by Amity Gaige
“It’ll stop any minute now,” said Charlotte.
“I don’t want it to,” said James. “I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.”
“James,” Judy whined. “Have some respect for Mr. Adair, would you? Dang. It’s almost Christmas vacation anyway.”
“Oh,” said Clark, looking up. “I’d love a snow day. I’m counting the days ‘til Christmas vacation.”
“See? See?” said James.
“Well, I’m perfectly happy to go to school.” Judy wiped her hands against her jeans, and withdrew a plastic bag from the chest of her parka. “So,” she said. “Now, we just came over from Granny’s—”
“She knits,” said James.
“—who knits, and—”
“I didn’t know you had a grandmother here,” Clark said. “You never mentioned you had a grandmother here.”
“She knits,” said James.
“Knits and bakes.”
“She bakes a lot.”
“So we asked her a couple weeks ago, Granny, we’ve got this friend we’d like to give something to, the man who saved Jimmy’s life, remember from the paper? And she said, don’t say another word! I’m going to knit that man the handsomest sweater in the world! And when I saw it I said, you’ve done it, Granny! That’s him. Merry almost Christmas.”
Judy passed Clark the bag. His eyes moistened when he saw it, wrapped in a grocery bag thin and wet with snow.
“Just open it,” said Charlotte. “The snow.”
The children turned to look out the window, and thrilled now by the danger they cried, “Open it! Just open it!”
Clark took the sweater out of the bag.
It was a handsome sweater. It had suede patches on the elbows of the long, long arms, and was made of wool the color of alfalfa.
Charlotte gasped, about to cry out in confusion, for it had a tag on the inseam, when Clark said, “I love it. I’ll never take it off. I’ll even wear it in the shower.”
“Don’t wear it in the shower!” cried the children.
“Well how else will I get it clean?”
“Take it to the laundromat!”
“But how will I fit my whole body into the washing machine?”
He put it on, striking affected poses while the children laughed.
“That could keep you warm in the freezo-sphere,” James said. “It could keep you warm in an ice cube factory!”
Judy stood. “Well. It looks sorta bad out there, but we’ve got our trusty sleds. As they say, it’s all downhill from here. Thanks for the cocoa.”
She slapped her brother on the thigh. The boy’s expression was one of surprise. He slid off the sofa with some reluctance, as if he’d been expecting to stay right where he was, drowsily licking chocolate from his wrist.
Clark looked out at the storm. The wind had died down, but the snow kept coming.
“It does look bad out there,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think it’s safe to go out in this.”
“Well, it’s not going to bury us,” Judy said.
“Look,” said Clark to Charlotte. “You can’t even see across the street.”
“All right,” Charlotte said. “All right.” She went to the kitchen door and gathered her hair in her fist. To the kids she said, “Why don’t you stay here until it clears. We’ll drive you home.”
“You guys,” Judy said, already collapsing back onto the couch. “That is so nice of you.”
But the snow did not stop. Well into the night, it snowed.
On the muted television, the weatherman gestured helplessly at his map. All around Charlotte, the room was quiet. The kids were asleep on the couch and Clark in his recliner. Even Tecumseh was breathing evenly under the dining room table. Only she and the weatherman remained awake. At intervals, she stole unhappy glances in the direction of the children, the sweater on her lap. She fingered the little Shand’s tag on the inseam. She thought about her pearl necklace, grinding her teeth, going over and over events since Halloween. Granny, she thought, narrowing her eyes.
We don’t know anything about them, came her own voice, so keen she actually heard it. Who are they?
They’re children. Children.
Perhaps she could just check in the girl’s pockets. Slip her hand in quickly to check for proof. She stood. The little boy’s leg jerked in his sleep. Clark tasted his mouth and turned his head away. Leaning over the children so closely, Charlotte could see the waxy insides of their small ears, and she could smell their candy-scented breath. She reached slowly toward the girl’s corduroy jacket. The house creaked around her, the floorboards and the walls, as if only groaning in the wind. But then, upstairs, the sound of feet slapped down the hallway toward the bathroom. She heard a loud, languorous yawning. A distinct belch.
She drew back, her hair on end. Tecumseh stood now at the room’s threshold, ears stiff.
“Clark,” she said, shaking his shoulder.
Clark raised his head, bleary-eyed. “What is it?”
“Just… just,” said Charlotte, glancing over her shoulder. “Just wake up. Let’s go up to bed. It’s late.”
It snowed late, late into the night. When Clark awoke, propping himself up on his elbows, he saw that snow had collected in the four panes of the windows. He turned over on the bed. He could not get back to sleep. Beside him, Charlotte was snoring, and the snow melting on the bedroom window sent shadows running down her face. He looked down into the sleeping, porcelain face. With the snow falling behind her, she looked like a figure depicted in a snow globe. And yet her body was so warm when she slept. Why, he wondered. Why this unconscious beckoning?
He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear and she crinkled her nose in her sleep.
“Charlotte,” he whispered.
He thought he might tell her, now that he knew, what he wanted. He wanted to live the kind of life safe for children. He wanted children asleep in the house, every night. His own children. He wanted to start life over like that. He wanted to be as exciting a parent as his mother but without the going crazy part. He wanted to step on children’s toys in the darkness and teach them to brush their teeth and watch them descend the stairs in the morning with that wounded expression of children just waking up. He bent over her and embraced her. He shut his eyes, believing that he might be able to say all that. Then, very gently, he rolled on top of her, fully clothed in his pajamas. Underneath the blankets, he felt the shapes of hips and her legs. The bed creaked, and he paused there, propped on his knuckles.
“Mmm,” she mumbled. “Maga.”
He began to rock back and forth a little. He perceived a smile on her lips. He shut his eyes. The rocking was meditative, consoling, a pleasing motion, and soon dreams of lakes and swimming naked in lakes and Kiki Zuckerman and the sun on his body beset him. He ground his teeth together, turned his head away. He remembered the certain feeling of arousal that came from sneaking out of the house at night as an adolescent, how the crack of light might fall so damningly upon the empty bed, how the boyish wickedness snipped all the chaste little threads…
Suddenly he heard incredulous laughter below him. He looked down into Charlotte’s open eyes.
“What are you doing?” she said. “You could ask me.”
With his pajama sleeve, Clark wiped his damp forehead.
“Just—just,” he said. He closed his eyes again, irritated, helpless. He was helpless against the loveliness of the feeling, of the lake, of the memory, of the desire to escape into its cool water. He tried not to feel his pajamas chafing against his body. And then he heard his name being called shrilly. Just wait, why don’t you, he thought. For he was almost there, at the edge of it, his body falling forward, and then, there it was—bounty—as he broke into the cool, cool water.
He felt a soft blow on the side of his head.
He sat back heavily on the bed, blinking. “Ouch,” he said.
“I said get off !” Charlotte shrieked. “Get off me!”
She kicked off the sheets
and stood beside the bed, face stiff with rage. In the moonlight, her nightgown untwisted itself from her legs. She clapped both hands to her head.
“What were you doing, Clark? You were behaving like a machine, with no feeling.”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Clark. “I guess I…”
“You hurt me!” She clasped herself and shuddered. She stared down at the shadowed floor. “You scared me!”
“I was…” his voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. “Remembering.”
Charlotte looked at him, her face burning. He sat on the edge of the bed, nightshirt open, stomach pouched unpleasantly in his lap. His slackened expression terrified her.
“Damn you, then! Damn you!” she cried. “I’ve been pussy-footing around you for so long and all I want to do is just shake you by the shoulders. You don’t see. Aren’t you awake?”
“Be quiet now,” said Clark. “The kids. Downstairs.”
“Damn those kids!”
“Hey. Now cut it out.”
“I’m sick of this! What is going on here?”
“Christ. Can’t you keep your voice down?” He now sat facing away, speaking to the window. “I didn’t mean it, all right? Don’t you think this is hard for me too?”
“No. You know why? Because you get babied and coddled. Walking around in your dream world, you make nannies out of everyone. You get to make a mommy out of me after all. You know why I don’t want to have any children, Clark? Because I’ve already got you!”
He swung his head in her direction.
“Stop it!” he hissed. “Stop. You’re being extreme. Why must you always behave so extremely?”
“Because I want to give you some of my disappointment back! I want you to have to feel it too!” She clasped her hands to her chest. “I thought you would love me. But you’re away. You’re not here.”
They heard a thump downstairs.
Suddenly, a black, winged thing fell off its branch in Clark’s chest and went flying up his throat, flapping heavy and wet. The black thing closed its feathers over his mind. He climbed onto the bed and faced his wife, not two inches away, and growled, “Do you want to know the real reason why we don’t have any kids?”
He backed off and his eyes shone darkly.
“I know already. It’s because I said so and you agreed. You wanted so badly to get married, so quickly. You agreed to it!”
“That’s not the real reason,” said Clark.
“No! I won’t believe you anyway! I don’t believe you anymore. You’re not really here. You died with your mother. Yes! You threw yourself into the grave! You’re like a big floating nothing.”
Clark began to laugh. His laughter made Charlotte uneasy. It left little gouges in the air. He himself did not know where the laughter came from nor what it portended. Someone was in the kitchen downstairs, at the sink. The sound of water. The door of the refrigerator. So late, so dark.
Charlotte trembled. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because of the reason,” said Clark.
“The reason?”
“The reason we don’t have kids. It’s so simple. Right there in front of me the whole time. It’s because your heart isn’t big enough.”
There was a brief, awful silence.
“No. That’s not true,” Charlotte said finally, her voice getting higher, “It’s because I don’t want to. It’s because I don’t want to have a hundred little yous running around.”
“Your. Heart. Isn’t. Big enough.” He pronounced each word with this new tool of his voice. A draft from the shaking window washed over her. “Your heart’s hard and small. You strangle it with your fear and—”
“Stop it!”
“—mistrust of everything.”
“Just stop!” She buried her face in the pillow and cried, “Take it back!”
“No.”
“Then go away! Go play with your little friends! You liar. You fool. But you better watch them closer, Clark. Because you have no idea what a sucker you are.”
She raised her head and spat, “Where do think your brass bookends went and my pearl necklace and robe? They’re stealing from us Clark. Just last week I tried to bring it up but you got angry. At me! I want them out of here! I want my stuff back! I want you.”
“I’m not your stuff.”
“Call it what you will,” said Charlotte, her eyes brimming with tears. “But if we didn’t really want to belong to each other, we shouldn’t have gotten married.”
Now Clark paused. His eyes narrowed.
“You’re jealous. You’re jealous of anyone who likes me. Those kids. My own mother.”
“Your mother? Your mother was taking you down with her! She might have loved you once but then she went crazy. You have no idea how much your father and I protected you.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. Ask him! Don’t believe me, go ask your father!”
“Listen,” Clark put his finger in her face. “Those kids are not stealing from us. It’s you. You have no faith. You can’t even trust a child.”
“That sweater! I saw that sweater she gave you in Shand’s with my own eyes. Almost bought it for you myself, but it was one hundred dollars. Go see for yourself! Where does this Granny come from, all of a sudden? It’s simple. You’ve been lied to. You keep looking so hard for someone to love you. I’m right here, you idiot!”
“I’m sick of listening to this. I’m sick of all this,” Clark made an angry, generalized motion. His lips quavered. “This suffocating little house. This routine with you. Stay, sit, heel. Don’t be too different. Don’t be like her. I’m going to sleep in the other room.”
“Just like a child. That’s what I’m saying. Can’t you stay here and talk to your own wife? Stay! Talk to me.”
“Stay!” Clark shouted back. “Sit!”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Are you sure?”
He got out of bed and stalked out the door, hunching over to get through the low frame. A moment later he came back in.
“Generosity!” he yelled. “Kindness! Spontaneity! Try them out sometime, Charlotte! Why are you hiding? At least with me, I’m out there in the world. I’m giving it a try. I might be a fool sometimes but I’m giving it a try. I’m not hiding in shame because I’m not perfect. Because my mommy gave me up. You’re missing life. You’re too protected.” He leaned against the wall, right by the fist-sized hole in the plaster, and bent his head. “Look, Charlotte,” he said, his voice quieter, “Why are you crying? You never cry. Look. I can’t trust you. It feels like a trick.”
Alarmed, Charlotte felt her face, which was wet. She wiped her hand slowly across the sheet.
“Your mommy gave you up too,” she said, sniffling. “I know. And you were glad. It satisfied you. I think it made you feel better.”
“Not true!”
“Don’t lie, Charlotte.”
“But you didn’t cry. You didn’t even cry when they buried her.”
“Yeah well,” said Clark, shrugging. “Turns out, your heart breaks anyway. How could I talk to you about it? You were so unsympathetic. I know she was crazy, but she was my mother!”
And now a sob rose in Clark’s throat, but he backed away from it, coughing into his fist. He stood in the doorway, blinking.
“So now you want to break my heart?” said Charlotte.
“I can’t break it,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s true. That’s what I’m saying.”
“But you can break it. Please don’t.” She raised her arms to him. “Please come back to bed.”
“I came in because I forgot my book,” he said, snatching a paperback from the nightstand, then leaving again.
In another moment she saw his shadow approach in the hallway. He walked into the bedroom. She raised her arms again.
“Come back to bed, baby,” she gasped. “Forgive me!”
Clark snatched his pillow from the mattress.
“I forgot my pillow,” he said.
&
nbsp; “Please!” Charlotte cried to his retreating shape, the front of her nightshirt damp with tears. “Please don’t leave me here alone!”
PART THREE
FLASHES OF YOU
Charlotte sat straight up in bed, sure that her sleep had interrupted an important point she’d been making. She blinked, rolled her head around on her shoulders. Her body ached. She slapped her hand to her forehead. Outside, the light was deep blue.
“Clark?” she said. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
The bathroom door was ajar. A slit of light lay against the floor. She put her feet on the floor and peered forward. The floor was cold but her feet were pulsing hot. She expected the floor to hiss where it met her flesh.
“Clark?” she said again. “What are you doing in there?” She rubbed her shoulders. “Are you flexing? I know you do that. I’ve seen you through the keyhole. Clark?”
She reached forward and plucked open the bathroom door. Her expectation of seeing him standing there was so well detailed that she did, for a moment, see him, flushed and hairy-legged, flexing in front of the mirror wearing his favorite T-shirt with the decal name of his boyhood baseball league fading across it. He looked at her, and then fizzled into space. The light of the bathroom hurt her eyes. Yes, she was definitely coming down with something.
She would go downstairs immediately and call in sick to work. She got up and made the bed in the tender, matronly way of sick people. She stopped and looked toward the curtains. An unspecific blue light was glowing through them. What time was it anyway? Morning, surely. There came a repetitive birdcall, high and tense, over the house. Then the noise of a banging pot, which was how the Ribbendrops called their child home in the evening. Charlotte stopped, put a hand to her throat. Had she slept the entire day?
“Clark?” she said again, pattering to the doorway. She looked both ways down the hall, but then hesitated, not wanting to leave the bedroom. “Clark, have you seen my watch?” She turned around, scanning the surfaces. Then she went to the window and pulled aside the curtains to discover that the world was entirely buried in snow.
