Chapter 18 — Edge of Spring
A
t the end of February, three weeks of deep freeze let go. In the first days of March the mercury uncurled itself from the bottom of the bulb in the thermometer and crept up toward the freezing mark. Under a bright sun and a blue sky, Maynard Pierce of Kennebec Academy’s maintenance crew was pumping gas into the green truck in his shirtsleeves. “The winter’s broke, boys. The winter’s broke. It’s all over now.” “Like hell it is,” growled dour Bert, who ran a string of lobster traps outside Seguin. “This here’s a weather-breeder. You take a soft day like this in th’ winter time with the wind to the s’uth’ard and sure as a squash has seeds, she’ll cant out to the east’ard and give you a good soakin’. You’ll have your ear flaps down t’morrow.” “Joe Cupo didn’t say so on the radio this mornin’.” “Joe Cupo didn’t see the big old roll off Seguin this morning.” The school awoke the next day to a heavy easterly gale slamming bursts of snow against the dining hall windows out of a howling impenetrable grayness. The river and the point across the cove dissolved in the rush of snow and wind. The pines on the near-bank, showing only dimly through the storm, bent their tops and thrashed their upper branches before the heavier gusts. Mr. Floyd bent forward against the blast on his way to breakfast, the hood of his mackinaw pulled over his head, his cap pulled down over his eyes. The blind brute force of the gale pushed him, pummeled him, threw snow in his face, tripped him with snow, roared in rage or laughed with heavy boorish laughter as he picked his way from tree to tree along the path. But it was his day to be at breakfast so of course he was going. He battled his way to the shelter of the dining hall porch, stamped his feet, pushed back his hood, and stepped in over a puddle of melting snow on the floor. He hung his coat and hat neatly on a peg and, dressed precisely as usual, boots his only concession to the weather, proceeded to the head of the head table. The clatter and chatter of 100 boys died away in the presence of this precise little man. Silence. “For these and all thy many blessings, our Father, we thank thee. Amen.” Chairs scraped and the clatter resumed. Mr. Floyd was a scholar, head of the English department, author of an anthology of poetry, a careful paper on the significance of Melville’s references to Shakespeare in Moby Dick, and a manual of English grammar, usage, and punctuation which was annually distributed to every boy in Kennebec Academy. In his classroom he was serious but not solemn, as much interested in his students as in his subject. In the dormitory he was always slightly formal but a friend to every one of his boys, their advocate in times of trouble, wise enough to know when not to look and when to apply the iron hand of discipline. “There are no rules until they are broken,” he said; but he insisted they be obeyed. Mrs. Floyd grew flowers, fed birds, worked for H&R Block in Bath every spring, knew every boy who had ever lived in the dormitory and most of their parents. She poured tea with a touch of Victorian formality –“one lump or two?”– and made excellent cupcakes. The waiter came in from the kitchen to report that the radio was loaded with no school announcements and winter storm warnings were broadcast. Joe Cupo was talking about a “sneak blizzard.” The dining hall fell silent as Mr. Sawyer, the Headmaster, came in – an unusual event at breakfast. His jacket and hood were plastered with snow and his face was red and wind burned. “Gentlemen, this is predicted to continue all day with a heavy accumulation. Plows will have 81
