DEEP GULLIES AND TREE SHROUDED SWAMPS (fiction)

"Our last garment is made without pockets."
-- Italian Proverb

The car drove north against a backdrop of dull gray sky and jack pine hills. It was that time of year when snowdrifts comb the highways, shaped by the winds off the frozen swamps and plains of the northern Lower Peninsula. When they left Midland, Stosh Pelto thought it might be a good day for driving, and it was south of that invisible line that delineates northern and midwestern weather. As they approached the snow-belt, that band of weather between Gaylord and the Bridge, Stosh noted the scenic beauty: sandstone outcroppings that paralleled the expressway; the occasional massive white birch peppered with black pin-dots; and the Christmas tree farms that formed rows of green lace-work against the snow.

Mody Pelto was reading Mad magazine while her mother, June, exhausted from the 12 hour nursing shift she had just put in at Mott Hospital, snored loudly in the back seat.
"When are we gonna get to the bridge, dad? I don't wanna miss the Mystery Spot."
"If I were your age I’d enjoy the scenery, instead of reading that trash," Stosh shot back, pointing at no one in particular.
"Its all the same after the first five miles," Mody said, "and besides, I'm gonna move back to the U.P. someday, so I'll be seeing it all the time."
As they passed the Cheboygan exit, June readjusted her position in the back seat and resumed her asthmatic wheeze.
"I wish your mother would quit smoking, Maureen." Pausing a moment he added, "it's bad."

Just past Black river they passed an open field punctuated by old grave stones, an island of black and white ribbons against an ivory backdrop. Probably an early French burial ground, Stosh thought. When Mody was bored with reading, she opened her lunch and picked at the tuna fish sandwiches. Seeing this, Stosh took up a cold smelt pasty and threw the wrapper out the window.
"I gotta go to the bathroom dad," Mody said impatiently, as they neared the Black River exit.
"Can you hold it till the bridge," Stosh said, his jaw clenched in that focused grimace inherent to one who is considering a possibility while concentrating on something else.
"Maureen, have you noticed that we're in near white-out conditions? Do you really need to go?" he continued, squinting intently at the road in front of him.
"I can't hold it." Mody said, squirming incessantly on the seat next to him.
"All right!" Stosh shouted as he pulled off on a stretch of deep gullies and tree shrouded frozen swamps.

Furrowing her brow intently as she squatted near the guardrail, Mody suddenly noticed what appeared to be a half submerged car about 50 feet down the embankment. If it were a car, it would soon disappear under the onslaught of the all-consuming whiteness.

"I see a car, Dad," Mody squealed softly, with an almost tangible sense of relief in her voice.
"Hurry up. It's probably an old wreck," Stosh answered, gazing northward toward a series of fast approaching, even darker, more furious squalls.
"Dang it, I dropped my rosary," Mody yelled into the deafening wind.

There was no way that Mody would leave without her grandma Jessie’s rosary, which had more sentimental than spiritual value. Which is why she was so insistent on her dad helping find it.

Son of a bitch, Stosh thought, as he moved to help find his dear mother's gift to his only child.
"Look for a delicate opening in the snow where it might have dropped," he said impatiently.
"That's the key to finding something small in the snow."

His words had that tone of cautious optimism that invariably prefaces an impossible task. While they were carefully pawing at the snow, Stosh noticed what looked like steam coming from where the icy water line met the car's front passenger door. The light snow cover on the car told stosh this was a recent accident.
"Hmmm. Mody, I'm gonna check this out. We might have to report it at the bridge."

Swiping the snow from the window, Stosh peered in. "Mody," he screamed in shocked disbelief. "There's a child down here!"
Staring back at him with a look of horror stricken panic was a young girl. Just beyond her, in the front seat, the upper torso of Don Merryweather lay slumped across the front passenger side--face down in the rising water, surrounded by a rapidly congealing sheet of crimson ice.

Feeling a rush of adrenaline, Stosh opened the rear door and pulled the child into the snowy whirlwind.
"Are you O.K.? We'll get you to where it's warm."

Upon hearing this, the child stared at Stosh with that look of measured expressionlessness that articulates the ineffable grief accompanying a profound, and incomprehensible, sense of loss; no doubt an attitude of emotion borne of agonizing hours staring helplessly at her father's lifeless corpse. Fighting the whipping wind, Stosh slowly moved the girl up the embankment.

"Mother, wake up," Mody cried, "someone needs help." The fact that Nancy Pelto was a nurse mattered little. No succor, materially or psychologically, could ease Nicole Merryweather's pain and sorrow. As the car pulled away, Mody's rosary swung wildly from the guardrail in the unrelenting storm.