Free When the Night Comes by Favel Parrett Page A

silence.
    I lay in my bed in the dark and listened. Listened to see if I could hear it falling out there in the night, covering over our car and filling all the stone gutters, dusting the red roses powdery white. I fell asleep trying to listen—willing the snow to fall harder so it would cover up all of the grayness of this place. Until it made these old streets white and clean and new.

    School was canceled.
    We played out in the street all day with kids we didn’t know, kids we had never even met, and West Hobart had never looked so good. So bright.
    A man skied down Hill Street. I watched him disappear and I hoped he knew how to stop. There were no cars, no buses. Nothing but kids screaming and running and skidding over, throwing snowballs and hoping that the snow would stay for weeks and weeks.
    By that night it was just slush, muddied up and used. And in the morning there were only little pockets of frosted snow left in the deep round gutters, wherever the sun didn’t shine.
    The magic was gone.
    We drove to school the next day wearing our gray uniforms that offered no warmth and my brother was quiet again. Quiet and lost somewhere trying not to think about things.
    I could not help him.

MS Nella Dan
    VOYAGE 2, 1986/1987 SEASON
    10th November 1986
    POSITION: 63° 52.000’ S, 119° 55.000’ E
    CAPTAIN’S NOTE: Vessel moving through leads in pack ice. Occasional small icebergs. Strong winds expected by 14:00.
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    We feel Nella butt up against the ice, that first big jolt, and Soren calls out, “Mooooose! Mooooose!”
    Erik answers the call. He runs at Soren, leaps in the air, and their chests smack together in the usual ritual. Thud . Thud . “Mooooose!”
    I’m scrubbing pans, the lunch shift over. Our one hour a day off. Nella lifts up, slides over the ice with a squeal. The pressure of the ship on the ice forms waves underneath and they roll and buck and lash out. We pitch like we are on open water, then steady up—move ahead. Steady. Five knots, slow and steady.
    â€œTime for coffee,” Soren says, and I say, “Okay,” dry my hands, last pan done. I get out our special thermos—chipped and marked and dented on the bottom from being dropped so many times. I open the lid.
    Soren tells me that we better get that side of beef out of the freezer before we forget and I nod. I look at him. Both our arms come up at the same time. One, two, three— rock, paper, scissors.
    Soren always chooses rock first. Every time. I don’t know why, but itmakes it easy to beat him. I go paper. He stands there looking at my open hand. Paper.
    â€œBest of three?” he says. It is what he always says. I nod. I give him a chance.
    One, two, three.
    This time he goes paper. I go scissors. It just popped into my head at the very last second. Scissors. Two fingers. He shakes his head, always so defeated, starts walking toward the metal stairs. Then he stops, turns to me.
    â€œI let you win,” he says.
    â€œSure,” I say. “Sure.”
    I take a scoop of ground coffee. The smell of it fills my head, my stomach, and I am looking forward to it—fresh coffee. Maybe I will sit in the red booth and read the printed news from home. Maybe I will just stare out at the ice, at the world there moving right by us.
    I see Soren start to go down the stairs to the coolroom. Nella slows, her little frame is humming, pushing against the thick ice. Then she lurches forward, rides right over to the port side heavy. I brace against the counter. The pile of pans I washed falls to the floor. The thermos tips; coffee grounds spill all over the stainless steel. I hear crashing from the mess, broken plates, smashing glass, God knows what breaking.
    I feel Nella right herself, pull back—her engine revving. I move to the stairwell.
    â€œSoren?” I say.
    A foot.
    A leg.
    A man on his stomach in the small space between the bottom of the metal stairs and the coolroom