Snowbound

by Kim Golden

  By the time we arrive home, the sky has gone dark. A thick blanket of clouds hides the moon, but you can still see striations of glimmering light. We carry the tree, garland, and wreathes into the main house. I'm about to leave, when I notice a manila envelope propped under the bay window. I pick it up and go back into the house. Mia is still in the living room. She's sitting on the floor with her legs crossed in front of the unlit fireplace. I show her the envelope and say, "I found this on the front porch."

  She opens it, pulls out a sheath of papers and then laughs. "I forgot all about this…the caroling on the green. I have to practice…"

  "Ruth roped you into it too?"

  She nods. "She says it'll be good for me, a nice distraction."

  "She said the same thing to me."

  "It must be her secret ammo for singles."

  "When is practice anyway?"

  "Tomorrow. I have to pick up sticky buns…I think that was my mission."

  "Mine was to bring eggnog."

  "I can help you with that. Ruth can't abide store-bought eggnog, so we'll use my grandmother's recipe." She stands up and brushes her hands on her pants legs. "Speaking of recipes, I'm starving."

  It's nearly seven o'clock. I suggest warming up some of the beef stew Ruth gave me, but Mia shakes her head. "Let's go to the diner. I could go for a bowl of their chili and some sweet cornbread."

  "Now, that's a plan I can get behind," I joke. We both grab our coats and, after turning on the porch light, lock up and head back out into the snowy night.

  There's something very peaceful about the walk into town. We take a shortcut across a barren field. Our footfalls crunch and swish in the snow. The clouds have thinned out and the moon shimmers against the falling ice crystals. This is the sort of evening when you want to hold a girl's hand and pull her close.

  I can't help thinking about Owen's reminiscence as Mia strides ahead. She is so surefooted, even on icy patches. She's sexy and playful. She is the sort of woman who would get you to go over the edge, and I like that. There is no blurry gray area with her—either you want her or you don't. You want to get wrapped up in her startling laughs or her dramatic eye rolls, you want to listen as she tells you a story that would sound banal coming from someone else. I told myself I wasn't going to get involved, but Grandma Ruth predicted I would fall for her granddaughter. She said she had a good feeling about me. Should I tell Mia that I am interested? I don't even know anymore how you send someone a sign. I haven't made love to a woman since before I went to Afghanistan. In Iraq a woman offered herself to me if I would take her daughter into Kuwait. I couldn't do either, but I helped get her daughter to the Red Cross camp.

  I watch Mia's hips sway, impressed at how she easily climbs over a fence with those strong, slender legs. Her ass is phenomenal. I ford the same fence, though not as gracefully. At the crest of the hill, we can see the village. It's truly a scene from a Christmas card—the white steepled church, the rooftops frosted with newly fallen snow and white puffs of smoke rising from the chimney stacks, dark hills in the background and lights in every window. The closer we get, the more magical it seems.

  At the bottom of the hill, Groton Lane begins. We pass modest brick houses already festooned with multicolored Christmas lights, lawns with life-size nativity scenes and front doors bearing enormous wreaths. The narrow lane takes us into Patriots Road, the beginning of what Mia says is Hunters Grove's historic district. These are the houses that predate the Revolutionary War, some stand on pretty large plots to be in the center of a town, but what do I know? In Cape Town, you can find large old houses with sprawling gardens hidden behind massive walls in the city center.

  We both come to a stop in front of a beautiful Federalist-style brick house that wouldn't be out of place in a Jane Austen movie. The windows are frosted with snow, electric candles shine in every window, a jaunty snowman stands guard on the front lawn, and, in the glow of the porch garden lights, two deer silently dance across the lawn.

  Mia slides her hand in mine, lacing our fingers, and whispers, "This is why I love coming here…"

  I give her fingers a gentle squeeze. I don't trust myself to say anything. Her voice lingers in my mind.

  I want to kiss her, so badly I can almost imagine how she would taste.

  We make it to the diner just before they close the kitchen. Mia apologizes to the cook and the on-duty waitresses and says, "I forgot you guys usually close early when it's slow."

  But Dotty, the older waitress, pats Mia's cheek and tells her not to worry. "Hon, you are family here. You can eat whenever you want."

  We both order the day's special—chicken pot pie with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables—and local dark beer. From where we're sitting we can look out over the village green and see all the children playing in the snow. Christmas break started officially for them today and there's no curfew. They'll sled and have snowball fights until their parents call them in to get warm again. Both the waitresses are watching us and whispering. When the youngest one, whose name tag reads Kirstie, brings out our orders she stage whispers to Mia, "You know how to pick real lookers, Mia."

  Mia stammers, "But we're not together…we're just friends."

  Kirstie scoffs. "Then you should find a better way to use a good-looking friend, before someone else does." She winks at me and then sashays back over to the counter.

  Mia lets out an exasperated sigh. "This is why I came up with the rules—they think every man they see me with is my boyfriend."

  "You ever bring up a guy who was just your friend?"

  "No…"

  I smile at her. "Then that would explain why they think we're an item." I take a sip of my beer. It's surprisingly good for an American beer. Caramelly without being too sweet, robust yet not overpowering, with a finish that tastes of cloves.

  "They've seen you around, though, without me."

  "They know I'm living at your place."

  "But you were here when my grandmother was still alive…"

  "All the more reason why they think we're together. Why would you let a stranger live with your beloved grandmother?"

  "I didn't," she retorts in mock-annoyance. "My grandmother and Ruth Carter saw to it, before I even knew anything about it."

  "Well, what's so wrong with the idea of the two of us together?"

  "Nothing, I just never really dated a white guy before…well, I went out with Owen, but I don't know if that counts. I was still a kid." She brushes a crumb from her lips. "And you probably never dated a black woman before…not with the ways things were in South Africa."

  "Actually, I have…"

  "How? I thought it was illegal—"

  "Apartheid was abolished when I was sixteen…and then my parents sent me to England to study and I met a Zimbabwean girl at my boarding school…we hit it off and we were together until we both were in our final year of university."

  Mia looks genuinely surprised. "What was her name?"

  "Thandie Mudarikwa. We were at Kingswood together, then she went on to Oxford and I was at York."

  "Did your parents know?"

  I shake my head. "We were both afraid to tell our parents. Maybe we were each other's rebellion, but I was crazy about her. Cried for days when she finally called it off with me."

  She tilts her head to the side and watches me, thoughtfully. "I'm trying to picture you at sixteen."

  "I was a pipsqueak, wannabe surfer boy."

  She laughs. "A surfing South African…"

  "Yeah, that was me. All I cared about back then was surfing and getting laid, just like any other teenager."

  "Do you still think about her?"

  I nod. "She was my first proper girlfriend…my first love, really. I was just too stupid to realize it at the time. We're still in contact; not so often, but enough so I know she's still around."

  "What ever happened to her?"

  "She's married now. She lives in London, she writes for the Times. Her husband's a barrister."

&nb
sp; "I'm still trying to imagine you with her."

  "I have pictures of her in one of my trunks. One day I'll show them to you. Then you won't have to snoop around." I wink at her to let her know I'm joking.

  "I'd like that," she says. "Wow…your first love was a black woman…"

  As we continue to eat, I find myself thinking about Thandie. I wasn't very kind to her, not all the time. It took me a long time to realize that I loved her and, by then, our relationship was already fraying. When we first met, I was so full of myself. I thought I was cool, because my parents had supported the ANC and were convinced Mandela's release would wipe away the stain of apartheid. We were the cool Afrikaner family who didn't treat their maid and gardener and farmhands like criminals. My father always said to respect men for the work they do and for their character. But, when you grow up in a world where the official line is separate and never equal, it's hard to figure out who is right.

  Thandie was like a lovely aberration at the boarding school. She was one of only three black girls at Kingswood. Every year, the school sponsored promising students from African members of the commonwealth and she was chosen. We met at one of those awful mixers boarding schools always throw, thinking it will bring all the students together. But those kids were like thoroughbreds compared to us. They all spoke the same language that eluded us. When I overheard her talking to one of the Kenyan girls and noticed how her accent wasn't much different from mine, I felt like I'd come home, finally. I latched on to her. I think it was the same for her. I kissed Thandie for the first time a few weeks later, but made her keep us a secret. She wanted to tell everyone. I told her people would say I was using her. But, really, I was just afraid of what they'd think. The English were so weird sometimes. Making fun of Americans for their racism while spouting off their own brand of racism. Thandie played along with it, but I think she knew.

  After a year of pretending we were no more than friends, she forced my hand when she announced that I was a great kisser at a drinks party. I wanted to shush her, but she stared me down as she gave blow-by-blow details of how I liked to suck her lower lip, how I slipped my tongue so softly into her mouth that it was like a caress. Then she finished by adding, "After he kisses me like that, it's no wonder I can't wait to get naked." I sat across from her, my face burning red, but still unable to keep a sheepish grin from sliding across my lips. I met her challenge with, "Then why are you sitting so far away?" She took me on, clambered over the coffee table and sat on my lap. No one dared say anything negative. But it broke the ice. It let us be official without my ever having to do anything about it. And she made it easy for me, even when I cheated on her, twice, with English girls whose names I didn't bother to remember. She said it was because sometimes I needed the comfort of someone who looked like me. But it wasn't that. It was more that I was afraid white women wouldn't find me attractive because I was with Thandie, and as base as it sounds, I liked knowing I could still get a woman to undress for me without having to do very much. I was an asshole. A first-class asshole.

  We finish our meal in companionable silence. Mia is lost in thought, as I had been. Her cell phone beeps twice, but she barely glances at it. The waitresses are wiping down the empty tables. It's nearly nine o'clock. I suggest taking dessert home with us. She nods and says she'll go and arrange it. "Pie or cake?" she asks as she slides out of the booth.

  "Pie, definitely. Apple if they have any left."

  Just as she's approaching the diner counter, her telephone begins to ring. On the display the name "Evan" flashes.

  "Can you answer it for me?" she says over her shoulder.

  When I do, I am greeted by a brief, tiny silence and then, "Who are you?"

  "I'm Mia's friend, Jake. She asked me to answer. She's got her hands full at the moment."

  "Funny…can you put her on?"

  I turn my head towards Mia. She's laughing and joking with Kirstie as the younger waitress puts our slices of pie in plastic takeout containers. "Like I said, she's got her hands full. I can take a message though."

  Another pause, followed by a snort that sounds more like derision than anything else. "Tell her I figured out the game she's playing. The ball's in her court now. I'm on my way there." Then silence. I lower the phone to the pockmarked tabletop.

  Mia returned and set the boxes of pie on the table. "Who was it?"

  "Looks like we've got company coming…"

  "What are you talking about? Was that my mom?"

  "No, it was Evan. And he says he's on his way."

  7 Boyfriend of Christmas Past: Mia

  Rule #3 We won't involve each other in our personal problems. That's why they are personal in the first place!

  The air between us has changed. I can feel it as we walk along the deserted streets back to my grandmother's house. We don't take the shortcut. I don't want to meet Evan too soon. I don't even want to see him. If my grandmother were still alive, she would send Evan to a bed and breakfast and tell him to go home to his wife. I can almost imagine my grandmother beside me, pinching my arm and chiding me with "Tsk! You!" She would have wanted me to be with someone like Jake. My grandmother wasn't a stickler about skin color, even with growing up in the South. She thought skin color was irrelevant and didn't understand why my mother and I focused so much on only dating black men when we weren't very good at finding nice guys. Her usual retort to our complaints that there weren't enough good black men out there was "Branch out then. The world is full of men in all different flavors just waiting to be picked."

  My mother always rolled her eyes when Grandma Ruth said that. She never contradicted her, never to her face anyway, but, as soon as we were alone, my mother would remind me how it was important to find a partner who would understand my history and my culture. I didn't understand it. For me, Vermont was my history, even with spending most of my time in Philadelphia and Baltimore with my mother and her two ex-husbands. She made a point of finding neighborhoods that were racially mixed, because she said it was good for me to be to exposed to "other people", as she put it. But, she also made it clear that there was a difference between who should be my friends and who should be my boyfriends. When I told her I had a crush on Owen Cudahy, she did everything she could to keep me from ever being around him. She tried to convince Grandpa Hart not to hire him when he needed extra help during the summer, never let him deliver groceries for us when we were in Hunters Grove. If he was hanging around, which he usually was since he lived just a few houses away, she tried to send him home. Grandma Ruth wouldn't have any of it. She liked Owen and used to tease me about my crush. She saw it, before I even realized what I was feeling was indeed a crush. I never told my mother about my summer romance with Owen. But Grandma Ruth knew. And she whispered in my ear one morning that Owen had the makings of a good man.

  She would say the same thing about Jake, I am sure of it.

  Jake stops just before we get to the mouth of Burlington Lane. "What's going on between us?"

  "I don't know," I admit. I want more. I want to hold his hand and know that he will catch me when I fall. I stop beside him. He doesn't look at me at first. He keeps his eyes trained on the snowy sidewalk. A lone jeep drives by. It pulls to a stop just a few feet away from us. The driver rolls down the passenger-side window. It's Ruth Carter. "You two need a ride?"

  "No thanks," Jake says, answering for us. "We're enjoying the weather."

  "Well, enjoy it while you can. There's a storm blowing in." She waves and then rolls up the window again, before driving off.

  I shiver. The winds have picked up. The snowflakes scrape my skin. "I wish he'd stayed at home."

  "Did you invite him?"

  "No. I told him to stop calling me."

  "So, who is he?"

  "My ex…and he should be at home with his wife."

  "Jesus Christ…" Jake shakes his head and starts walking again. "A married ex. I'm not so sure I want to know anymore."

  So, we walk on without speaking. If he does ask, how should
I tell him about my relationship with Evan? I can't even pretend I didn't know…I let myself fall in love with him, knowing that he was planning on marrying someone else. But how do I explain that to Jake? My mother would say that catching a good black man sometimes means taking him from someone else. Her second husband, Harold, was one such catch. He'd been married to the same woman for close to twenty years when he met my mother at a weekend seminar on marketing for small business owners. My mother was there to find out how to get her party-planning business on everyone's lips. Harold was leading the seminar. By the end of the weekend, my mother had sussed him, figured he was too good of a catch to leave in what she decided was an unhappy marriage, and began her campaign to make Harold hers.

  Whenever I tell Priya and Jane this story, they never believe me. They think my mother was probably coerced by Harold into thinking that his marriage was on the brink. Maybe it was that way. But my mother tells a different story, at least to me. I can't blame my willingness to go after Evan on my mother. She had nothing to do with my meeting Evan or sleeping with him on the first night, or the subsequent dates when I was encouraging him to ignore his church-going girlfriend. I wanted him. I was selfish enough to believe that I ought to have what I wanted. My mother didn't make me go after him. I did that all by myself. But I learned from watching her. Watching how she primped for men, how she'd point out which men were married and itching to be caught by someone else. And I always wondered if she was like this, because my father left, us or her being like this was the reason he left. But there's no point in thinking about it now.

  We reach the driveway. The snow is already up to our ankles and I'm shivering. Jake picks up the pace; he's already heading for the guest house. But he stops when he sees someone emerge from the shadows of the trees.

  I squint against the curtain of snowflakes pelting us. "Evan?"

  "It's fucking cold out here," he sounds surprised. I almost want to ask him what he expected. It's December and we're in Vermont. Of course it's cold. I look around; his car is nowhere to be seen.