The black canyon of housefronts looms over him. He wades through it as he waded through the surf at the beach. Maybe it’s so she won’t hear him, in case she’s having fun. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to disturb the night any more than necessary. In the darkness he calls out in a whisper: “Claudia…Claudia…” He sticks out his tongue to catch a flake. In the darkness between the lights he cannot see the snow fall. The snowflakes in the light remind him of moths.
#Maniac magee and aha moments windows
The lights from front windows and the lights at the street corners help. The words that have been inside him come out now in a whisper: I will find her. Two more blocks, and the sidewalk snow is untouched. Once again he is aware of the falling flakes. The search here is quieter: misted breathing, murmurs, the squeak of boots in snow. In the seven hundred block the light comes only from the windows. The eight hundred block is a little less busy and bright but just as trampled. A toddler in ski pajamas calls from a doorway: “Mommy! Can I look too?” The mother yells, the door slams shut. It seems like the whole town is either on the street or staring from the windows. Snow warfare gains a new, thrilling edge when waged in the glare of police lights. He stacks the gloves neatly one upon the other and lays them on the top step of the nearest house. He appears to be blushing in the red light spinning atop a nearby truck. He takes the gloves from his pockets and stands there staring at his hands. He stuffs them in his coat pockets, then discovers there’s no warm place to put his hands. He begins to pull his glove back on, but the glove is colder than the night air.
He returns the lucky stone to his pocket. He wonders if Claudia complained, or did she just skip that and take off? He remembers her saying that if Claudia ever started complaining about her leash, they would have to have a chat. He remembers her saying something funny about being run over by a chicken. He remembers a conversation with Claudia’s mother. He pulls off the glove and reaches into his pants pocket and takes out his lucky stone, Claudia’s gift, the pink petrified clump of bubblegum. The glove is wet because the balls he has been throwing have been more slushballs than snowballs, because slushballs as everybody knows fly truer and harder, the only problem being they sog up your woolen gloves with icy wetness which, funny, you don’t even notice until you stop throwing. He has to do it one finger at a time it’s not easy because the glove is icy and wet. He thinks he sees her mother in the mob at the front step. The lights cluster brilliantly up the street at Claudia’s house.
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