It is hard to tell you of snow. It was like the ash, but colder.

Marion Boyer, “Her Favorite Story”

I am helping Mamá pack for the move north. The deepest wells have run dry, as have our tears. I cannot imagine that there will ever be snow again, no matter how far north we travel.

The man who made the snow lived up on the hill, in a house that was white, all white: walls, roof, doors, cornices, pillars. Behind the screened and barred windows we could see white curtains swaying slowly in the breeze from an invisible fan. A white cement wall surrounded the estate, topped with icy shards of glass. The iron gate was painted white, too, and rarely unlocked. It opened only for parties, when the colonels of the junta would emerge from dark, armored limousines with an entourage of thugs and celebrated tango dancers, and to let out the snow-making machine, with its driver-operator and two guards armed with submachine guns.

When people died there was no snow, only ashes on the wind. As the seasonal heat waves and epidemics reached their red zenith and the sick and old drifted into death like the schools of small river fish, the ash from the crematorium fell in warm, thick flakes, to settle in drifts like a terrible parody of a blizzard. But for birthdays and other celebrations, those who could afford it–and many who could not (Sr. Hombre-de-nieve offered easy credit terms) — paid for a snowfall, their shanty roofs and pathetic gardens briefly transformed to glittering jewel-boxes of diamantes y perlas, shrieking children twirling in veils of crystalline powder like rotating plastic figurines on an expanse of frosted cake, their sallow cheeks pinkening in the prickle of ice.

This year the cooler season never came to Oregon, nor its brief rains. Even high in the mountains, the air recoiled squirming from the blazing rocks. The rivers receded into glistening mud and then crackled like dry snakeskin. There had never been so many deaths. Ash motes in their millions hung in the sweltering air like a fog of midges. School started earlier and earlier before sunrise and let out sooner, in a vain attempt to evade the heat. Our classes were held in the humid school basement, but it did no good, and teachers and students fainted daily. The water-pumping company increased its rates monthly instead of quarterly, and the snow became more and more expensive, even though the machine used water from the few remaining deep-lake bottoms and sinkholes to avoid the charges. The Snow Merchant began requiring payment weeks in advance, but it was my quinceañera and Papá had promised snow for my party.

For days before, there was a constant barrage of envious questions from the other girls in my class, whispering in the hot dark on the way to school: Do you think it will be as deep as it was at María’s house? Remember when Rosa’s father had it colored pink? My father said it was too expensive and I’d have to share a party with my cousins! Don’t you think that’s awful?

On the afternoon of my party, I was too impatient to worry about our house’s shabbiness, too excited to be bothered by the sweat trickling to wilt the crisp lace of my new dress–in a few hours everything would be eclipsed in white, vanish under the beautiful snow. I made a sign to put above the door: WELCOME TO WINTER!

When my friends and their parents began to arrive, the snow machine was already an hour late. No frost concealed our grubby yard, no icicles hung from peeling paint and shingles. Our guests milled uncomfortably in the sparsely-furnished living room, holding tiny glasses of syrup-like punch and lurid, dyed cookies. The girls murmured in sympathy as I greeted them but their parents and brothers stared scornfully at our worn-out rugs and furniture. I was just beginning to feel the first tears creep up behind my eyes when we heard the rumble of the snow machine’s spiked treads.

Papá marched out to confront the driver, who waved his arms and expostulated–he had done the best he could, he insisted: to find a pool deep enough from which to draw the water had required going further than ever before; there had been difficulties… “We can leave, if you don’t want it,” one of the guards finally said, gruffly, “but he’s not giving refunds, not now.” Papá finally grumbled at them to begin, but I heard him say to Mamá that he would have something to say to “Mr. Snow Man” about goodwill, and cheating those who worked hard for their money.

He was even more vocal when the machine began to do its work. Not the white crystals, each flake a faceted star, that had filled our neighbors’ yards in the past, but a spray of rapidly-melting greenish lumps began to coat our house, the terrace, the few spindly bushes and desiccated trees with a spurious mockery of verdant foliage. Opaque slush spattered my new dress, dribbling from the limp fabric with a putrid odor of algae and rotting fish. The machine’s roar suddenly escalated in volume until it reached a hideous crescendo in a screech of torqueing metal, then stopped. There was a horrified silence, filled only with the steady drip of clots of green slime from each twig and lintel.

Then they all began shouting at once, until there was a pandemonium of shrieking girls, infuriated parents, and over it all, my father bellowing “Filth! Scum! How dare you insult us so! You’ll clean my yard with your tongues before I’m through with you!” The mothers whose daughters’ birthdays were approaching huddled to murmur among themselves in consternation. The operator frantically tried to restart the snow-maker, but produced only a few bangs and sparks, and a smell of burning insulation. The guards raised their guns threateningly as the truck’s engine sputtered and it rolled slowly away down the dusty street.

The guests trickled out disconsolately, with eloquent expressions of pity as they passed my parents. No one hugged me, in my soaked, ruined dress. I looked up for the stars Papá said used to be there, where the Northern blancos had gone, from their high-latitude fortresses, in the space-built vessels, but there was only the permanent flat, low ceiling of hot clouds that refused to bring rain.

A week later, Papá went from door to door, gathering a group of men. I had crept out to follow Papá and saw how they persuaded themselves that they could take a stand, make a difference in the world. The fathers who had paid for snow in advance that would, it now appeared, never be delivered, were the most determined. After much discussion–my father spoke earnestly against violence,and made impassioned speeches about “neighborliness” and “bonds of trust” — they marched up to the Snow Merchant’s mansion, shouting “Down with cheats!” and “Justice!” and demanding the return of their money. No guard stood by the locked iron gates, and the house was dark. With rocks and crowbars, the mob was able to pry the gates open. As they began to surge hesitantly up the white gravel driveway, which glistened in the moonlight like a wasteland of ice, they heard the rumble of the snow machine’s engine starting. It came around the side of the house, gathering speed as it swerved onto the drive, the guards hanging on the outside clutching their guns with one hand and the machine with the other.

The Snow Merchant himself was at the wheel. The rest of the men scattered, but Papá stood firm in the center of the drive with his hand raised, saying in his deep voice, “You won’t get away like that. Stop, and we’ll discuss what you’ll do about compensation.” But the Snow Merchant did not turn aside, made no attempt to brake. The machine turned onto the north road and roared away into the darkness.

My father was always a good man, an honest man, and he thought everyone could be counted upon to do the right thing, as long as they were approached in a reasonable manner. Now there is no water to spare to clean his crushed, bloodied body; no more water here.