Come Hell or High Water | mxm

4.4

This chapter is dedicated to RudyMisha, whose wonderful comment flurries have made my day more than once. Thank you so much for your support.

4.4

Acres of raw snow glittered under a fierce white sun. Soft winter sky arced pale and incandescent overhead, fine feathered brush of cirrus clouds high above mirroring windswept white drifts below. Packed snow creaked beneath the deeply-grooved snow tires of Sam's little silver hatchback car.

Ahead, a plowed lease access road met the township road at a tight junction. At its terminus two hundred metres out into shining snow-cloaked field, the crimson pumpjack was gone; in its place a service rig perched above the inactive wellbore, juddering and belching diesel smoke. Sunlight glanced off reflective cloth striping the coveralls of the workers swarming the rig floor. Narrowing his eyes against the glare, Sam studied the activity as they passed.

"Stop squinting," his mother scolded from the passenger seat. "Do you think your young boy will like you when you have given yourself wrinkles?"

Laughing, Sam turned his eyes back to the road. "Gord's not a young boy, Ma, he's thirty."

"He's thirty!" Sam's mother exclaimed. "And why he wants to marry an old man like you is a mystery to me. At least make sure you look good for him. Don't you have any sunglasses?" Her own face was covered by a pair of huge dark sunglasses with leopard print frames.

"They're in the glove compartment if you want to hand them to me instead of harassing me," Sam told her dryly.

"Aiya, how did I raise such a rude son?" she lamented, pressing the back of one hand to her forehead dramatically. Despite her complaints, she clicked open the glove box and extracted Sam's gold-wire aviator sunglasses, handing them to him with a little purse of her lips.

Sam suppressed a smile. "Thanks, Ma."

From the backseat, Sam's father said mildly, "Please remember we are going to be guests here, wife. Let's not cause any trouble."

"If this little boy wants to marry my son he can't be afraid of his mother-in-law," Sam's mother scoffed. "Have you at least told him you want to get married at our church? Or are you going to let this boy dictate everything about your life, as you did with the last one?"

Sam let himself smile a little as snow-dusted blue spruce sprung up from rolling fields. "Yes, Ma. Gord isn't religious, but he's fine with getting married at the church."

"Good," she said, with satisfaction. "At least this boy has the sense to respect your parents."

Sam slowed and took the turn carefully, tires pressing the first set of tracks into pristine white snow. In the yard, a white SUV and a black rental minivan were dusted like iced gingerbread next to the rusty blue pickup. Sam eased his car in at the end of the line.

His mother took her time getting out of the car. Bitterly cold air pinked her round golden cheeks as she shaded her eyes and examined the scene.

Shimmering snow transformed the farmyard into a scene from a nostalgic, syrupy Christmas card. Christmas lights strung along the eaves were dark in the glare of daylight. Evergreen garlands dressed with tiny red berries twisted along the white window frames of the cheerful blue and green house. Across the yard, the greenhouse glimmered and steamed in the cold bright sunlight and lacy vines of frost blossomed down the sides of the corrugated silos. Between were dozens of snowshoe prints that tracked off into the open fields beyond.

"It's small," Sam's mother said, as though that was the only criticism she could find. Sam's smile grew a little despite himself.

Sam's father grunted as he lifted two heavy bags out of the trunk. Sam hurried to help him, and between them they shouldered the bags, a cloth sack full of beribboned presents, and an unwieldy flat rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. Together, they trudged up the shovelled path to the door.