Ice Country(4)

“Sorry, Yo,” Buff says diplomatically. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s two fights last week and three this ’un. Nay, it freezin’ won’t happen again, ’cause you ain’t welcome back.”

My eyes snap open and I see three Yo’s standing over me, looking angrier than a skinned bear in a snowstorm. His thick mess of beard is right over my face and I clamp my mouth shut for fear of getting a hairy appetizer before lunch.

“But, Yo, you can’t do that—we’ve always come here.” Buff’s words come out as a plea, which is exactly what it is. I expect if he was physically able to, he’d be on his knees with his hands clasped tight, praying to the Heart of the Mountain for Yo to reconsider.

The red hot anger leeches from Yo’s face, leaving him paler than one of the Pasties from the Glass City out in fire country. “You think I don’t know that?” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Chill, I practically raised you boys.” Wellll, I wouldn’t go that far. I respect Yo and how well he runs his business, but honestly, I’d rather be raised by wolves, and not the tame, gentle kind who pull our sleds; the sharp-fanged vicious ones who are known to drag children into the forest.

But at the same time, there’s a degree of truth to his words. Most of what we’ve learned about life has come from our time spent in Fro-Yo’s. First, when we were just kids, brought by my father after school to “learn how to be men,” and then, after he caught the Cold and passed on, we kept going back. Yo could’ve turned us away, because we were too young without having a parent there, but he didn’t. Knowing full well from the gossip that my mother would probably never be motherly again, he served us wafers and goat’s cheese and gumberry juice, never charging us a thing. And we learned how to be men, or at least the ice-country-tavern version of men, drinking hard and fighting harder.

Look where it’s got us.

I don’t say a thing, because the memories are caught in my throat.

“C’mon, Yo, we were provoked,” Buff says, less nostalgic than me. Really what he means is that Dazz was provoked, and even that’s a lie. There’s a chilluva difference between saying a few nasty words in someone’s general direction and throwing a full-force punch between the eyes, although sometimes the nuances of good behavior and manners are completely lost on me.

“No ’scuses, boys,” Yo says. “Look, the best I can do is that I’ll consider lettin’ you back if you can prove you’ve changed your fightin’ ways.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” I ask, finally dislodging the memories from my windpipe.

“Get a job. Pay for all the damages. And if I don’t hear about you startin’”—he cocks his head to the side thoughtfully—“or endin’ any fights, I’ll let you come back.”

I groan, but not from the pounding headache that I suddenly feel in the back of my head. From where I’m lying, his requirements seem impossible. Bye, bye girlfriend number two.

“Sure, Yo, whatever you say,” Buff says, but I can hear the dismay in his voice. “We’ll prove it to you.”

“Now you best run home and put some ice on those heads of yours. My oak stools pack a wallop, all right.”

He helps Buff to his feet, and then me. We stand side by side, two fierce warriors, swaying and unsteady on our feet like we might topple over at any moment. Some warriors.

Buff flops a heavy arm around my shoulders, nearly knocking me over. I cling to him just as tightly. We stagger for the door like drunks, open it awkwardly. Before we leave, I look back and ask a final question. “Who hit us from behind?”

Yo shakes his head. “You’ll just go and start a fight if I tell you.”

“Naw, Yo, I just wanna know how we lost. We don’t usually lose.” Never, really.

Yo closes one eye, as if he’s got a bit of dirt in it. “One of those stonecutters,” he says. “The third one, who you both thought was out of the picture.”

We close the door, welcoming the cold.





~~~





“Yah, she was pretty icy,” Buff says, “but there are plenny of fish in the ice streams.” The thing about that is, I’ve gone ice fishing twenny times this winter and I ain’t never caught a freezin’ thing.

“Yah,” I say, not really agreeing. It’s just a bit of bad luck, I tell myself, referring to the three broken and mangled “relationships” I’ve left in my wake. If bad luck’s got two-mile-long legs, a deadly white smile, and more curves than a snowman, then that’s exactly what I got.