When I pulled this short story from a stack of Mom’s college writings, I thought of my sister-in-law Linda.

As Farmer Gary and I check out the weather forecast every morning and evening, we end with a quick scroll by the temperatures in family members’ towns (we’ve added Sainte-Croix and Toomebridge recently). As we reach my brother Harry and Linda’s town in Maine, often I cry out a warning: Uh-oh!

When Maine is hotter and more humid than Indiana, it’s not a good day. Linda will text me, “It feels like Indiana weather today” and I cringe for her. It’s not a compliment.

Those two prefer winter.

The title of Mom‘s story (which I think it’s safe to assume was written for her college literary magazine Interpretations) is Will Winter Come.

Mom’s prose isn’t a commentary on weather, though. It’s a reflection of her fear of water after nearly drowning as a child. (Please don’t read further if you’re similarly triggered by such.)

Will Winter Come

He had been standing there only a few minutes when he heard his mother calling:

“I told you to get away from there, Freddy. Now pick up your pail and come in the house. … Right away! Freddy!”

But Freddy couldn’t move. He was too horribly fascinated by the sight. He stood there, heedless, with two imaginary anchors tied to his feet. His blue eyes stared blankly ahead, as if he were in another world, dreaming all this, as if it really hadn’t happened.

One of the men roared, “What’s that little kid doing here so long? Get him away! This ain’t no place for kids.”

Mrs. Barstow came over to Freddy and put her arm around him.

“Come on, Freddy. You really shouldn’t be here. Besides, I think I heard your mother calling a while back.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even try to.

Freddy heard Mrs. Barstow’s voice trailing on as though she were caught in a cloud a million miles away, instead of being right beside him.

The blue eyes kept staring, staring. And a strange tongue still repeated deep inside his mind:

“That’s Jimmy Reilly. I know Jimmy because I used to play with him. Jimmy’s six – like me. He has a big rubber tube we always hang onto in the water. Jimmy liked the water. I did, too. I did, too!”

But he didn’t now. Freddy looked at Jimmy lying in the sand: Jimmy, with a big bloated body and strange skin the color of dead mackerel. He saw Jimmy’s mother crying, and Jimmy’s father with his arm around her. He had never seen them sad before. Jimmy’s father was a robust giant born with laughter, and his mother had an everlasting smile curled on her lips. But they weren’t happy now.

Three days is a long time to have anything lost.

Freddy remembered when they had started talking about it. His mother had first mentioned it to his father.

“Oh, Fred, it’s horrible! That poor little Reilly boy. His mother left him on the shore and went inside to do some cleaning. When she came back there wasn’t a trace of him. Only a big tube dripping on the sand. He must have tried to swim without it. I feel terrible … He was the little tyke who used to play with Freddy. Don’t you remember … “

Freddy remembered, Freddy couldn’t forget. For three days they had searched the lake and had no luck. And then, just a little while ago, they found him. His body must have floated down the lake and through the outlet into the old beaver pond. Reeds and cattails can do a good job of hiding a six year old’s body. And the old pond had hardly been considered. But when it was, it was too late.

Freddy had come running down with his mother when the boat pulled in. She had taken one look and turned away, then trudged slowly back to the cottage. Freddy hadn’t known she had realized that he had followed her until she started to call.

By then he didn’t care.

Somewhere far away in a mist Mrs. Barstow was still pleading with him.

“Come on, dear. You’ve seen enough. Please don’t worry about Jimmy. He’s happy now. Why, I bet right this minute he’s playing with an angel.”

At last he let himself be led away. The men were wrapping Jimmy in a white sheet now – a cold white sheet – when he turned to go. The next thing he saw was his mother’s form rising in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you come when I called, Freddy? Mrs. Barstow has other things to do besides bringing you home. Now come on in. And try to forget what happened. Jimmy’s better off now, dear.”

She thanked Mrs. Barstow and took Freddy’s hand. They walked into the kitchen. His mother poured him a glass of milk and put it down beside a chicken sandwich.

“Now hurry up and eat, dear. We want to get to bed early tonight. It’s been a hard day. I’ll have your bath ready to hop into and we’ll be all set.

Freddy clutched the sandwich tighter.

“Mommy,” he said aloud, “I don’t think I want to take a bath tonight.”

“Why of course you do, dear. You can get all cleaned up and jump right in under the cool white sheets.”

The sandwich felt thin and insecure now, and he could feel his fingers coming through the bread to where they touched the chicken beneath. The meat felt cold and clammy like something that’s been dead for a long, long time.

“Please, Mommy, not tonight. Please, I don’t want to. I – I can’t.”

“Now stop being silly. You’ve passed the age when babies crawl around on all fours with dirty hands and faces and scream whenever anyone tries to wash them. Now hurry up. I thought you wanted to be a sailor. Sailors can’t be afraid of water. Are you going to be a little sissy?”

“I’m not afraid! I’m not a sissy! Please, Mommy, not tonight, not tonight!”

But she had darted upstairs and past his pleas. He could imagine the liquid beginning to drip into the tub – and then he could really hear it: a fierce wave of water came tumbling out of the faucet.

“Mommy!” he screamed. “Not tonight, not tonight!”

He pushed aside the table and dashed out of the cottage. Beyond him he saw the lake, shimmering in the moonlight. Behind him steamed a faucet, spilling out a night of terror.

“Please, God,” he sobbed, kneeling down on the sand. “Will winter come; will winter ever come again!”

~ Joan Cassidy ~ 1949

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“Will Winter Come” © 1949 Joan Cassidy (Vayo). All rights reserved.

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