Tom was late getting to work, but he was confident the early-season snowstorm had rocked everyone’s morning. It didn’t even matter since he was salary, but he knew the kind of shit he would get for it. “Hey, hey, there he is. The part timer.” Just for being ten minutes later than usual. How differently we see a foot of snow when we’re no longer kids. It brought to mind a long ago morning just like this, when he was nine, and his little brother, Bill, was three. They had charged out into the cold as soon as their mother okayed it, Bill bundled in a snowsuit so plush he could hardly bend his elbows or lift his knees high enough to walk, and just started pelting each other with snowballs. Of course, being older, Tom was faster and a much better shot, and, unfortunately, Bill’s super snowsuit did nothing to cover his face. The last snowball either of them threw that day was the one that hit Bill in his red, frozen, tender little left cheek. Tom had whipped it like he was battling someone twice his own age, and Bill immediately burst into tears, dropping to his knees in the powder, his arms limp at his sides, just bawling. These days, Tom often felt that way at the mere sight of the stuff.
The storm last night was a doozy, but it wasn’t the real reason he was late this morning and he knew it, which was why he also thought he actually deserved a few jabs. After the phone he had hung on to for the last four years finally quit on him, he had just ordered the latest and greatest, which was supposed to be delivered today. He had been ready to leave plenty early, even after clearing out the driveway, but wanted to track the package first, worried that with all the snow it might be delayed. Wouldn’t you know it, the storm was causing a problem with his internet connection, too. In the end, he’d left a note for Julie, his wife, just to let him know if and when it came, not that he had really needed to. She knew how excited he was, and likely would have thought of it on her own. Instead of writing that note, he should have written down the tracking number so he could have kept an eye on it at work.
The excitement affected his concentration all day, and more than once he thought of giving Julie a call. It was a little childish, sure, but he just couldn’t help it. He believed in buying quality and making it last, even when it came to his electronics. As a result, his old phone was so old it could hardly run the apps he wanted. Now, he was the first person he knew getting the new model, and, more importantly, it was sure to perform better than he could currently imagine.
He had been checking the clock every ten minutes, it seemed, so when four o’clock rolled around he could hardly believe it. He was in his car before anyone knew he’d left the building, and because he lived only a mile away he was probably home before they figured it out, too.
He opened the front door, and scoped around. There it was, sitting on the counter. Knowing Julie, she had probably considered having it charged up and ready for him by the time he got home, but she would have known just as well how much fun the unboxing part would be. He wanted to thank her for not robbing him of that, and for the mere simple act of putting the package where he could see it, but she was standing across the room talking to someone on her own cell, and didn’t even turn to look at him.
It could wait, he thought. She was probably still working.
He hung his coat on the hook and walked into the kitchen, tore into the cardboard, and even had the smaller box open so fast it seemed he had forgotten to enjoy it all anyway. The thing was beautiful. So shiny. He was hesitant to put the first fingerprint on it.
He heard Julie getting off the call behind him.
“Tom…” she said.
She rarely called him that. He hadn’t told her which phone he had gotten, not exactly, but the ads were hard to miss, and with the little white box now sitting on the counter next to him she probably knew what it cost. Whether he acknowledged her or not, he suspected he was about to get a talking to.
“Tom…” she said again.
He turned to face her, and was going to try to be serious, but couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. It got easier when he saw her. She’d been crying.
“That was your mother,” she told him. “Honey, Bill’s been killed in a car accident.”
And as she explained how it happened, about the bad roads and the truck, Tom thought about the snowball fight again. Twenty years ago when he nailed his baby brother in the face and how he’d collapsed to his knees, crying. Tom had run up to Bill and pecked his red, swelling cheek with kisses saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” to get him to stop. He had known the noise would bring their father, and then Tom would be crying, too.
But it hadn’t been only fear. He had known at once that he’d had no reason to throw that last snowball as hard as he did. Eventually, Bill did stop. It really hadn’t taken long either, and Bill was smiling at him again, loving his big brother like little brothers do, all of it on his face. They had gone back in the house after that and drank hot chocolate that their father made without ever knowing what had happened outside.
Tom picked up his new phone almost absentmindedly, those feelings of excitement and impatience all but forgotten sensations now. He needed to activate it and put his contacts in. He had already missed his mother’s call. There would soon be others. And some he would have to make himself.