by Paul Hina
looks at him, "What're you—?"
"It's Holly."
Holly is standing under the streetlight at the end of the driveway.
"I think I'll stay," Michael says, "if that's alright."
"No, that's fine. I thought you might," Eric says, and moves toward Holly. "How bad is it?" he asks her as they cross each other's path in the driveway.
"I"m not sure," she says absently to Eric as she approaches Michael at the front of the house.
Michael watches her emerge from the surreal, gauzy glow of the snow and says, "You know, I don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful sight than watching you under that streetlamp just now, surrounded by snow."
"Yeah, well, that's how I planned it," she says, smiling at him.
"You're covered in snow," he says, brushing the stuff from her shoulders.
"Well, if you hadn't noticed, it is snowing."
"Right," he says, smiling. He's grown accustomed to her teasing him. "Do you wanna go inside?"
"Let's give it a second."
"Okay," he says, and they just stand there, silently looking into the endless walls of snow.
"Did you ever notice that it doesn't feel as cold when it snows?" she asks.
"I guess I never really thought about it."
"I thought you thought of everything," she says, looking at him, a playful look on her face.
"You'll find that I'm not as smart as I pretend to be."
"Will I?" she asks.
He doesn't answer. He just looks at her, watches her watching him.
She finally looks away.
"Can I ask you something?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"Do you believe in signs?"
"I do tonight."
Eric sees the brake lights of Tim's car materialize through the maze of falling snow. It's about a hundred feet away. The night is quiet, but, somehow, the snow suppresses the normal nighttime disturbances. And, it's not just the noise that the snow affects, the snow also seems to carry its own light, lifts the weight from the darkness.
Eric is enjoying this little, private stroll. He'd been feeling like he'd like to have a minute to himself all evening, a moment to be free of all the drama between Max and Annie, Michael and Holly. It's not as if he was blind to what was so obviously happening between Max and Annie. It scared the hell out of him to see the effect they still had on each other. But he also empathized with how difficult it must be for them. It has been forever since they've seen each other, and there is obviously something unresolved between them, something that had caused them to both fear and greatly anticipate this reunion. One thing was clear though, he had underestimated their feelings for each other all this time. It wasn't until tonight that he really saw, first hand, how far their love transcended youthful infatuation, or, worse, that their love might still persist.
He taps on the driver's side window of Tim's car. Tim rolls down the window.
"You need a push?" Eric asks.
"No, I'm not really stuck."
"What do you mean you're not stuck?"
"I was trying to figure out a way to get Holly back to your house. So, I did my best to fake a slide off the road, and then really hit the gas in the snow to see if I could get the tires to spin. When they started spinning, I told her I was stuck and called you. And she bought it," Tim says, smiling at Eric. "I don't think she was paying much attention anyway. Her mind was still clearly on your friend, Michael. She just needed…"
"A push."
"Right," Tim says. "Sorry I dragged you out here."
"No, don't be. I'm happy you got Holly to come back. I've been trying to give her my own little push for awhile now."
"She's ready. Everyone knows it but her," Tim says. "She's just scared. But I think your friend has been good for her. She's changed these last few months. She's happier. And he seems nice."
"He is."
"He seems a little intense, but, overall, he seems alright."
They're quiet for a second, not quite knowing what to say.
"Outside of the danger of the snow on the roads," Tim says, "it really is beautiful, isn't it?"
"It is. Something about a snow storm that gives me the same excitement, the same joy I felt when it would snow before I… When I was younger. It's nice."
Tim blows some smoke out his car window. "Well, I'm going to—"
"Hey, do you mind if I take a cigarette?"
"I didn't know you smoked," Tim says, skillfully shaking a cigarette halfway out of his pack, holding it out for Eric to grab. Eric grabs it and leans down into the window for a light. An awkward moment passes before Tim realizes that Eric is waiting for him to light the cigarette. He grabs his lighter, and after several failed attempts, Eric finally gets the cigarette lit.
He coughs. "I don't smoke. Never have."
"Not a good habit to start at our age."
"Uh huh," Eric says clumsily, the cigarette in his lips.
"Well, Merry Christmas," Tim says.
"You too."
Tim rolls up the window, and tries to move back onto the road, but he is a little stuck after all. He maneuvers the tires a bit back and forth, gets out of the rut he's made for himself, and moves cautiously back onto the road. He waves to Eric, and moves slowly toward the stop sign at the end of the street.
Eric stands in the middle of the street and watches Tim's car disappear. He decides he doesn't want to go back to the house just yet. He's enjoying being out in middle of the storm too much. He takes another hit off the cigarette, a small one, and suppresses a cough. He decides to take a short walk in the woods that surround their house.
It's the perfect time for a walk. Not only is it beautiful and calm out in the snow, but he is free from all the extracurricular stuff going on at the house. And, besides, his brother and Annie need some space. There's obviously some things they need to work out, some unfinished business they need to put to rest, and sometimes alone time is exactly what two people need.
A couple years ago, when Eric first took over for the retiring ombudsman, one of the best pieces of advice he got from the old guy was how to recognize when it was necessary to be an active mediator, a passive mediator, or an absent mediator. Sometimes, particularly when there are delicate, possibly embarrassing, emotions involved, the best mediation is to get the two parties in the office, have his assistant call him out of the office for some manufactured reason, and give the parties involved five or ten minutes alone together, and, oftentimes, the problem will resolve itself.
As Eric moves through the snow, taking careful steps, trying to keep the snow from the inside of his dress shoes, he smokes his cigarette, and looks for a place to sit on the tree line of their large back yard. He finds a fallen log, brushes the snow off, and sits. He takes another drag on the cigarette, watches its orange glow, and coughs into the snow, disturbing the quiet.
He can see the lights on in the back of the house, thinks about how much of a home it's become over the years, how much he and Annie have shared these past ten years, and he tries to suppress a fear he's had all night: His brother could steal her away, steal all they have built together.
Eric looks up into the snow, watches all those clumsy clumps of white float down, indeterminately, never knowing where they'll land.
And he smiles at the elegant chaos of it all, embraces it, lets the sweet, cold snow lick at his face.
"I should call his cell, see what's going on," Annie says, staring out the living room window, intentionally not facing Max, who is sitting in the chair near the window, his body twisted so he's facing Annie.
"Why? He said he'd call if he needed help."
"But he won't call."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know him. He doesn't like to ask for help."
"Sounds like him."
"Oh, come on. You hardly know him."
"He's my brother."
"A brother you've avoided for ten years."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Not his."<
br />
"No, not his fault alone."
"But you do blame him."
"I blame you both."
"And you're not culpable at all. No. How could you be? You're the master of avoiding difficult situations. You'll rationalize your way out of any responsibility."
"Well, I'm certainly culpable in my absence, but I don't think I could be blamed for not wanting to be around my brother and his wife—the wife that was supposed to be mine."
"Supposed to be yours?"
"That's right."
"I can't believe you said that."
"Tell me I'm wrong."
A beat passes. She stares at him, tries to think of something to say, knows there's no truth she can utter that won't dig her deeper. So, she just turns away.
"You have every right to be upset with me, but not Eric," she says.
"And why's that?"
"Because he doesn't know anything about us. He had no idea about the state of our relationship, the history of us, when I ran into him again after Boston. I'm not even sure if he knows that we've spoken since high school."
"You never told him?"
"No."
"So, he knows nothing about Boston. He doesn't know about—"
"No, I never told him."
"Don't you think that was something he should've known?"
"Probably, yes. But I decided it was best to keep it to myself. Why hurt him?"
"But you weren't protecting him. You were protecting yourself."
"Maybe, in the beginning, I was protecting myself. But, as time passed, and I thought of telling him, particularly after it became clear that you were so angry with us, I realized that it wasn't just me I was protecting anymore. It would've crushed him to know the truth."
"And what truth is that? The truth about Boston? Or the truth about your persistent feelings for me?"
"Boston, Max," she says, sounding suddenly
