The Pump That Dripped
Otis went down the lane with a tin pail swinging. Mo came behind him, slow and steady, snow settling on his olive-tan shell. Lamps were lit along the fences already. The snow made the whole village quiet, the way a blanket does. At the end of the lane stood the village pump, with a small lantern hanging from its post. Otis wanted water for cocoa. He pushed the handle down and waited. Plink. One drop fell into the pail. Plink. One more.
The water came slowly. Inside the pipe, Otis knew, there was ice. He pushed the handle again, harder. The drop was exactly the same size as before. It was not in a hurry, and it would not be hurried. Otis sat down on the cold step. Mo set himself down beside the pail and blinked snow off his heavy eyes. "One drop at a time, Mo," Otis said. Plink, said the pump, as if it agreed with him.
So they waited. There was plenty to look at while they waited. The lantern swung a little and moved everybody's shadow. Snow came down slant and gold through the light. A door opened somewhere up the lane and closed again. Smoke leaned out of the chimneys and went soft at the top. Otis counted twelve plinks, then lost count, then started again at one. The pail was wet at the bottom now. Not full. Wet was a beginning.
Otis blew on his fingers. Mo tucked his head in a little, the way he did when the wind found him. Otis looked at the pump. He looked at the frost on the iron, white and furry like moss. Ice was the whole trouble. Ice could be talked out of a thing, maybe, if a thing was warm enough. He thought about the kettle at home, too far away. Then he thought about his scarf, which was here, and long, and his.
Otis unwound the scarf from his neck. The cold came straight in at his collar. He wrapped the scarf around the iron pipe, once, twice, three times, and tied the ends under the spout like a knot on a parcel. It looked like the pump was going out for a walk. Otis sat back down. The air bit his chin. "One drop at a time, Mo," he said, and Mo shuffled nearer until his shell touched Otis's arm.
Mo's shell blocked the wind. Otis leaned on it and put his bare hands flat against it, and it was warmer than the step, warmer than the iron, warm as a stone left out in the sun. Mo stretched his neck out and seemed pleased to be leaned on. The lantern swung. The snow came down. Plink, said the pail. Then plink-plink, two together, quicker than before. Otis sat very still and did not say anything at all.
Plink. Plink-plink. Plink. The drops were running into each other now, like beads coming off a string. Otis watched the water climb the inside of the pail, past the dent, past the rivet. A cat crossed the lane and left small holes behind it. The lantern went on swinging. Somewhere a shovel scraped twice and stopped. By the time the pail was heavy, the scarf hung damp and dark around the pipe, and the plinking had turned into pouring.
Otis untied his scarf and put it back on, wet and cold at the ends, and did not mind. He carried the pail with both hands. Mo came slow behind him all the way up the lane. At home there was cocoa, and a shallow dish of warm water for Mo's feet, which Mo stood in for a long time with his eyes shut. "One drop at a time, Mo," Otis said, into his cup. The steam went up past his nose.
Later, Otis lay under the wool blankets with Mo beside the bed, breathing his slow turtle breath. Outside, the snow kept coming down, quiet on the roof, quiet on the lane, quiet on the pump at the end of it. Otis could still hear the plink somewhere behind his eyes, smaller now, further off. He reached over and turned the little lamp down until the last of its light folded away. The dark came in gently and stayed.
