Snowbound

by Kim Golden

  I knock on his door, knowing he isn't at home. At least I am being polite. I could have just taken liberties and walked in. Emboldened, I slide the key into the lock and open the door. I call out a quick "hello" and notice how tidy it is. He hasn't left dirty clothes strewn across the living room. The wicker basket by the door is full of neatly folded newspapers, ready to be recycled. His shoes are lined up under the coat rack. There's no sign of the down vest I've seen him wear so often, but I call out his name again, knowing there will be no reply.

  The guest house is not very large, just four small rooms and a bathroom with an attic that is more like a crawlspace. I take off my wet boots and leave them by the door, then hang my coat on the coat rack. When I climb the stairs to the second floor, memories of my vacations with my grandparents greet me. The wall of photographs still decorates the second-floor landing. Pictures of me as a child with Grandpa Hart on one of our fishing trips in Lake Champlain, others of a younger version of my mother, her high school portrait. Grandma Ruth, in her twenties, her long hair pulled into a strict bun that sets off her sharp cheekbones and almost patrician features, relaxing in an Adirondack chair on the lawn of a hotel in the Berkshires. In the picture, she is smiling and her lips are stained dark with lipstick. She's wearing a man's white button down shirt and high-waisted trousers that look like they could be Grandpa Hart's. I've seen this photograph a million times, but today there's something different with it—is it the coy smile? The number of buttons she left undone on the shirt? There is something so sexy about the picture and I can understand why Grandpa Hart always kept a copy of this photo in his wallet. Grandma Ruth was a hot tamale.

  In the hall closet, on the second floor, is the metal rod that unlatches the chute for attic steps. I pull down the ladder-like steps and then climb up to the loft, which I've always hated. When I was younger, I was convinced it was haunted. Sometimes, at night, I could hear mice in the walls and the ceiling and I thought they were the ghosts of the family who'd lived and died here during the Revolutionary War. The house wasn't old enough to have been around then, but there'd been a small croft here then and my grandfather used to make up stories about the family, thinking it would help me understand that our little plot of Hunters Grove had history. Instead he scared the bejesus out of me.

  Somehow, I got it in my head that British soldiers had trapped the family in the loft and then butchered them. The field mice and dormice looking for warmth in our insulation became the spectral fingers of family, crying for someone to save them. Obviously I shouldn't have watched so many Hammar horror films. I'd lie in my bed, with my mother snoring in the next room, convinced the ghosts were coming for me. Why they were coming for me, I never figured out. Were they jealous that I was alive and free? Had they transformed into zombies who wanted to eat my eight-year-old brains—which of course were the tastiest? All I knew, was that they were waiting patiently for me to fall asleep so they could attack, and this would have me shivering under my thick quilt until I was finally too exhausted to keep my eyes open.

  But, now, my thirty-four-year-old self has no fear of the attic…well, just the mice. I am not a big fan of them. And last summer Grandma Ruth had a problem with squirrels in the attic, but my mother swears they figured out how the squirrels got in and closed up any means of entry. Still, when I turn on the overhead lamp, I wait a few seconds before I go any further into the room. Weak pockets of sunlight filter in through the fan-shaped window, illuminating the tiny dust motes floating in the air.

  Along one wall, there are boxes and trunks that I know are my grandparents'. I recognize my grandfather's squiggly handwriting on some of the boxes. And there, just by the window, are Grandma Ruth's hatboxes. On the other wall, are a line of trunks I don't recognize. Some look like military trunks. I approach them, curious to explore them, though I know I shouldn't. They must be Jake's. I kneel beside the largest one. Its shell is made of olive green metal and is marred by dents and chinks. The latches are already unlocked. I take a chance and open it.

  It creaks open and reveals camera lenses of all sizes, some wrapped in thick cloth, others bare. A battered Hasselblad, Moleskine notebooks filled with handwritten notes in faded ink. I should stop. I am invading his privacy. If he did the same thing to me, I would feel too bare. But then, I read the notes…descriptions of where he has been, who and what he has photographed. One passage about a woman he photographed on the roadside. She was pregnant. He and the crew he was traveling with offered her a ride into town, but the interpreter tells them she cannot accept a ride with them. If she were seen in their company she would be accused of being a whore for the foreigners and there would be consequences. Jake took her picture as she adjusted her djbela. She had coppery eyes that were mesmerizing. He wondered why she was walking the road alone. He tried to get the interpreter to ask her, but he shook his head.

  "…Was I being too forceful? As we pulled away from the shoulder of the road, the woman lowered her veil just long enough for me to see her bite her lower lip. I raised my camera and took the shot. Our interpreter said something in a rushed voice to our driver, then Bill gasped and blurted out "Holy shit!" I twisted around and looked out the back of the truck. At first, I didn't see the woman, then I noticed what looked like a bundle of rags on the edge of the road and a puddle of thick, red water. She'd been taken out. Just like that. And, for a moment, the air in the truck became too heavy to breathe. I asked if we should go back and take her to the field hospital, but no one answered me at first. Then, finally, the interpreter asked me if I wanted to live or die. I told him I wanted to live. 'Then we keep driving, or else whoever killed her will surely kill you too.'"

  I close the notebook and slide it back into the trunk. Behind me, the house breathes and creaks. Someone else was in the house. Shit…I closed the trunk a little too hard and then I heard his voice, "Who's there? Is that you, Mia?"

  "Um…yes, it's me…I'm in the attic."

  I scooted away from his trunks and saw the trail of footprints in the sheen of dust. He climbed up the steps and heaved himself into the attic. "You know you're breaking the rules."

  "Sorry…I know. I was just looking for my grandmother's Christmas decorations," I tell him and move to the hatboxes. I make a show of opening them and scrambling around in them. "She usually kept them up here."

  "I think your mom took them," Jake says. He's standing now, in the center of the room where the ceiling is high enough to accommodate him. "At least, she said she wanted to take them home as mementoes."

  "Great, so they're in Philly."

  "Maybe not all of them. I found some porcelain figures in a box at the bottom of my closet."

  I nod and try not to stare at him. He's been in a war zone. It's hard to believe it—he doesn't look damaged, or how I've always assumed someone who has been through something like that would be.

  "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah, of course…" I try to walk past him and manage to smack my head on the eaves of the roof. He catches me before I fall.

  "Jesus, you okay?"

  I can't think straight. I blink and see nothing but glowing lights swirling before me. He pulls me down, so I sit on the floor and he reminds me to breathe slowly. "You just need to get your bearings straight. Just relax."

  The pain is only just beginning to web across my forehead. It creeps along at first, like feathery little touches, before it turns into a full-fledged throb. I want to cry, I can feel my throat tightening with the beginning of a sob. And I feel ridiculous. It's not as though it is difficult to remember that the roof slants in like most attics do. Was it my guilt at snooping that made me so stupidly clumsy?

  "I'll be fine," I manage to say. "I think I just need some aspirin or something."

  "Do you think you can make it downstairs?"

  I nod and rise, with Jake's help, on unsteady feet. I wobble a bit, but make it to the landing. The steps, though, look way too steep. I ask him if he can go first.

  "Sure," he says. "We'll take i
t slow."

  He backs down the first few steps and gestures for me to follow his lead. He makes a cage of his arms so I won't fall. We make it down to the second floor and, in the brighter light, he examines my forehead, touching it with surprisingly gentle fingers. "You're going to have a small bruise, I think."

  He is still holding me steady with one arm looped around my waist. When I look up at him, his eyes feel like the kindest I've seen in a long time. He gives me a strange look and says, "We'd better get you downstairs."

  We walk down the steps to the first floor and I wonder if we just had a moment. For just a second I thought about how nice it would be to kiss him. I haven't kissed anyone, other than Evan, for so long I have forgotten what it is like to be properly single. Evan. Damn it, he is the reason I am here. I came here to forget him, to push him out of my mind and, yet, the slippery bastard is always there. But then I remember being in the attic and how if felt when Jake was touching my face, how I could smell the citrusy scent of cologne and the golden stubble on his cheeks and chin. He is too good-looking. He would break my heart. I am sure of it.

  My mouth goes dry. I gingerly maneuver around the living room and slide into an oversized armchair that used to reside in my grandparents' living room. "Could I have some tea?" I need to think.

  "Sure, you stay here…I think I have some Advil around here too."

  The words from his journal come back to me. So he is a photographer. And he wanted to help a woman in a war zone… I want to ask him about this, but if I do he'll know I opened his trunk. Evan would never survive in a war zone. He is too spoiled, too soft. He plays tough, likes to remind everyone that he grew up in a rough neighborhood, but he doesn't tell them about how afraid he was to walk home after school or that, sometimes, the teachers would give him a ride home, because he was being bullied by some older kids who thought he was a sissy. These are things he'd told me when we'd lay in my bed. Things he says he's never told Melissa. But now I don't believe him.

  When Jake returns, he has a cup of steaming hot tea, which he informs me he's spiked with honey and a drop or two of whiskey. "I couldn't find my Advil."

  "I opened your trunk," I blurt out. Shit…that wasn't supposed to happen.

  He sets the cup of tea down and then paces. "You were rooting through my things…that explains why you looked like the cat with the canary."

  "I'm sorry…it was just so childish of me. I saw your trunks and…well, I just wanted to have a peep."

  "You're really something," he laughs. "You make me agree to leave you alone and respect your privacy and then you go through my belongings. Unbelievable."

  He sinks onto the couch and lets his forearms rest on his knees. A flush of red creeps up his neck.

  "I only opened one trunk…the first one."

  "It's more that you opened it at all."

  "I…read part of your journal too. I may as well admit it."

  "Wow, you really do have some cheek." He regards me carefully. "So, which one did you read? The one about why I left South Africa or the one about how my ex- left me?"

  "I only read two pages and they were about a pregnant woman…on the roadside."

  He swears and then shakes his head. "Those were notes for my pictures."

  "Was it in Afghanistan?"

  "Yeah…not far from Kabul. Just after the Taliban were pushed north."

  "What were you doing there? I mean…you aren't in the military, are you?"

  "No, not any more. I did my time in the South African army," he says. "I'm a photojournalist. I work as a stringer for the Associated Press. And my partner and I were in Afghanistan, documenting the Taliban's fall…but it was more like the Afghani people's fall."

  "I hope her family found her…"

  "They did. Or someone did."

  "How do you know?"

  "I went back the next day…thought I would at least move her body, maybe bury it. I dragged Bill, he's a CNN stringer, with me. But her body was gone. I don't know if her family found her or if some animal dragged her away, but she was gone."

  I don't know what I should say or do. I sit fidgeting with my tea strainer while he stares at the floor. If Jane were here, she would know how to bridge the silence, but I have never been good at it. But Jake saves me. He pushes himself to his feet and says, "I'll get the boxes I found in the bedroom."

  The radiators hiss, knock, and ping as the steam begins churning through them again. Outside, the sun disappears behind the rolling clouds. It looks like snow again. When he returns, the paleness is gone. He seems almost like the old Jake—or what I know as the old Jake. He sets the boxes on the coffee table. They are trademark Grandma Ruth boxes—faded, old-fashioned hat boxes from a department store I've never heard of. I open the first one and gently peel away the tissue paper. Inside, is my favorite of her nativity scenes. It is one that my mother brought back from a trip to Austria. Each figure is intricately carved and painted in rich hues. I cradle the figurine of Balthazar in my hand and say, "I used to pretend he was my father."

  "Was your father so wise?" Jake sits down beside me and peers in the box.

  "I don't know. He was never really part of my life."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's okay, I am used to it now. I know where he is, he knows where I am. We just have no contact."

  "These are beautiful."

  "My grandmother loved nativity scenes. And the house felt so empty…I wanted to decorate with some of her favorite things."

  "I could go through the other boxes if you want, see if I find anything."

  "I don't want to put you out."

  "You aren't. Besides, I don't think you should be on those steep stairs for a while."

  "I know, you're right…and I don't know what got into me."

  I sip the tea. He's right. It is almost as good as Advil. The pain in my head is beginning to subside. Maybe I am developing a bit of a crush on him. That's the only way I can explain going through his things. Even coming in his house—it is technically his since he's paid rent, I didn't have a very good reason for even being in here without his permission.

  "You know what this means, don't you?"

  I shake my head.

  "Well, it means you were the first one to violate the terms of your conditions, which means that I can demand restitution."

  I drain more tea from my mug. My hands are trembling.

  "What did you have in mind?" I ask as a million butterflies fill my chest.

  "Not sure yet," he says. "But I'll figure something out."

  I shouldn't be here. I am one of those women who let's a momentary sensation carry her away. It happened with Evan. It could happen again.

  Jake helps me bring the boxes home and asks again if I am okay. I assure him that I am fine. My head is still slightly sore, but nothing that some ice or rest won't cure. On his way out, he checks the wood and kindling in my basket by the fireplace. "You're running low," he says. "I'll take care of it tomorrow."

  "You don't have to do that—"

  "Why? Because of our deal?

  I nod lamely.

  He flashes a sexy grin at me. "I think all bets are now off when it comes to that, don't you?"

  Yes, I am in danger…big time.

  I spend the rest of the morning setting up my grandmother's nativity scenes. I place my favorite one on the mantelpiece in the living room and the other—a porcelain set my grandfather bought for their fortieth anniversary takes center stage on the dining room table, atop a pristine tablecloth printed with pictures of reindeer and forests. But I still need a wreath…and Ruth Carter is right; it would be nice with some pine boughs as garland on the banisters and the mantelpiece. Sooner or later, I am going to have to buy a tree as well. Grandpa Hart always went to the same tree farm on Route 11 where he could walk around, breathing in the fresh scent of the pine and spruce trees until he found the perfect one, which he'd chop down himself and then hoist over his shoulder and lug back to the car. I can't picture myself doing that, but may
be I could ask Jake to help…no, now I am violating our agreement. I was the one who said we wouldn't ask for unnecessary help. But…a Christmas tree is a necessity. At least for me it is. So, asking for his help is allowed, isn't?

  My cell phone quacks, the message tone I've set for my client. They're wondering when I will send them another draft of the copy they need. I groan. I've already rewritten it to their specifications so many times that I feel dead inside whenever I think about the project. But I want my last paycheck from them, so I promise them I'll send another draft in two days. When my phone vibrates, I glance at it. Now a message from Evan, asking me to call him. I thought I'd blocked him. This message is much like the last one: "Call me…we need to talk."

  But there is nothing left to say. His wife is pregnant. He lied to me; he did it without even considering how it would affect me. Part of me still responds, physically, just reading his words. I think there will always be a part of me that loves him, longs for something permanent with him despite knowing it will never happen. And on a day like today, when I feel ridiculous and lonely, I could easily succumb to Evan again. But I don't want to. I don't want to be the girl he calls when he just wants a dose of variety in his life. I delete his message. It's the only thing to do.

  I don't know how long I've been standing there, staring at the phone when I hear someone knocking at the front door. I venture into the vestibule and find Jake standing on the front porch.

  When I open the front door he says, "I thought we should go Christmas tree shopping."