Snow in August Read online

  PRAISE FOR PETE HAMILL’SSNOW IN AUGUST

  “Simply a wonderful story and well told.”

  —Mike Barnicle, Boston Globe

  “A beautiful tale of pain, evil, retribution, and hope.”

  —Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  “Vivid… Hamill delivers… You can hear the sounds of kids playing stickball, taste the Communion wafers, and see Jackie Robinson stealing home.”

  —Associated Press

  “Once again, Pete Hamill shows us how marvelous a writer he is. This novel is a delight.”

  —Peter Maas

  “Lovely yet heartbreaking…. [A] moving story of a boy confronting morality…. In Michael Devlin, Hamill has created one of the most endearing characters in recent adult fiction…. SNOW IN AUGUST is a minor miracle in itself.”

  —Hartford Courant

  “Hamill is an effortless master at evoking a bygone era…. All [he] has to do is say ‘Shazam!’ and he brings to palpable life the streets of postwar Brooklyn and the prepubescent soul of a boy coming of age.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “Charming and affecting.”

  —Miami Herald

  “In this beautifully woven tale, Hamill captures perfectly the daily working-class world of postwar Brooklyn… Will thrill believers and make nonbelievers pause…. He examines with a cool head and a big heart the vulnerabilities and inevitable oneness of humankind.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Brings a fascinating time and place to very real life.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “Hamill is as readable as ever… the time-warp element and terrific descriptions will appeal to many.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “With a mastery of language and imagery that has made him the journalist-editor-novelist he is, Hamill meshes several disparate works seamlessly, in lush colors.”

  —Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  “A godsend…. Only the hard-hearted could fail to be moved by this old-fashioned story about friendship.”

  —St. Paul Pioneer Press

  “Hamill blends fiction and fantasy to produce a masterpiece… in a book that comes along about as often as there is snow in August…. All of the elements strike a chord without coming across as clichés…. He has written a great American novel.”

  —Winston-Salem Journal

  “Delightful… endearing… absorbing… Hamill has written a telling episode of faith, a faith which professes that major or minor miracles might readily occur along the streets of ancient Prague or modern Brooklyn’s East New York.”

  —Midstream

  “Re-creates the Brooklyn of days gone by lovingly…. Hamill, the journalist, puts just the right amount of realistic detail into the time and place and characters to make this story burst with life.”

  —Kliatt

  ALSO BY PETE HAMILL

  NOVELS

  A Killing for Christ

  The Gift

  Dirty Laundry

  Flesh and Blood

  The Deadly Piece

  The Guns of Heaven

  Loving Women

  SHORT STORY

  COLLECTIONS

  The Invisible City

  Tokyo Sketches

  NONFICTION

  Irrational Ravings

  A Drinking Life

  Tools as Art

  Piecework

  Why Sinatra Matters

  Diego Rivera

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Excerpt from “April Showers” by DeSylva and Silvers. Copyright © by Range Road Music, Inc., Quartet Music, Inc., and Stephen Ballentine Music Publishers. Reprinted by permission.

  Excerpt from “Don’t Fence Me In” by Robert Fletcher and Cole Porter. Copyright © by Warner Bros. Inc. Reprinted by permission.

  Excerpt from “Zip-ah-dee-doo-dah” by Ray Gilbert and Allie Wrubel. Copyright © by Walt Disney Music Co. Reprinted by permission.

  Excerpt from “Penthouse Serenade” by Will Jason and Val Burton. Copyright © 1931 by Range Road Music, Inc., and Quartet Music, Inc. Reprinted by permission.

  Warner Books Edition

  Copyright © 1997 by Deidre Enterprises, Inc.

  Reading Group Guide copyright © 1999 by Deidre Enterprises, Inc., and Warner Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: October 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56966-8

  Contents

  PRAISE FOR PETE HAMILL’S SNOW IN AUGUST

  ALSO BY PETE HAMILL

  Copyright

  THIS BOOK IS FOR

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  On Writing Snow in August

  THIS BOOK IS FOR

  my brother John

  AND IN MEMORY OF

  Joel Oppenheimer

  who heard the cries of

  “Yonkel! Yonkel! Yonkel!”

  in the summer bleachers of 1947.

  Now faith is the substance of things hoped for,the evidence of things not seen.

  HEBREWS 11:1

  A Jew can’t live without miracles.

  YIDDISH PROVERB

  1

  Once upon a cold and luminous Saturday morning, in an urban hamlet of tenements, factories, and trolley cars on the western slopes of the borough of Brooklyn, a boy named Michael Devlin woke in the dark.

  He was eleven years and three months old in this final week of the year 1946, and because he had slept in this room for as long as he could remember, the darkness provoked neither mystery nor fear. He did not have to see the red wooden chair that stood against the windowsill; he knew it was there. He knew his winter clothes were hanging on a hook on the door and that his three good shirts and his clean underclothes were neatly stacked in the two drawers of the low green bureau. The Captain Marvel comic book he’d been reading before falling asleep was certain to be on the floor beside the narrow bed. And he knew that when he turned on the light he would pick up the comic book and stack it with the other Captain Marvels on the top shelf of the metal cabinet beside the door. Then he would rise in a flash, holding his breath to keep from shivering in his underwear, grab for clothes, and head for the warmth of the kitchen. That was what he did on every dark winter morning of his life.

  But this morning was different.

  Because of the light.

  His room, on
the top floor of the tenement at 378 Ellison Avenue, was at once dark and bright, with tiny pearls of silver glistening in the blue shadows. From the bed, Michael could see a radiant paleness beyond the black window shade and gashes of hard white light along its sides. He lay there under the covers, his eyes filled with the bright darkness. A holy light, he thought. The light of Fatima. Or the Garden of Eden. Or the magic places in storybooks. Suddenly, he was sure it was like the light in the Cave of the Seven Deadly Enemies of Man. That secret place in the comic book where the faceless man in the black suit first took Billy Batson to meet the ancient Egyptian wizard named Shazam. Yes: the newsboy must have seen a light like this. Down there, beyond the subway tunnel, in that long stone cave where the white-bearded wizard gave him the magic word that called down the lightning bolt. The lightning bolt that turned the boy into Captain Marvel, the world’s mightiest man.

  Michael knew that the magic word was the same as the name of the wizard: Shazam! And he had learned from the comic book that the letters of the name stood for Solomon, Hercules, and Atlas, Zeus, Achilles, and Mercury. Ancient gods and heroes. Except for Solomon, who was a wise king from Bible days. Mighty symbols of strength, stamina, power, courage, and speed. They weren’t just names in a comic book either; Michael had looked them up in the encyclopedia. And their powers were all combined in Captain Marvel. On that night in the mysterious cave, the wizard named Shazam told Billy Batson he had been chosen to fight the forces of evil because he was pure of heart. And no matter how sinister his enemies were, no matter how monstrous their weapons, all he needed to fight them was to shout the magic word. Shazam!

  Alas, on the streets of the parish, the magic word did not work for Michael Devlin and his friends, and for at least three years they had debated the reasons. Maybe they needed to get the powers directly from the Egyptian wizard. Maybe the word didn’t work because they weren’t pure enough. Or because, as his friend Sonny Montemarano put it, Captain Marvel was just a story in a fucking comic book. Still, Michael insisted, it might be true. Who could ever know? Maybe all they had to do was believe hard enough for it to happen.

  Michael was snapped back into the present by the sound of the wind. First a low moan. Then a high-pitched whine. A trombone choir, then a soprano saxophone. Tommy Dorsey’s band, and then Sidney Bechet. The names and music he had learned from the radio. It sounded to Michael like the voice of the light. He sat up, his heart pounding, wondering what time it was, afraid that he had overslept, and swung his feet around to the floor. They landed on the Captain Marvel comic book.

  I wish I didn’t have to do this, he thought. Sometimes being an altar boy was a huge pain in the ass. I wish I could just lie in bed and listen to the wind. Instead of dragging myself all the way to Sacred Heart to mouth a lot of mumbo jumbo in a language nobody even speaks. I wish I could fall back into this warm bed, pull the covers around me, and sleep.

  But he did not sink back into the warmth. In his mind, he saw his mother’s disappointed face and Father Heaney’s angry eyes. Worse: he felt suddenly alarmed, as if he had come close to the sin of sloth. Even Shazam warned against sloth, listing it among the Seven Deadly Enemies of Man, and Shazam wasn’t even a Catholic. The word itself had a disgusting sound, and he remembered a picture of an animal called a sloth that he’d seen in a dictionary. Thick, furry, nasty. He imagined it growing to the size of King Kong, waddling wetly through the city, stinking of filth and laziness and animal shit. A dirty goddamned giant sloth, with P-38s firing machine guns at it, the bullets vanishing into the hairy mush of its formless body, its open mouth a pit of slobber. Jesus Christ.

  So Michael did not even raise the black window shade. He grabbed his trousers, thinking: The antonym for sloth must be self-denial. Or movement. Or a word that said get off your ass, get up and go. When the priests, brothers, and nuns were not drilling them in synonyms or antonyms or the eleven times table, they were forever hammering away about self-denial. And so, buttoning his fly in the dark, he refused himself the pleasure of pulling the shade aside, or rolling it up, and thus revealing the source of the luminous light. He would wait. He would put off that vision. He would offer up his discomfort, as his teachers commanded him to do, for the suffering souls in Purgatory. Be good. Be pure. Accept some pain and thus redeem those who are burning for their sins. He could hear the chilly orders of his catechism teachers as clearly as he could hear Shazam.

  Shirtless and shoeless, he hurried through the dark living room and past his mother’s closed bedroom door to the kitchen, which faced the harbor of New York. The fire in the coal stove had guttered and died during the night, and the linoleum floors were frigid on his bare feet. He didn’t care. Now he would deny himself no longer. He lifted the kitchen window shade, and his heart tripped.

  There was the source of the light.

  Snow.

  Still falling on the rooftops and backyards of Brooklyn.

  Snow now so deep, so dense and packed, that the world glowed in its blinding whiteness.

  The thrilling view pebbled his skin. It had been snowing for two days and nights, great white flakes on the first day and then harder, finer snow driven by the wind off the harbor. The boy had seen nothing like it. Ever. He could remember six of his eleven winters on the earth, and there had never been snow like this. This was snow out of movies about the Yukon that he watched in the Venus. This was like the great Arctic blizzards in the stories of Jack London that he read in the library on Garibaldi Street. Snow that hid wolves and covered automobiles and crushed cabins and halted trolley cars. Snow that caused avalanches to cover the entrances of gold mines and snow that cracked limbs off trees in Prospect Park. Snow from a mighty storm. The night before, someone on the radio said that the blizzard had paralyzed the city. Here it was, the next morning, and the snow was still coming down, erasing the world.

  He stepped into the narrow bathroom off the kitchen, closing the door behind him. The tiles were colder than the linoleum. His teeth chattered. He urinated, pulled the chain to flush, and then washed his face quickly in the cold water of the sink, thinking: I will go into it; I will face the storm, climb the hard hills, push into the wind of the blizzard to the church on the hill. Father Heaney, a veteran of the war, will celebrate the eight o’clock mass, and I will be there at his side. The only human being to make it through the blizzard. Even the old ladies in black, those strange old biddies who make it to church through rainstorms and heat waves, even they will fail to make it through the storm. The pews will be empty. The candles will flicker in the cold. But I will be there.

  His heart raced at the prospect of the great test. He didn’t care now about the souls in Purgatory. He wanted the adventure. He wished he had a dogsled waiting downstairs. He wished he could bundle himself in furs and lift a leather whip and urge the huskies forward, shouting, Mush, boys, mush! He had the serum in a pouch and by God, he would get it to Nome.

  He combed his hair, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, his mother, Kate, was raking the ashes in the coal stove, her flannel robe pulled tightly around her, worn brown slippers on her feet. Steam leaked from her mouth into the frigid air. A teapot rested on the black cast-iron top of the stove, waiting for heat.

  “Let me do that, Mom,” the boy said. “That’s my job.”

  “No, no, you’re already washed,” she said, in her soft Irish accent, a hair of irritation in her voice. Raking the dead ashes was one of Michael’s chores, but in his excitement over the blizzard, he’d forgotten. “Just go and get dressed.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, taking the flat shovel from her and digging the ashes out of the bottom tray. He poured them into a paper bag, a gray powder rising in the air to mix with the steam from his breath, then shoveled fresh coal from the bucket onto the grate. The fine ash made him sneeze.

  “For the love of God, Michael, get dressed,” she said now, pushing him aside. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  Back in his room, at the far end of the railroad flat, he pu
lled an undershirt over his head and a dark green shirt on top of it, shoving the tails into his trousers. After tugging galoshes over his shoes, he finally raised the blackout shade. The snow was piled against the windowpane at least two feet above the steel slats of the fire escape. Beyond the steep drift, snow swirled like a fog so dense he could not see across Ellison Avenue. He hurried back into the kitchen. A fire was burning now in the coal stove, its odor staining the air like rotten eggs. He wished his mother would buy the Blue Coal advertised on The Shadow; it was harder—anthracite, they said in school—with almost no smell. But she told him once that they couldn’t afford it and he never asked again.

  “I’m sure you could stay home if you like, Michael,” she said, the irritation out of her voice now. “They know how far you have to come.”

  “I can do it,” he said, combing his hair, choosing not to remind her that the church was eight blocks from 378 Ellison Avenue. From the backyards he heard a sound that he was sure was the howling of a thousand wolves.

  “Still,” she said, pouring water for tea, “it’s a terrible long way in this storm.”

  He followed her glance to the wall clock: seven twenty-five. He had time. He was certain that she also looked at the framed photograph of his father. Thomas Devlin. Michael was named for his mother’s father, who had died in Ireland long ago. The photograph of his own father was hanging beside the picture of President Roosevelt that she’d cut out of the Daily News magazine when he died. For a moment, Michael wondered what she thought about when she looked at the picture of his father. The boy didn’t remember many details about the man she called Tommy. He was a large man with dark hair and a rough, stubbled beard who had gone off to the army when Michael was six. And had never come back. In the framed formal photograph, he was wearing his army uniform. The skin on his smiling face looked smooth. Much smoother than it actually felt. His hair was covered by the army cap, but at the sides it was lighter than the boy remembered. That brown hair. And a deep voice with an Irish brogue. And a blue Sunday suit and polished black shoes. And a song about the green glens of Antrim. And stories about a dog he had as a boy in Ireland, a dog named Sticky, who could power a boat with his tail and fly over mountains. His mother surely remembered much more about him. The boy knew his father had been killed in Belgium in the last winter of the war, and thought: Maybe the blizzard reminds her of Tommy Devlin dead in the snow, a long way from Brooklyn. Maybe that’s why she’s irritated. It’s not my lollygagging. It’s the snow.