
she said, sounding disappointed. “It’s okay, Warren. You can’t control the weather.”

The television was on in the hotel lobby when Bev came down to lunch. “—snowing in Albuquerque,” she heard the announcer say, “Raton, Santa Rosa, and Wagon Mound.”

But not in Santa Fe, she told herself firmly, going into the dining room. “It hardly ever snows there,” the travel agent had said, “New Mexico’s
a desert. And when it does snow, it never sticks.”

“There’s already four
inches in Espanola,” a plump waitress in a ruffled blouse and full red skirt was saying to the busboy. “I’m worried about getting home.”

“I’d rather it didn’t snow for Christmas,” Bev had teased Howard last year, “all those people trying to get home.”

“Heresy, woman, heresy! What would Currier and Ives think to hear you
talk that way?” he’d said, clutching his chest.

Like she was clutching hers now. The plump waitress was looking at her worriedly. “Are you all right,
senora?”

“Yes,” Bev said. “One for lunch, please.”

The waitress led her to a table, still looking concerned, and handed her a menu, and she clung to it like a life raft, concentrating fiercely on the unfamiliar terms, the exotic ingredients: blue
corn tortillas, quesadillas, chipotle—

“Can I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked.

“Yes,” Bev said brightly, looking at the waitress’s name tag. “I’d like some sangria, Carmelita.”

Carmelita nodded and left, and Bev looked around the room, thinking, I’ll drink my sangria and watch the other diners, eavesdrop on their conversations, but she was the only person in the broad tiled
room. It faced the patio, and through the glass doors the rain, sleet now, drove sharply against the terracotta pots of cactus outside, the stacked tables and chairs, the collapsed umbrellas.

She had envisioned herself having lunch out on the patio, sitting in the sun under one of those umbrellas, looking out at the desert and listening to a mariachi band. The music coming over the loudspeakers
was Christmas carols. As she listened, “Let It Snow” came to an end, and the Supremes began to sing “White Christmas.”

“What would cloud-seeding be listed under?” Howard had asked her one year when there was still no snow by the twenty-second, coming into the dining room, where she was wrapping presents, with the phone book.

“You are
not
hiring a cloud seeder,” she had laughed.

“Would it be
under ‘clouds’ or ‘rainmaker’?” he’d asked mock-seriously. “Or ‘seeds’?” And when it had finally snowed on the twenty-fourth, he had acted like he was personally responsible.

“You did
not
cause this, Howard,” she had told him.

“How do you know?” He’d laughed, catching her into his arms.

I can’t stand this, Bev thought, looking frantically around the dining room for Carmelita and her sangria.
How do other people do it? She knew lots of widows, and they all seemed fine. When people mentioned their husbands, when they talked about them in the past tense, they were able to stand there, to smile back, to talk about them. Doreen Matthews had even said, “Now that Bill’s gone, I can finally have all pink ornaments on the Christmas tree. I’ve always wanted to have a pink tree, but he wouldn’t
hear of it.”

“Here’s your sangria,” Carmelita said, still
looking concerned. “Would you like some tortilla chips and salsa?”

“Yes, thank you,” Bev said brightly. “And I think I’ll have the chicken enchiladas.”

Carmelita nodded and disappeared again. Bev took a gulp of her sangria and got her guidebook out of her bag. She would have a nice lunch and then go sightseeing. She opened the book to
Area Attractions. “Pueblo de San Ildefonso.” No, that would involve a lot of walking around outdoors, and it was still sleeting outside the window.

“Petroglyphs National Monument.” No, that was down near Albuquerque, where it was snowing. “El Santuario de Chimayo. 28 mi. north of Santa Fe on Hwy. 76. Historic weaving center, shops, chapel dubbed ‘American Lourdes.’ The dirt in the anteroom beside
the altar is reputed to have healing powers when rubbed on the afflicted part of the body.”

But I hurt all over, she thought.

“Other attractions include five nineteenth-century reredos, a carving of Santo Niño de Atocha, carved wooden altarpiece. (See also Lagrima, p. 98.)”

She turned the page to ninety-eight. “Chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, Lagrima, 28 mi. SE of Santa Fe on Hwy 41.
Sixteenth-century adobe mission church. In 1968 the statue of the Virgin Mary in the transept was reported to shed healing tears.”

Healing tears, holy dirt, and wasn’t there supposed to be a miraculous staircase right here in town? Yes, there it was. The Loretto Chapel. “Open 10-5 Apr-Oct, closed Nov-Mar.”

It would have to be Chimayo. She got out the road map the car rental place had given her,
and when Carmelita came with the chips and salsa, she said, “I’m thinking of driving up to Chimayo. What’s the best route?”

“Today?” Carmelita said, dismayed. “That’s not a good idea. The road’s pretty curvy, and we just got a call from Taos that it’s really snowing hard up there.”

“How about one of the pueblos then?”

She shook her head. “You have to take dirt roads to get there, and it’s getting
very icy. You’re better off doing something here in town. There’s a Christmas Eve mass at the cathedral at midnight,” she added helpfully.

But I need something to do this afternoon, Bev thought, bending over the guidebook again. Indian Research Center—open weekends only. El Rancho de las Golondrinas—closed Nov-Mar. Santa Fe Historical Museum—closed Dec 24-Jan 1.

The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum-open
daily.

Perfect, Bev thought, reading the entry: “Houses world’s largest permanent collection of O’Keeffe’s work. A major American artist, O’Keeffe lived in the Santa Fe area for many years. When she first arrived in 1929, she was physically and psychologically ill, but the dry, hot New Mexico climate healed and inspired her, and she painted much of her finest work here.”

Perfect. Sun-baked paintings
of cow skulls and giant tropical flowers and desert buttes. “Open daily. 10 A.M.-6 P.M. 217 Johnson St.”

She looked up the address on her map. Only three blocks off the Plaza, within easy walking distance even in this weather. Perfect. When Carmelita brought her enchiladas, she attacked them eagerly.

“Did you find somewhere to go in town?” Carmelita asked curiously.

“Yes, the Georgia O’Keeffe
Museum.”

“Oh,” Carmelita said and vanished again. She was back almost immediately. “I’m sorry,
señora
, but they’re closed.”

“Closed? It said in the guidebook the museum’s open daily.”

“It’s because of the snow.”

“Snow?” Bev said and looked past her to the patio where the sleet had turned to a heavy, slashing white.

At 1:20, Jim called from the airport to tell them Kindra’s and David’s planes
had both been delayed, and a few minutes later the bakery delivered the wedding cake. “No, no,” Stacey said, “that’s supposed to go to the country club. That’s where the reception is.”

“We tried,” the driver said. “We couldn’t get through. We
can either leave it here or take it back to the bakery, take your pick. If we can
get
back to the bakery. Which I doubt.”

“Leave it here,” Stacey said.
“Jim can take it over when he gets here.”

“But you just heard him,” Paula said. “If the truck can’t get through, Jim won’t be able to—” The phone rang.

It was the florist, calling to say they weren’t going to be able to deliver the flowers. “But you have to,” Stacey said. “The wedding’s at five. Tell them they have to, Paula,” and handed the phone to her.

“Isn’t there any way you can get here?”
Paula asked.

“Not unless there’s a miracle,” the florist said. “Our truck’s in a ditch out at Pawnee, and there’s no telling how long it’ll take a tow truck to get to it. It’s a skating rink out there.”

“Jim will have to go pick up the flowers when he gets back with Kindra and David,” Stacey said blithely when Paula told her the bad news. “He can do it on his way to the country club. Is the
string quartet here yet?”

“No, and I’m not sure they’ll be able to get here. The florist said the roads are really icy,” Paula said, and the viola player walked in.

“I told you,” Stacey said happily, “it’ll all work out. Did I tell you, they’re going to play Boccherini’s ‘Minuet No. 8’ for the wedding march?” and went to get the candles for the altar stands.

Paula went over to the viola player,
a lanky young guy. He was brushing snow off his viola case. “Where’s the rest of the quartet?”

“They’re not here yet?” he said, surprised. “I had a lesson to give in town and told ’em I’d catch up with them.” He sat down to take off his snow-crusted boots. “And then my car ended up in a snowbank, and I had to walk the last mile and a half.” He grinned up at her, panting. “It’s times like these
I wish I played the piccolo. Although,” he said, looking her up and down, “there are compensations. Please tell me you’re not the bride.”

“I’m not the bride,” she said. Even though I wish I was.

“Great!” he said and grinned at her again. “What are you doing after the wedding?”

“I’m not sure there’s going to be one. Do you think the other musicians got stuck on the way here, too?”

He shook
his
head. “I would have seen them.” He pulled out a cell phone and punched buttons. “Shep? Yeah, where are you?” There was a pause. “That’s what I was afraid of. What about Leif?” Another pause. “Well, if you find him, call me back.” He clipped the phone shut. “Bad news. The violins were in a fender bender and are waiting for the cops. They don’t know where the cello is. How do you feel about
a viola solo of ‘Minuet No. 8’?”

Paula went to inform Stacey. “The police can bring them out,” Stacey said blithely and handed Paula the white candles for the altar stands. “The candlelight on the snow’s going to be just beautiful.”

At 1:48 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, snow flurries were reported
at Sunset Point in the Florida Keys.

“I get to officially freak out now, right?” Chin asked Nathan.
“Jeez, it really
is
the discontinuity you said would happen!”

“We don’t know that yet,” Nathan said, looking at the National Weather Service map, which was now entirely blue, except for a small spot near Fargo and another one in north-central Texas that Nathan thought was Waco and Chin was convinced was the president’s ranch in Crawford.

“What do you mean, we don’t know that yet? It’s snowing
in Barcelona. It’s snowing in Moscow.”

“It’s supposed to be snowing in Moscow. Remember Napoleon? It’s not unusual for it to be snowing in over two-thirds of these places reporting in: Oslo, Kathmandu, Buffalo—”

“Well, it’s sure as hell unusual for it to be snowing in Beirut,” Chin said, pointing to the snow reports coming in, “and Honolulu. I don’t care what you say, I’m freaking out.”

“You
can’t,” Nathan said, superimposing an isobaric grid over the map. “I need you to feed me the temp readings.”

Chin started over to his terminal and then came back. “What do you think?” he asked seriously. “Do you think it’s a discontinuity?”

There was nothing else it could be. Winter storms were frequently very large, the February 1994 European storm had been huge, and the one in December 2002
had covered over a third of the U.S., but there’d never been one that covered the entire continental United States. And Mexico and Manitoba and Belize, he thought, watching the snowfall reports coming in.

In addition, snow was falling in six locations where it had never fallen before, and in twenty-eight like Yuma, Arizona, where it had snowed only once or twice in the last hundred years. New
Orleans had a foot of snow, for God’s sake. And it was snowing in Guatemala.

And it wasn’t behaving like any storm he’d ever seen. According to the charts, snow had started simultaneously in Springfield, Illinois; Hoodoo, Tennessee; Park City, Utah; and Branford, Connecticut; and spread in a completely random pattern. There was no center to the storm, no leading edge, no front.

And no let-up.
No
station had reported the snow stopping, or even diminishing, and new stations were reporting in all the time. At this rate, it would be snowing everywhere by—he made a rapid calculation—five o’clock.

“Well?” Chin said. “Is it?” He looked really frightened.

And him freaking out is the last thing I need with all this data to feed in, Nathan thought. “We don’t have enough data to make a determination
yet,” he said.