The Center of Winter

by Marya Hornbacher

  “Do you want to watch TV?” I asked. “I could bring you some when it’s done.”

  He went and lay down on the couch. I followed him. “Do you want the blanket?”

  “Okay.”

  I put the blanket over him and turned on the TV. “Mom will be home soon,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I hesitated, then went back to the kitchen. As I was stirring in the cheese, my mother came in. I didn’t look up.

  “Esau’s sad,” I said. “He’s on the couch.”

  She went past me and into the living room, and I heard her murmuring.

  I was tired of everyone except Davey.

  The four of us ate quietly in front of the TV that night. My father sat next to Esau with his arm around him and Esau folded into his side. My mother brought him his medicine, and he fell asleep with his head in my father’s lap. My father carried him into his room as if he was dead.

  My mother looked around at the dishes and said, “Well.” She gathered them up and went into the kitchen.

  My father closed Esau’s door carefully, went over to the bar, and sat down at the dining-room table with his drink.

  “Claire,” he called. My mother came to the kitchen doorway, her hands in rubber gloves.

  “Sit down with me a minute?” my father asked. My mother hesitated, her mouth opening. She crossed the room. She sat across from him, perched on her chair.

  “What, Arnold,” she said finally.

  He shook his head, as if to shake himself awake. “I just thought we might talk this over.”

  “What’s to say?” My mother rubbed the bridge of her nose.

  “Claire, I want—” He stopped. He rubbed his cheek.

  “What do you want, Arnold,” she said, shifting in her chair.

  Esau back, I thought. He wants Esau back.

  He smiled at her and shook his head. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “The medicine should help soon,” he said, gently. She nodded, looking away.

  She rose and took his empty glass. She turned to go back into the kitchen. My father said, “Wait.”

  She paused. She stood there.

  He reached one arm out and wrapped it around her waist.

  He put his face against her belly.

  Her arms hung down at her sides. Slowly, she lifted one hand and laid it on his head. They stayed like that for a long time.

  I watched them. Froze them that way in my head. Stay there, I almost said aloud. Like that.

  But they broke apart. They always did.

  I think these things are true. I think it happened like this.

  I don’t know what day it was. I know the snow had fallen, had been falling heavily for days, blanketing the fields overnight, softening and silencing the world. I know winter had come.

  At breakfast, my father and I were eating eggs when Esau walked out of his room naked as a jaybird and sat down in the wrong chair. My mother came out of the kitchen in her robe (she called it a dressing gown) with the bamboos and hummingbirds on it, holding her cup of coffee, her hair all a mess, her face sunken in the cheeks but puffed up under the eyes.

  She stopped when she saw Esau, sitting with his back to her, his bare behind on the chair. She opened her mouth. She shut it again. My father popped his egg yolks and sopped his toast in them, folded the toast in half with one hand, and bit in. Esau was pale, and the circles under his eyes were crayon purple. I looked at him and scraped the jam off my toast with my teeth. Esau smiled at me, and I was so startled I choked on the jam, then looked over at my father to see if he was going to tell me to eat my toast like a normal person. My father picked up the Motley-Staples Gazette again, and kept reading the obituaries. My mother turned around, went into the kitchen, came back out, and looked at Esau as if she wasn’t sure she’d seen him in the first place.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked Esau.

  Then I understood that everyone had gone crazy but me.

  “Oh, for Chrissakes, Claire,” my father said, slapping the paper down on the table, which had little squiggly things that looked like threads under the clear surface. “Of course he doesn’t want any coffee.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” my mother said, looking from my father to the back of Esau’s head. “I thought he might like some coffee.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, he’d like some coffee?” my father bellowed, patting his toast in the yolks without looking at them. “He’s twelve years old, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to ask him?” she said. I looked up at her. She was supposed to be in charge. Besides, Esau looked perfectly fine, except that he was in the wrong chair. I scowled at him, cranky that they were making such a fuss. He smiled at me again and I stuck out my tongue.

  My mother stood there, her robe knotted tightly at her waist, holding her coffee cup close to her chest, fingers flickering, her dark-red hair spilling over her shoulders, lit up by the light that hung over the dining-room table. Esau scratched his head and wrinkled his nose and fiddled with the fringe on his place mat.

  “Ask him if he’s hungry, dammit!” my father shouted.

  “Are you hungry, honey?”

  “Yes,” Esau said, his voice creaking.

  “You see?” said my father, slapping the table with his hand. “He’s hungry.” He picked up his paper and said to it, “Make the kid some breakfast, Claire.”

  “Of course he’s hungry,” she said on her way to the kitchen. “Poor thing hasn’t eaten in two days.”

  Three days, I thought. He’s been in his room for three days.

  “Poor thing my ass,” my father muttered. “Sitting there in the damn dark.”

  Esau squinted up at the light fixture, a wagon wheel laid flat, the spokes holding fake candles with bulbs in the shape of flames. It looked sort of like a birthday cake. I drank my juice, watching Esau over the rim of my glass. My father turned a page. My mother came back with eggs and toast and bacon.

  “The bacon’s cold, honey,” she said to Esau as she set the plate down in front of him. “I’ll make some new if you want. I can make more eggs, you must be starving.” She lay her hand on his shoulder and touched his hair, pulling bits of lint from the curls.

  “Can I have a fork?” Esau said.

  “Oh, Lord,” she laughed, “a fork! Of course, I’m sorry.” I heard her jangle through the silverware drawer. Her hands trembled as she put a fork, knife, and spoon by Esau’s plate. She went back into the kitchen. I wondered what he needed with a knife and a spoon. It was just eggs.

  “Mom?” I called. “Can I have more toast?”

  There was no answer save the sizzle of bacon and the crack of eggs at the edge of the pan.

  “Mom?”

  “Claire!” my father hollered. Something clattered in the kitchen and she said, “Dammit,” and came in and said to Esau, “What is it?” Esau looked up at me.

  My father said, “Katie wants more toast.”

  “No, honey, you haven’t finished your eggs,” she said over her shoulder.

  My father shoved his chair back and stormed into the kitchen and started popping toast in the toaster.

  I looked at Esau and asked, “Are you out of your dark?”

  He nodded and smiled. He was smiling a lot. His eyes were a little funny.

  “Are you coming to school, then?”

  He smiled at his plate and said, “Yes.”

  “Why were you in a dark?”

  “I wanted to die,” he said, smiling and starting to giggle.

  “You were in there for three days,” I said reproachfully.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “No.” I looked at my plate, blinking hard. I all of a sudden wanted to cry, but I would rather have eaten a raw toad than let Esau see.

  “Would you miss me if I died?”

  “No!” I shouted, and threw my napkin at him. I put my face in my hands and bawled.

  My father walked back in and put two pieces of toast on my plate
. “Now you’ve made your sister cry,” he said to Esau. “Nice to have you back.”

  “I’m not crying,” I said from inside my hands.

  My mother came out and slid more eggs onto Esau’s plate.

  “He’s made Katie cry,” my father informed her.

  “I’m not crying!” I shouted, wiping my face and snuffling. I picked up my toast and nibbled at the crusts. I could feel Esau looking at me. I looked past him, out the window. There were frost patterns on the glass.

  My mother sat down and watched Esau.

  “Well, he’s going to school, anyhow,” my father said. “It’s just making it worse that he’s in there all the time. He needs to get out.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” said my mother, shaking her head. She reached a hand out and put it on Esau’s forehead, then his cheek. “I think he should stay home today.”

  “Hell, no,” my father said. “Dammit, Claire, what did I just say?”

  “Arnold, he needs to rest. He’s been sick.”

  “What’s he been doing in there for two days besides resting?”

  “Three days,” Esau said.

  “He should stay home,” my mother said.

  “If he’s staying home, I’m staying home,” I piped up.

  “And he hasn’t been sick, dammit, he’s been feeling sorry for himself,” my father snapped, taking a swallow of coffee.

  “Three days,” Esau said, louder now.

  “Oh, and you’re any better?” my mother retorted, her voice rising.

  “I don’t feel good,” I said.

  “I didn’t say I was better, I said he needed to get out of the house!”

  “Arnold, he’s staying home,” my mother shouted, her hands shaking, one on her place mat and one on Esau’s bare shoulder. The one on his shoulder tightened, fingertips pressing into the thin skin and imprinting it with the white shadow of a hand.

  “Goddammit, he’s going to school if I have to drag him there myself,” my father said. He looked at Esau. “What the hell are you doing showing up for breakfast without any goddamn pants on?”

  “I’m sick,” I said, feeling my forehead. “I’m staying home from school today.”

  “It was three days!” Esau shrieked, staring at his hands. His head was trembling as if it was about to blow straight off his shoulders.

  “Now what the hell is he talking about?” my father said. “Claire, I need more coffee.”

  Esau stood up and threw his plate onto the linoleum floor, breaking it to pieces.

  “Goddammit!” my father roared.

  “Honey, do you want to stay home today?”

  Esau picked up his juice glass and shattered it on the floor. Then he saw my glass and dropped it too. He was smiling and his hands were shaking. His head began to duck oddly to the left, just slightly, as if he was trying to scratch his shoulder with his ear. His left hand flew up and started to rub his cheek, slowly, softly, and his eyes darted over the table, then up to the ceiling, then from side to side. He started speaking very quietly to himself. His eyes were glassy and too blue, as if he’d been crying, but he was laughing. His right hand fluttered near his hip, then at the edge of the table, then across the place mat, his long fingers trembling and flinching back from everything they touched.

  “Esau, now.” My father leaned his elbows on the table. He wasn’t mad anymore. His voice was low, like when he was up with our nightmares, when he came running in and pulled us out of bed, walking in circles through the house, talking quietly. This was an episode. A bad one. They were going to make him go Away.

  “Esau, now,” my father said again. Esau glanced at him wildly, then away, rubbing his cheek harder. “Son, can you sit down? Sit down, Esau. Let’s just all sit here and have breakfast, ah?” My father rose slowly from his chair, his hands on the table, his eyes on Esau’s hands. Esau’s sunken chest began to fill and fall quickly. His nostrils flared, his mouth was busy forming words nobody could hear.

  My mother stood up to reach for him, but her chair scraped behind her and hit the wall. We all flinched. Esau screamed, batted at her with his hands, his eyes racing over the room, his body straining away from her, a horrible braying sound climbing out of his throat and into the air. My father went to stand next to him, tried to put an arm around his shoulder, but Esau wrapped his arms around his own body and leaned forward and rocked, singing: “No, no, no-no-no-no-no-bad-bad,” shaking his head. Then he took the coffeepot and poured coffee down the front of our father’s pajamas, hurled the pot to the floor, and stumbled into the glass. “Sorry-daddy-sorry-daddy-sorry,” he said, shaking his head back and forth as if to shake it off completely. He put his hands against his ears and shook. My father’s face twisted, for an instant, in pain, and he backhanded Esau, his arm shooting out as if it was on a spring. My mother screamed as Esau’s head snapped sideways, taking his thin body with him as he fell to the floor. My father held his arm to his chest, his eyes wide, and said, “Oh my God.”

  My mother, barefoot, screamed, “The glass, the glass, Arnold, you bastard, the glass, he’s bleeding all over the floor!” I stood up in my chair and looked down at Esau. “I don’t feel good,” I said, and threw up all over the table.

  My mother bent over Esau and tried to pick him up, but Esau twisted away from her grip. He raised himself to sitting and cringed and started laughing. He sat hunched over, naked, picking glass out of his feet. I wiped my mouth on my napkin, got down from my chair, and went around the table. I glanced up at my father, who was still standing at his place, not moving. I looked down at the blood pooling on the linoleum. The blood looked so smooth, the pool’s edges round as it moved over the floor. I watched my mother trying to sweep the glass away from his body with her hands. Esau rocked and laughed.

  “Honey, I want you to stop laughing, can you do that?” my mother said softly. “Can you just breathe in and out a few times, deep breaths, like at Doc Parker’s? Just a few deep breaths now, sweet pea. Stop laughing.” Her long hands moved quickly over Esau’s skin, plucking bits of glass and laying them aside. I suddenly wanted to go to sleep.

  “It’s funny,” Esau whispered, grimacing, his hands together, thumbs rubbing methodically over each other, right over left, left over right.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. “We’re going to clean you up, all right?”

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “I know it doesn’t, but we don’t want it to hurt later, okay?”

  “It just tickles.” Esau pulled a piece of glass from the arch of his bare foot and laughed when a gash appeared and blood poured out. He ran the sharp sliver of glass down his leg and a thin red thread appeared on his thigh.

  “Esau, now stop,” she said, grabbing his wrist firmly, like she did when I pitched a fit. I wondered if they could hear my heart pounding. It thundered in my head. I put my hands over my ears.

  Esau did it again, harder this time. A wide red line welled up on his leg and spilled over.

  “Esau, stop!” she shouted, grabbing at his hand. He shook her off and started slicing quickly all over his legs.

  “Mom!” I yelled. Her hands chased Esau’s as if his were fast bugs.

  “Dad!” I screamed, looking up at him. He was just standing there, staring at Esau.

  You don’t know, when you’re six, how a person’s face will stay in your brain forever. How, as you get older and you get more words, you will remember that face and apply those words. Terrible words. Helpless. Useless. When you think of your brother, screaming and bleeding on the floor, you will think of your useless father’s face. And you will cringe and hate yourself for thinking of him that way, especially when he’s dead.

  My mother picked Esau up by the armpits and ran with him to the bathroom. Esau screamed and kicked and wriggled and started sobbing. I ran after them and stood in the bathroom doorway, watching my mother pin Esau’s body to the edge of the sink, hold his head down with one hand, and pick glass out of his back, his legs and bottom, his sides. Esau m
uttered and cried and gasped when my mother turned him around and set him on the edge of the sink, facing her. His face was red and tight with tears, but his eyes were glassy and wild. He was looking around for something, but there was nothing to see. I felt like I was going to throw up again. Esau was talking about the numbers, the answers, one arm gesturing as he talked, shaking his head and then nodding, slowing down, laughing softly, closing his eyes.

  “Mom?” I whispered.

  “What, Katie?” she said, irritated, taking a wet cloth and wiping at the blood on Esau’s legs, leaning down hard on the cuts.

  “Are you going to take him to Away?”

  My mother didn’t answer for a minute. “He’s sick, Katie. We’ll do what’s best.”

  She dabbed iodine on Esau’s cuts. The screaming and wiggling started again and Esau called out for her and she pinned his arms down with one hand and said, “I’m here, I’m right here,” but Esau didn’t believe her and kept screaming and my mother was losing her grip. I couldn’t see how Esau was suddenly so strong, his skinny limbs full of a furious force, wrists slipping through my mother’s hands like snakes. She said, “Katie, tell your father I need his help,” her voice rising on help, as if she was yelling for him herself. Esau wriggled off the sink and fell to the floor. I looked down at him, his face unrecognizable, not my brother, laughing but not laughing and crying at the same time, and talking, talking, talking, his mouth moving in words that didn’t make any sense. I watched my mother’s hands, white at the knuckles, circle Esau’s wrists and hold them above his head on the floor. She said, “Katie, now.”

  I ran back out to the dining room. My father was standing at the head of the table, looking at the glass and blood on the floor. The room was smelly with my barf, still dripping off the edges of the table. My stomach heaved and I was embarrassed.

  “Dad, Mom says she needs you to help.”

  “Not now, Katie.” My father’s voice was calm. He turned and walked to the living room and poured himself a drink the color of iodine. “Daddy’s just having a little pick-me-up.” As he passed me, he laid his hand on my head and kept going.

  I went back to the bathroom. Esau mumbled, then let out a raspy scream. I thought his throat must be hurting by now, but if the glass didn’t hurt then maybe his voice wouldn’t either. My mother struggled to hold him, one hand around his wrists and one on his ankles, Esau’s naked body stretched and arched in the middle like a bow, trembling violently. My mother looked up and said, “Where in the hell is your father?”