“Max has a broken rib cage and hypothermia,” he said. “Cory, Ryland, Travis, and Ethan are all being observed and checked out, but they appear to be fine.”
I may have scoffed. I hope I didn’t.
Max, Cory, Ryland, Travis, and Ethan. Where are they now? I wonder. Where have they gone? They were boys I didn’t know—two from Rochester, one from Laguna Beach, one from Denver, and one from somewhere that I can’t remember or never knew. Cully’s seasonal friends.
What went through his head before the lights went off, before his heart stopped pumping? Did he know that was it? That his life was going to end? Did he think about me or his grandfather, or Billy? Did he cry? Or did he think about something nice, resolved to depart peacefully. How did he say goodbye?
Maybe in the snow he closed his eyes and traced back through time, flipping imaginary pages. Maybe he didn’t think at all, just fought for air, for his life, or maybe he just thought, No. Not like this.
Maybe that’s all he had time for, or it could have been even more succinct.
Maybe he just thought, Fu—
And then it was over.
Maybe he thought about her, Kit.
I turn the page.
After my birthday in May there is nothing.
I put the book down. It’s a calendar, I know, but it feels like a book to me. I finish my wine and my dinner. I feel cheated that after all this ceremony nothing has changed.
I get up and test out the knife my dad gave to me while drinking more wine and glancing at the closed calendar. After cleaning the kitchen, I walk up the steps to my bedroom, feeling as if I’ve just run a long race. Here I go up the stairs and tomorrow I’ll continue. I’ll try again.
It’s there at the midpoint of the stairs where a blaze of light comes through the front window, giving me a scare—how bright it makes the darkness, as if someone is searching for me. Search and Rescue. Flight for Life. They’ve come for me. I duck—an automatic reaction—and then I hear a crash.
Part
Two
Chapter 10
I open the front door; the air is cutting. I will always love the mountains for this: the initial step outdoors, the decisive air, the bruised blue of night and swarm of stars, the chomp of snow, and the silence, all of it enlivening and heartbreaking. A chunk of snow drops off the branch of the spruce tree and onto the hood of the angry-looking truck. Motes sparkle in the air. I don’t know how it is that I’m registering the air, the night, when here she is, Kit, this burden, this mystery. Maybe this is how it will be from now on? Nothing can be shocking. Nothing could be harder.
The snow has stopped falling but has accumulated on the driveway. She turns off the headlights. If she weren’t a girl, I’d be frightened. I probably still should be, but I’m not. I’ve seen her use a shovel.
She has barely missed crashing into our mailbox, but she’s tipped over the trash can—it looks like she’s hit a black bear. I imagine my private life strewn all over the place: Breyer’s Mint Chip, wine bottles, asparagus stems. Cully would have done something like this for kicks. Maybe he would have had a life full of stunts and scars. Or maybe he’d be an engineer. Maybe Kit could tell me.
The motion sensor above the entrance steps finally senses me and shines a path of light down the driveway. She opens the door to her truck, but it hits the mailbox, so she moves to the other side. Once there she hesitates, like she’s deciding whether or not to go through with getting out, but looks up and sees me.
I walk down the steps in my nightgown and look at my pink bedroom slippers. Air runs through the feathers that sprout from the toes, making them stir wildly. I think of a bird doing a mating dance. I walk and affect sobriety until it becomes true: I am sober and highly capable and we are going to get down to business.
I walk down the snowy driveway, trying not to slip. “What are you doing?” I call out when I’m nearer to her.
She gets out of the truck and walks toward me, then slips and lands on her butt, making no effort to get up. She looks like she wants to stay there and sink into the ground. I stand before her.
She looks up at me, then down at my slippers. “Flamingos?”
“What? No.” I am both surprised and at ease with the rhythm of this interaction. It’s like I’m with someone I know well enough to argue with. “Are you okay? What is wrong with you?”
“I’m totally fine,” she says.
“No, you’re not,” I say. She reminds me of myself earlier on the ground.
“Are you talking physically or . . . other?” She tries to get up.
“All of it. You just crashed into my garbage can. You’re not even flustered.” I extend my hand. We take each other’s wrists—it feels like a secret handshake—and I pull her to standing. We are face to face, so close I can smell her hair, also beer and a smell that reminds me of a dive bar’s sticky floor. She’s not the girl on his shirt. Or at least not tonight. I take a step back.
“I had an accident,” she says, and this sounds as if she just peed her pants. “I don’t know what happened. The roads are super slick.”
“Oh, please.” I want to be angrier than I am, but her oddness and brazenness are appealing. I feel that we’ve bypassed politeness, gotten a lot out of the way.
“How many bottle caps did you twist open tonight?”
She looks at her callus as if it will provide the answer.
“It’s freezing,” I say. “It is so cold.” I take a few steps and look up at the bright stars, which always seem to be more vivid and closer the colder it is. “Well?” I look back at her. “Come inside. What the hell are you doing? What is your deal? I read the calendar, you know.”
“Yeah,” she says, as if expecting as much. She sighs in preparation, steps up to me. I walk her toward my house, my hand on her back for a second, guiding her. By her walk I can tell that she’s been drinking a lot more than I have. I want to tell her she’s lucky that I’m such a mess, physically and other. Most people would demand more. They would call the cops. We reach the top of the stone steps and I open the front door. She drags her shoes on the outdoor mat and overdoes it, stalling, as if by crossing the threshold she’s locked into something, which I suppose she is.
I flip on the third light by the door, which is the softest of the three, lighting up the edge of the living room.
“Come on in,” I say. “Kit, the American girl who lies and drinks too much.”
She walks in, looks around. I look at the back of her, hair stuffed into a black beanie, fitted jeans, a trim figure.
“Did you come to shovel?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She looks like she’s being scolded.
“I don’t lie,” she says.
I smile, shake my head. “I’ll get you some water.” I walk past her to the kitchen. “Or do you need coffee? Something to eat?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Probably should.”
I take in the sight of her in my home. A shiver moves through her face.
“Why don’t you wash up a little?” I say.
“Probably should,” she says.
I feel like I could tell her to drop and give me twenty and she’d do it. I point her to the bathroom and feel a sense of satisfaction from taking care of someone.
• • •
SHE COMES OUT of the small bathroom off the kitchen. We both look at each other, then look away.
I think about what I can say, what I can ask, but my thoughts get all jumbled. They stumble around like idiots.
“Beautiful home,” she says.
She looks around and I become conscious of it, noticing things I normally wouldn’t—furniture (heavy, brawny), lighting (friendly and low), smells (trees and leather, and the rose oil I have on the bookshelf). I become a bit proud of it all. I managed to make a home here and it holds its own next to the massive second homes it shares the street with. She looks at the bronze eagle statue on the shelf by the fireplace. “That belonged to the previous owners,” I say. “Seems like ev
ery mountain home has one. I thought it was funny and kept it.”
She wanders back toward me.
“So you haven’t been here before?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and clears her throat.
“Why are you here?” I fill a glass with water.
“I was just driving home. I had a few beers so I got off Main. And then since I was in the area, I was trying to see . . . I spun out somehow.”
I look outside. “You found yourself on Sunbeam and then Carter?”
“Yes,” she says.
“What were you trying to see?”
“Just the . . . real estate,” she says. “I can go now. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m sorry. I’m not myself.”
“I can’t let you go,” I say. “You’re drunk.”
“That’s right.” She brings her fingers to her temple.
“I can’t let you drive,” I say. “Not on my Movado.”
She looks at my wrists to see if I’m wearing a Movado watch. I look at her wrists. Tiny and bony. They should have little satin pillows to rest on.
“That was funny,” she says.
“It’s not my joke. This woman I work with, she says it all the time. I’m not very clever.”
“Neither am I.”
“Actually,” I say, “I am. I can be.”
“Me too,” she says.
“Come have this water,” I say, and push the glass toward the stools.
She takes off her coat and holds it primly. It’s a nice, elegant coat.
“Clever,” I say. “You’re clever like a snow shoveler who doesn’t bring a shovel.”
I gesture to the barstools, feeling like a bartender. She sits. I lean against the counter opposite her. It’s like a cross-examination.
“So what were you doing?” I ask. “Coming home from a party?”
“At some point there was a party,” she says. “Then I left and went to a bar.”
“Which one?” I ask. I’m amused by her concentration. She has lovely, soulful eyes, a mischievous mouth.
“Eric’s, then Salt Creek,” she says, and pulls the collar of her sweater away from her neck.
“Good God, I remember when I used to go there,” I say. The Gold Pan, Napper Tandy’s, the Brown. My feet haven’t graced their floors in ages. Now I go to places like Ember, with things on the menu like veal roulade and kaffir lime purple rice pilaf. In my youth I would have scoffed—too yuppie, too fussy—but theses places weren’t even around then. We just had restaurants with poppers and sloppy joes, onion rings, and fried things.
She finishes the water and rubs her nose. I should give her a drunk driving lecture. Not only could she have harmed herself, she could have hurt someone else. An elderly person, perhaps, or a ten-year-old. I think of a song Cully always listened to, about how it’s dangerous to drink and drive because you just might spill your drink.
“You shouldn’t have been driving,” I say. “You should have called a friend.”
“My friends are drunk,” she says.
I smile, lenient since she’s not my own.
“It was dumb,” she says. “I’ve done some very stupid things.”
I go to the cupboard and get a bowl. “Is that your truck?” I ask. I open the pantry door to get the box of Cocoa Puffs.
“No,” she says. “My friend’s. Jim Wick. He has a glass eye and two cars.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” I’m not sure what I want her answer to be.
“No,” she says. “God no.”
I pour the cereal into the bowl. This is what she needs—a bowl of cereal, the childish kind that makes no claims of having any vitamins. No fiber, no riboflavin or antioxidants—these things we think we know about. She watches me as if I’m performing magic.
“What happened to his eye?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I wouldn’t believe the story anyway. He lies a lot. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe to go with his shifty gaze.”
She smiles. “Looking at him can be tricky.”
I push the bowl toward her. “Will this work?” I ask.
She takes off her black beanie and I’m surprised by her healthy locks of hair that fall past her shoulders. “Yes, thank you,” she says.
I get the milk out of the fridge. When I turn around her hand, full of cereal, is pressed against her mouth.
I pause, then go on. “Cully does the same thing,” I say. “He’d do the same thing—eat from the box. In a trance.”
I put the milk down in front of her, wait for her to pour it, then put it away. I grab the plate with the peanut butter sandwich on it and place it before her.
“You happen to have a sandwich made?” she asks.
“I have four more,” I say. “I was testing out a knife.”
We seem to have reached a point of non sequitur acceptance. She sits there, not eating.
“Ah,” I say. “Spoon.”
I go to the fridge again, hand her a cold spoon, and prompted by her look say, “I like cold spoons. I keep them chilled.”
She takes the spoon. “Cold,” she says. She begins to eat, and I can tell she’s trying to do it as soundlessly as possible. She tries to suck the cereal, maybe to soften it up a bit, then chews again, carefully. I want to tell her, Go ahead and crunch! Really, get into it! but she already looks like a cornered pigeon. She must be sobering up, her bravery being replaced by manners.
I sigh. “Kit, Kit, Kit. Short for Christopher?”
She is momentarily surprised, then maybe remembers sharing this with my dad. I pour myself a bowl of cereal too and chew courageously.
“I tell people it’s short for Heather,” she says, and smiles with her mouth full.
I immediately think of my interview today with Bone Taylor. When we were done I had asked him if he smoked pot. We were by the railing and I was looking out at the people riding up the lift, the different pairings: girls and boys, groups of boys, strangers, fathers and sons.
“Um, I have,” he said. “I mean . . . is it a problem for the interview or something?”
“No, it’s not a problem. I just wanted to know. Did my son ever sell it to you?”
Bone looked at me, his big eyes full of puppy sorrow. “No,” he said. “He didn’t. I knew him in school, but he was younger than me, so we didn’t really hang out.”
“When people die suddenly you kind of try to piece them together.” I looked down at Bone’s park. “I had the question. Thought I’d ask it. This all kind of gives you an excuse to talk to people this way.” I looked at him to see if I was making any sense. I wanted to, because it was making sense to me, that tragedy gives you an excuse, like you’re exempt from real life, from manners. But of course it doesn’t. Everyone has a tragedy and you don’t see the whole world sitting it out, excusing themselves from the table because they’re full.
I could see him nodding his head, understanding, or at least offering that impression. I was relaxed by him and with him. “I need to call you something else,” I said. “I can’t call you Bone. What’s your real name? I don’t think I’ve ever known.”
“It’s Boner,” he said, and we both burst out laughing.
“Sorry,” he said, holding his hands up. “That was so inappropriate. You remind me of my mom, that’s all. We joke like that. I’m kind of inappropriate.”
My chest felt funny, and I realized it was from a true laugh, that and a warmth from imagining him and his mother joking around together.
He nudged me. “You’re funny,” he said.
I looked up at him and had to shield my eyes as I did with Cully. “Why?”
“Just the way you went about that.” He imitated my question. “ ‘Do you smoke pot?’ You scared me.”
“I’m scary,” I said, and sighed. “I know your mom. She still doing real estate?”
“She is,” he said. I thought back to how I met his mom and it was from interviewing her husband, who ran the Summit Stage bus company. It had nothing t
o do with kids, with Cully. Work has also been my ticket in to places, in to people. I needed to remember that.
“Tell her I say hello,” I said.
“I will,” he said. “Her maiden name is Keith. That’s my real name.” He laughed. “I should probably start going by it now that I’m getting old.”
“You have time,” I said.
I look at Kit eating her cereal and wish I could tell Cully about both Kit and Keith. These stories from today have nowhere to go.
“I like your name,” I tell Kit. “Lately, all I hear is Isabelle.”
“I used to babysit an Isabelle,” Kit says.
“Mothers these days—they arm their kids with pukey cute gear and give them pompous British names.”
“Mothers these days,” she repeats.
I stir the milk with my spoon, nervous about bringing up the real topic, maybe reluctant to have whatever this is be concluded. “We need to talk about why you’re here,” I say.
She nods and furrows her dark, full brows.
We start to say something at the same time.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“No, after you,” she says.
“Don’t you hate that?” I say. “It’s like when you want to let a car go first, but they want you to go, and both of you go, then have to stop. You end up being angry with the person you were trying to be nice to.”
“It is like that,” she says. “But I’m not angry or anything.”
Neither of us go.
“I was just going to say that it started to snow,” she says.
I look toward the deck. Big fat flakes swirl as if caught in an undertow. It always startles me, the quiet way snow sneaks in and changes the landscape.
“That’s all,” she says. “No one here uses salt. It ruins the look of snow. People here like the look of snow.”
I stare at her. “That’s what you were going to say? How about explaining yourself?”
She looks up at the ceiling and scratches her nose. The firewood pops. I hadn’t realized my dad had started a fire; now I see it simmering.
“Let’s start with why you have Cully’s calendar, or how you knew him in the first place. And by the way, salt ruins the paint on cars. That’s why we don’t use it.”
The Possibilities Page 12
