October Snow

by Jenna Brooks

  They smiled. “Okay, Mom.”

  They were gone then, and Jo was glad it had ended that way.

  She went to the kitchen, pulled the lasagna from the oven, and picked up her phone.

  Hey bim, want some lasagna?

  Max was at the door a few minutes later. She didn’t ask about the boys’ visit, figuring that if they were gone already, it didn’t go well–and that Jo would bring it up if she wanted to.

  Jo seemed out of balance. She was slightly off, Max thought, as she studied her friend’s expression: it was somewhat removed, even vacant, and it alarmed her. Jo was an eclectic mixture of many things, and most of her inherent attributes were difficult to deal with; but she was never so unnatural in her affect. Her laughter was too loud, but only a bit; her voice was coming across just a little too stridently. Her movements were awkward, lacking her usual, easy gracefulness.

  “You know,” she waited until Jo finally looked in her direction, “I have a bottle of amaretto downstairs. You have O.J.?”

  “Yep, I sure do. Go get it.”

  “Got ice?”

  Jo checked her freezer. “Damn it! No. I forgot to fill the trays.” She slammed the freezer door shut, rubbing her forehead.

  That confirmed it for Max, because Jo rarely used any kind of bad language unless she was very upset. There was something wrong. “I’ll bring some ice up. No problem.”

  They ate mostly in silence, in spite of Max’s attempts to start a conversation a couple of times.

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  “My pleasure.” Jo was dropping ice cubes into two heavy crystal rocks glasses. “Let’s kill the amaretto.”

  She filled each glass most of the way with the liquor, adding a splash of orange juice and handing one to Max. “No swizzle sticks. Use your pinkie.”

  “You’re gonna get tanked, Bim. You barely ate anything.”

  “Not hungry.” She downed half of her drink.

  “Let’s go sit on the porch with these.” She hoped that being outside, down two flights of steps, would slow Jo’s drinking.

  “Nah. It’s chilly out there tonight.” She put a CD in the stereo. “Let’s do some music.”

  “No disco. Okay?”

  “Huh! Snob.”

  “Disco’s dead, Jo. Didn’t you get enough of that in high school?”

  “I was in college when you were in high school.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  She sat on the floor beside the stereo. “Finish telling me about your mom.”

  “Okay.” She took a long drink, settling in with her ankles crossed on the table. “Right after you tell me what happened tonight.”

  “I asked you first.”

  Max said nothing.

  Jo laid flat on the floor, balancing the glass on her stomach, her arm over her eyes. “Make you a deal.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s just enjoy for now. Please. And the next time we have a misery moment, or delve into the meaning of life or whatever, I’ll go first.” She moved her arm up over her head, grinning at her hopefully.

  It had been an interminably long week, Max thought. As she sat there, watching the lights blinking on the stereo, she became aware of her own fatigue. Jo, she decided, might be snapping a bit, too.

  “That’s a good idea. Agreed.”

  Jo lifted her glass off of her stomach, straight up to her, and they clinked the rims. “We can’t be up too late anyway. Court at ten a.m.” She raised up, draining her glass, then held it up. “Get me another?”

  Max emptied her own before she stood up. “Tell me something,” she called from the kitchen, “is it just me, or was life a lot simpler a week ago?”

  “Don’t think so. We just didn’t see the options.”

  “Seems like everything’s changed.”

  “At least it’s not boring.”

  She came out a minute later, setting Jo’s drink on the floor beside her. “Neither is an earthquake.”

  Jo sat up, wrinkling her nose. “What?”

  “Earthquakes aren’t boring, either. Doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.”

  She took a sip, making a face at Max. “It tastes like almond-flavored orange juice.”

  “That’s ‘cause I did more than just salute the carton.”

  “Fine. Buzzkill.”

  “Bimbo.”

  “Interesting metaphor, by the way. Earthquake, huh?”

  Max shrugged. “It seems to fit. From where I am, anyway.”

  Jo drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “You’re having second thoughts?”

  “Oh hell, no!” she laughed. “I’m just looking back at the last few days. Thinking about where we were a week ago. Everything’s shifting. Changing. Like it was all so stable, and steady…”

  “And meaningless.”

  Max nodded acknowledgement. “…and then, everything got shook up. All at once.”

  “That’s the way things really change. It isn’t gradual. It’s instant.” She gulped down the rest of her drink. “Even what looks like ‘gradual’ change comes from a continuum of moments.”

  “Mmm. Slow down, Jo. I can’t drink that fast.” She chugged her full glass, then blinked hard. “Wow.” Clearing her throat, she added, “Like eventually, a bunch of red dots will form a solid red mass, right?”

  “Until the earthquake hits it, I suppose.”

  “Hey, I thought we weren’t going philosophical tonight.”

  “You’re just too fascinating for me to resist.”

  She kicked her lightly. “So you agree with the metaphor, then?”

  “You do love these discussions, don’t you? I guess. Yeah, I agree,” she said, grabbing Max’s glass on the way to the kitchen. “Except that earthquakes happen to you. We chose to shake everything up.”

  Max laughed, already a little tipsy. “Maybe you did–I got kicked out of the nest.”

  From the kitchen, Jo called out, “Makes a mess out of everything, but all the weaker things just fall away. So I guess it’s a good thing. Cleans things out.”

  “You’re approaching Darwinism now.” Max thought of what Jo had said, a few nights earlier.

  I’m not strong.

  She had a sense of foreboding around Jo sometimes, especially in recent weeks; actually, she had been worried about all of them for a while, Sam included. She was glad that Sam had quit, and very happy that it looked for all the world as though she’d reached her limit with Jack. But Jo…She was just brittle. Back and forth, seeming fine one moment, and then lost the next.

  And Max knew that she herself was at the point of needing to take care of some unresolved issues, the things that had haunted her for years–decades, actually–and she knew that a lazy summer at a secluded lake was going to be good for them. She couldn’t wait to get there.

  Jo was handing her another drink. “This one’s made right.”

  Max took a careful sip. “Ow. Better not light a cigarette.”

  It turned out that Jo fell asleep on the floor halfway into her third drink. Max put their glasses in the sink and set up the coffee, before she tucked a pillow under Jo’s head and put a blanket over her. Daisy came to lay beside her.

  Max scratched her neck, putting an extra pillow beside her, and then bringing her furry quilt out before she left. “You’re a good kid,” she said. “Take care of her.”

  In her dream, she was sitting in the far corner of the field, underneath the cluster of Paula Red trees. She drew her knees up, hugging herself, protecting herself from the gusts; then suddenly, she wasn’t cold–but it was dark, and she was alone. She could see the entire field from her corner, stretching out at all angles in front of her. The glow of the moonlight was casting shadows under the trees, shadows that looked like long, gnarled fingers.

  I’m asleep. This isn’t real. Unless I’m not asleep, but then I’m not here anymore. But there should have been a bright light then. They say it’s like a bright light.

  I’m cold. I’m alone. Oh please, I
don’t want to be here by myself, an old woman, crying out in the dark to people she only imagined.

  There was something I could have done.

  She looked around, frantic to find Matthew and Johnny, thinking they would be lost out there without her. But she was too cold and too frightened to move.

  She screamed, Where are you?

  She had moaned it aloud, and Daisy began to nudge her.

  A man approached her.

  Get up now, Josilyn. You don’t have to stay here. Let’s go.

  I know you. Tell me, what could I have done?

  The man held out his hand.

  You could have turned around–but you didn’t want to look.

  She came awake sitting up.

  “Why didn’t I look over my shoulder?” Her own voice surprised her. Daisy was sitting at attention beside her, head cocked, worried.

  Jo patted her head. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m okay.” The dog licked her cheek, then started toward the bedroom, turning around halfway there as if to suggest that Jo follow her.

  “Max?” She looked around at the dark apartment, still confused. The small clock on the TV stand said 2:54.

  She gathered the blankets and pillows, and followed Daisy to bed.

  She was still awake when the birds began their day, so she decided to start hers then, as well. She knew she would spend much of the day with the disjointed perceptions that are the remnants of vivid dreams, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.

  The day was dawning bright again, and she didn’t mind that Daisy lingered outside. The clear, clean light took the edge off of the strangeness of the night, and being out in the world when no one else was around felt like a secret of some kind, a moment in time that belonged to her alone.

  Back in her apartment, she smiled when she saw the coffee already set up. She took her mug into the bedroom and debated whether to pack or to get a quick shower–court was at ten o’clock. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 6:50, so she opened her closet and pulled out the two duffel bags she had packed the day before, moving them to the front door.

  The Mother’s Day card was beside the clock. She picked it up and, without looking at it, tossed it on top of the large, plastic storage box that she kept in the back of the closet–her “Precious Box”, she called it–that contained the tangible bits of her memories with the boys.

  She remembered that they had promised to call her when they landed in Florida. She was still in yesterday’s clothes, and her phone was still in her pocket; she realized that it hadn’t rung since yesterday. She pulled it out and looked at it. No calls.

  Until very recently, she would have been worried; frantic, really, because the hyper-vigilance of the battered mother doesn’t abate easily. She stared dully at her phone, then shrugged and tossed it onto the bed. She turned back to the Precious Box, and shoved it with her foot to the back of the closet.

  Daisy had been dozing on the floor. She jerked awake at the sound of the box hitting the back wall, looking at Jo questioningly.

  “Sorry, Daize.” She grabbed her bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door. “I’m going to get a shower.”

  Jo, Max, and Victoria emerged from the courthouse at 11:40, protective orders in hand, good for a year. Jack had crossed one line too many when he made the death threats against the two women, and even Judge Schultz–known for a fair amount of bias against the claims of abused women–had been swayed. The fact that neither Jo nor Max was married to the accused seemed to be key to his decision.

  He had chastised Jo for what he called her “trickery” for “baiting” Jack when she announced she was recording him; but he did acknowledge that under New Hampshire law, Jack had to be made aware that he was being taped. In response, Jo made Schultz aware of the reason that Jack had been unable to attend, and the women laughed about it as they made their way to their cars.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to see the guy,” Victoria said, unlocking her car door. “In a sane world, they’d keep him locked up for good.” She turned to Jo. “So, Becca said you’re back in the fold.”

  She appeared to be waiting for a response. “Yeah, I am,” Jo sighed, glancing uncomfortably at Max. “For now, anyway.”

  “Well, it’s good to have you back. I’m glad I got the chance to know you.” She squeezed her hand, then said to Max, “You too, Maxine. If you need anything, just call.”

  “I will. Thanks for your help.”

  Victoria studied her for a moment. “You were good in there, you know. Ever think of getting certified, helping us out at the center?”

  She smiled. “I’ll give that some thought.”

  “Good.” She slid into her car. “Take care.”

  They watched her drive away. “You were good in there, Bim,” Jo said. “Natural. I can see you as a lawyer, I really can.”

  “Thanks.”

  They were at the truck, and Max said, “I’m trying to figure out how I can do it. Law school, I mean.” She slid in. “I’ve got nine credits to finish for my Bachelors, and I don’t even know how to swing that. And then I think, at my age? I’ll be so old when I finish.”

  Jo pulled her door shut, then leaned away from her and stared, offended.

  “What?” Max asked.

  “You’ll be my age.”

  “Oh, man…” They laughed, and Max said, “Hey, it’s hard for me to remember that you’re so old, Bim. You look so young.”

  “Nice save.” She started the truck. “I think.”

  “Hey, we should call Sammy.”

  “Yeah. Do that.”

  Jack made a beeline for the bathroom the minute he stepped into his house. He had spent the night in the Hillsboro County Jail and, as it was the first time he had ever been arrested–let alone incarcerated–he hadn’t been comfortable using the toilet in his cell. Not with as public as it seemed.

  Afterwards, he stripped off his clothes in the kitchen and stuffed them into a garbage bag, tying the top tightly and tossing it into the breezeway. Looking at the frig, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since Saturday, and he certainly hadn’t slept; but he decided to shower first, and get rid of the germs and the bugs that he figured had to be crawling on him.

  He scrubbed himself in the shower until his skin felt raw, then let the water beat on his neck for a while, contemplating why he wasn’t absolutely enraged. If anything, he felt like curling up in a ball and hiding in his bed for a week. As he thought about how there was no one there to make him a meal, or to rub his neck for him, or to listen to his stories about his ordeal, he started to feel his gut clench. The rage was there after all, and he was glad for that. He couldn’t tolerate the thought of becoming a pussy.

  He thought it best, though, to look after himself carefully for a day or so. He had been through something here, he thought–and even if the slut didn’t care about that, he did.

  He finished his shower, and remembered that he should call Andrew, his partner at the dealership they owned. The guy would need to know that he wouldn’t be in for a couple of days.

  He managed to sidestep some of Andrew’s questions by promising him a few drinks and a full explanation at Devon’s the next evening. Andrew asked him if he needed the name of a good lawyer; and Jack, just becoming acutely aware of how badly he had handled things up to then, said yes. Andrew promised to make a call for him.

  He decided to eat well, get some much-needed sleep, and regroup–and tomorrow, pick up on the things that he needed to do.

  “The woman’s in fine fettle this morning.” Max was smiling as she closed her phone.

  Jo glanced sideways, amused.

  “It means ‘spirits’.”

  “You’re right–you do know stuff.”

  Max was suddenly wistful. “I never heard her that happy.”

  “She loves him.”

  “Yeah. She always did, I suppose. And poor Dave–he wears his heart on his sleeve for her.”

  “Couldn’t ask her if she told him she’s pregnant?”
<
br />   “Nah. Besides, like you said, her business.”

  “Well…” Jo’s phone was ringing. Distracted with trying to merge into traffic, she handed it to Max. “Get this.”

  She checked the ID. “It’s Liz. Hello?…It’s Max, Liz. Jo’s driving.” After a few moments, she said, “Wait a second.”

  Jo held her hand out, balancing her phone on her shoulder as she turned onto Beech Street. “Hi, Liz. What’s up?”

  Max noted the shifting of her tone, from curious and engaging to brusque, almost business-like. It was fascinating, watching her friend become someone different. Jo was asking rapid-fire, pointed questions of Liz; her comments were a strange combination of cautions and reassurances. Apparently, Liz was asking if she should seek a restraining order for herself against Jack, and Jo was giving her a short course on the law.

  “You can’t prove he’s the one who vandalized your house, Liz. You need more than your suspicions…Of course, I know it, too. But the judge will want something concrete…Okay, here’s what I want you to do.” She gave Liz the number for the crisis center, and explained how to approach them.

  Then something occurred to her: “One more thing. Call the Manchester Police Department. Ask for Sergeant Derosa…No, trust me. He’ll care…Tell him everything…Yeah. He’ll give you good advice…Okay, Liz. Keep me posted.”

  Max took the phone from her, closing it slowly. She stared out the windshield, already worn out again, and it wasn’t lunchtime yet. She wondered how she would wait for next Monday.

  As if reading her thoughts, Jo said, “I’m going to finish packing, and we’re heading up to the lake. You were right. We need to get out of here.”

  “I’m packed,” Max said, wondering again about Mother’s Day but deciding not to ask.

  “Then let’s go. I can’t take it anymore.” Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel; her mouth became a tight, flat line.

  “Jo…”

  “What these guys do…What they’re able to do…I need to leave it behind.”

  She sounded as though she could actually spiral out of control, and Max knew that their usual buffers wouldn’t help.

  “Yes, you do. Let’s get the rest of your stuff, and we’ll just take off. We’ll call Sammy on the way.”