Snowmobile

Chapter 1: Death Hangs in the Air
            Cold. Night. Snow. And death hangs in the air.
            Downstairs, Joseph-Armand Bombardier paced. And paced.
            Upstairs, Yvon, his two-year-old son, lay hot with fever. Beside his crib sat the boy’s mother, Yvonne. Her sisters huddled around her and the crib. They took turns wiping Yvon’s forehead with cool cloths.
            They’d all been there for hours, yet Yvon was no better. If anything, he was worse.
            As time passed Yvon’s fever grew hotter. His cries were now sad whimpers. His color was slowly fading from fevered red to pale white—the same color as the Quebec
snow that blanketed the house, the barn, the village.
            Yvonne sighed. “I must get more water.” The other women nodded. They knew she needed a break more than the water bowl needed refreshing. “Go, Yvonne. We’ll watch over Yvon.”
            Yvonne paused halfway down the wooden staircase. She held back a sob.
            There in the parlor Joseph-Armand paced the floor, just as he had when she’d last refilled the water bowl an hour before, and the hours before that. Only now he muttered, “If only we could get him to a hospital. . . . If only we could get him to a hospital. . . .”
            Yvonne descended the last of the stairs, set the bowl on the pine washstand, and lightly touched her husband’s arm. Her touch stopped his pacing. “Yvonne! The snow is too deep. . . . I can’t . . . I . . .”
            “I know, Joseph-Armand. You can’t get Yvon to the hospital, just as I can’t get his fever down. That’s simply the way it is.” Yvonne wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse. She steadied herself with a deep breath. “If it is God’s will, Joseph-Armand, then—”
            Joseph-Armand shook loose from her touch. “Non! Non, Yvonne!”
            She pulled back, shocked by his fierce reaction.
            “Joseph-Armand, I was just—”
            Now it was Joseph-Armand who sighed. “I know, I know. You are a good wife, Yvonne. And a good Catholic woman. I try to be a good Catholic, too.”
            He inhaled deeply. “The ways of God are mysterious, but there is one thing I know for certain: God did not intend for our child to die because we—no, because I— cannot figure out how to do something as simple as drive through snow. . .”
            “Joseph-Armand, stop this—”
            “No, Yvonne. This is not God’s will. This is my failure.”
            Her eyes filled with tears, and Yvonne once again took Joseph-Armand’s arm. “Dear husband, you may not have discovered how to drive over snow, but neither has anyone else in Quebec. Nor in Canada. Nor in the entire world. So please, stop blaming yourself. Get back to what you do best, while I do the same.”
            Joseph-Armand attempted a smile. “My dear Yvonne, you are the best mother in the world. But right now I cannot think of a single thing that I can do.”
            Yvonne put her arms around him and kissed him tenderly. “You invent things, mon cher. Ours is not the only child who cannot get to a hospital in winter. Now stop pacing and go invent something that will go on snow.”