The Snow Garden

by Christopher Rice

“What’s next?” he asked gently. “Campuswide outreaches for one-night stands gone wrong? Are you going to go around campus handing out pamphlets listing the names of guys who don’t call back?” He lifted his hands and fluttered his fingers at the mock horror of it all.

  “You’ve played me his voice mail, Randall.”

  “For fun, Kathryn. I didn’t know you were going to run to the Women’s Center with it.”

  “Every time it’s a different one. Half of them end up begging. And maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t think that Jesse probably gets off on those messages more than sleeping with them.”

  “Let me guess. Someone didn’t call you back once. And you were scared for life.” He had lowered his voice to a dramatic bass, leaning toward her until their foreheads almost touched. When he saw her glare, he shrank back, abashed. “Kathryn ...”

  She went to step off the curb. “Forget I brought it up.”

  “Come on, Kathryn. I was kidding.” He reached for her shoulder and missed. Her feet hit the street and suddenly a pair of headlights sliced toward her and she was forced back up onto the curb.

  “I’m sick of you and April making me out to be this Puritan.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You have.”

  “When?” Randall asked, sounding slightly indignant. He was right, she knew; he had never called her that. But it was too late to relent; silence fell and she stuffed her hands inside her pockets.

  “It’s not about me, all right?” she managed. When she turned to face him, she saw his rapt stare, which was as confused as it was eager for her to continue. “I know better. But there was a time when I didn’t. And that’s why I don’t like it when I see a guy who does nothing but use people.”

  Randall narrowed his eyes and nodded. “I know better too,” he said gently.

  It was this knack for cutting straight to a truth they shared, and doing it with care, that had allowed Randall and Kathryn to form such a deep and all-inclusive friendship so quickly. Kathryn only had to do half the work because Randall could intuit the rest. Did this make her lazy? No. There existed between them a suggestion that something that had shaped them before they met had primed them to become something close to soul mates. It was one of those assurances that hinted there was a little more order to the world than you thought, and made it a less lonely place to live in.

  She returned his embrace before giving him a surprise slap on the „ass. He jerked. They were both startled by a high-pitched whistle.

  “Break it up, you two!”

  Kathryn steeled herself at the sound of Jesse’s too-familiar voice. His date clung to his shoulder like a barnacle and let out a short, barking laugh as they approached down the sidewalk. Kathryn’s eyes immediately shot to the girl’s crotch to see if her jeans were buttoned.

  Candles on wall sconces lit the interior of Madeline’s. The bar was clogged with Armani- and Gucci-clad students downing shots between boisterous fits of laughter. Anemic, black-uniformed waitresses maneuvered between the cramped tables, carrying trays of drinks their skinny arms could hardly support. A strange mix of acid jazz and trance pumped from unseen speakers, a stark contrast to the flickering images of the local eleven o’clock news Kathryn was watching on the television above the bar.

  She sipped her club soda and shot a glance over one shoulder. Through the plate-glass windows, cardiganed students could be seen making the walk back to their dorms. Weighted by overloaded book bags, they shot withering glances at the official hangout for Atherton’s Euro-trash and designer-drug addicts. Kathryn prayed none of them noticed her, fearful of losing the respect of those who had come to one of the finest universities in the country to do something other than look good.

  Kathryn didn’t bother to look at Jesse as he slid onto the barstool next to hers. “Where’s Randall?”

  “Bathroom.”

  “I thought you two were, like, attached at the hip.”

  Kathryn took a sip of her drink. “What’s her name?”

  “Don’t know yet.” Jesse sipped his drink and Kathryn finally made eye contact. He lifted his glass. “Seven Up.”

  Kathryn nodded, as if impressed.

  “You?”

  “Club soda. I thought you were a Bud man, Jesse.”

  “Only when it’s free. But not when I have to perform.”

  Kathryn’s smile hurt her cheeks. She looked toward the bathroom, praying Randall would emerge. Instead, she saw Jesse’s nameless brunette filing out of the women's room with three other girls. The brunette’s eyes shot in both directions before she clasped her hands, as if in prayer, using both index fingers to wipe at her nostrils. Kathryn noticed one of the other girls applying a liberal amount of Chapstick. She read the group’s behavior in an instant. They hadn’t gone to the bathroom together to put on makeup.

  Suddenly she was back in San Francisco. Her best friend Kerry was clinging to her pleadingly, lying and telling Kathryn she was just drunk. Lying even more when she said she was just stoned. And Kathryn, knowing only that alcohol didn’t dilate your pupils, was too stupid to know more.

  “Hey.”

  Startled out of her memories, Kathryn turned. Jesse leaned toward her with one bent elbow braced on the bar. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Never,” Kathryn answered.

  Jesse laughed, his eyes not leaving hers. “No, believe me, I know you’re off-limits. I’d just love to know what it is I do that pisses you off so much.” .

  She held his gaze. “You need to be humbled.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You need to find one girl who won't sleep with you.”

  Jesse leaned back on his stool and gave her a slight nod, not in agreement, but as if satisfied to have received an explanation for her constant chill around him. ‘Thaven’t?” he asked, gesturing down the length of her body with one hand.

  She smirked and returned her attention to the television.

  “You know, I think it’s kind of cool what the two of you have,” Jesse said.

  She thought she heard a genuine trace of envy in his voice. But maybe she had imagined it. “What do you mean?”

  “I just remember the way you guys were during Orientation Week. Everyone else was hanging out in the lounge making bullshit conversation, spouting off those statistics about how 90 percent of married couples meet their other half in college, or going to those stupid ice cream social things. Not you and Randall. You guys were like running off in taxis to gay bars on the first day."

  "I don't exactly recall you bonding with our dorm unit either.”

  “I didn’t,” Jesse responded, without pausing. “That’s why I think ..it’s cool.”

  Puzzled, she waited for him to continue.

  “Jesus, it’s like everyone on our floor, they’re all rushing out to join some club, or they’re going to do some whacked-out major like April, with a hundred requirements, and they’ve already gone to three classes by the time I wake up. It’s like they’re working their asses off to be anything other than what they are.”

  “What are they?” Kathryn asked.

  “Kids. Away from home. But if you ask them, they’ll tell you they’re a major or a club. ‘Hi, I’m premed.’ ‘Don’t bother me, I have to go weave baskets for starving children in Iran.”’ Kathryn couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Not us though,” Jesse continued with sudden gravity. “You, me, Randall. It’s like we didn’t get taken up into the fold. But everyone else here? They’re like Stepford Child freaks mainlining all that bullshit they tried to feed us during Orientation.”

  “April says I use Randall to avoid making new friends,” Kathryn said .carefully, reminding herself whom she was talking to. She left out April’s other point—that she used Randall to avoid finding a boyfriend as well. ,

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said, his tone nonchalant. “We’ve only been here, what? Two months? It’s like the two of you have taken vows or something.”

  She was reminded of Tim
’s “finger-pricking, blood-sharing” comment.

  “So who’s he dating, anyway?” Jesse asked.

  “Randall? No one.”

  “That’s weird. What happened to the reporter guy?”

  “That’s over,” Kathryn said.

  Jesse’s eyes narrowed on her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s just that he’s been staying out really late.”

  “No, he hasn’t.” Kathryn hated the hint of anger in her voice.

  “He comes back with you and then leaves again.”

  “Maybe he’s going to the bathroom.”

  “For three hours? That’s impressive. Even if he’s jerking off. And he knows I don’t have a problem with him jerking off in the room.”

  Kathryn’s mouth opened to protest, but suddenly the brunette had slid between them, perma-smile plastered on her face, pupils dilated. Kathryn was sure the girl was high, and she watched as the brunette leaned into Jesse and whispered into his ear, then withdrew, laughing slightly, but Jesse’s face had gone blank. Kathryn was startled to see him cup the girl’s chin in one hand and gently push her face back several inches, surveying her.

  “What?” the girl asked.

  Jesse reached up and swabbed at her nostrils with one finger.

  “What are you doing?” the girl cried.

  Jesse returned his attention to his 7 Up as the girl’s eyes moved from him to Kathryn. She surveyed Kathryn as if she were a beauty pageant contestant. Kathryn stared back, as if one of the girl’s breasts had squeezed its way out of her V-neck. “Asshole!” the girl barked over one shoulder, stalking to the front door. Jesse didn’t look up from his glass.

  “High as a kite,” Kathryn finally said.

  Jesse’s eyes shot to hers. “You have experience?”

  “Not me. I had friends in high school whose entire weekend was an eight ball,” she said flatly, praying he wouldn’t ask about them. Kerry, Michelle, Debbie, Jono. Somehow, thinking of all their names at once kept her memory from summoning a single face.

  “But you never touched the stuff?”

  “Never,” Kathryn answered, warning him off the subject with her tone.

  Randall sidled up between them to the bar. “Huh?” he asked as he looked from Jesse to her. He bent over the bar, summoning Teddy, his chosen bartender, who enjoyed Randall’s flirtatiousness because it meant big tips. “Can I get an apple martini?”

  “Randall,” Kathryn began. “Someday you’re going to introduce me to a homosexual who can drink something that doesn’t glow in candlelight.”

  “Wait!” Jesse piped up. He grabbed one of Randall’s shoulders and turned him, cupped his chin, and examined his eyes.

  “Mind if I ask what you’re doing?” Randall asked, his words clipped by Jesse’s grasp.

  “He’s clean," Jesse said to Kathryn with a broad grin.

  Teddy delivered Randall’s drink as Randall fished his money clip from one pocket and peeled off a twenty. Randall dangled the bill over the bar, Teddy puckered his lips and Randall extended the money in one hand. As Kathryn expected, Teddy didn’t ask for ID. Randall turned his back on Jesse and leaned in. “What was that about?” he asked Kathryn, voice low.

  “Inside joke. You’re on the outside. Sorry.”

  “You two have inside jokes now? I was only in the bathroom for ten minutes.”

  “I know, and we wanted to know why.”

  “Are you saying you two actually bonded?”

  “Mmmm. No, not really.” Kathryn grabbed his chin. “But let me see something. ...”

  “I don’t do drugs.”

  “Good. Then can we stop coming here?”

  ''You need some glamour in life, honey, and jugs of eight-dollar wine in the first-floor lounge don’t cut it.”

  Kathryn had lifted one hand as if to slap him when Jesse barked, “Shit! Check that out!”

  He pointed to the television above the bar, where Kathryn saw the mauled remains of a Volvo station wagon being hauled from the black water of the Atherton River. Police lights flared on the bridge overhead,

  “Turn it up!”

  It took Kathryn a second to realize it was Randall who had shouted the command at the bartender, who was occupied on the other side of the bar.

  The news cut live to a reporter standing at the rail of the bridge at the exact moment when Kathryn thought the screen would offer them a glimpse of the person behind the Volvo’s steering wheel. The volume stripe suddenly appeared at the bottom of the screen. Heads around the bar jerked at the sound of the reporter’s voice, now contending with the music. Kathryn turned to see Jesse bent over the bar, holding the remote, watching intently.

  “.. - trying to chase down the anonymous caller who placed the 911 call reporting the accident, but so far they are short on leads. But what police are also short on is any explanation as to why forty-one-year-old Lisa Eberman drove her Volvo station wagon through the guardrail behind me and into the freezing waters of the Atherton. River. The obvious answer might be as simple as bad weather.”

  The reporter cut to footage of paramedics rolling a gurney toward the flaring light of a waiting ambulance, its bridge lights smeared by the curtain of snow.

  “As we told you earlier, Eberman was the wife of Atherton art history professor Eric Eberman.”

  “Dude!” the bartender snapped, yanking the remote out of Jesse’s hand. “This isn’t a sports bar.”

  Kathryn turned to find Randall staring raptly at the television. Jesse had noticed too, and their eyes met before they returned their attention to Randall, gripping the stem of his martini glass, his eyes locked on the now-silerit flicker of images.

  “You’re in that guy’s course, right?” Jesse asked him.

  “Shit,” Kathryn whispered. “Did you know her?”

  After several more seconds, Randall pulled his eyes from the TV, stared down into his drink glass, and then brought it slowly to his mouth as he shook his head. He slugged it back and caught his breath. “No, I didn’t. But... he’s mentioned her. In class. It’s just weird.” Kathryn touched Randall’s shoulder lightly and when she did, she caught Jesse staring at her over the bar. When her eyes met his, he broke contact quickly, sliding off his barstool, feet heavily hitting the floor. “Good night all. got work to do.”

  Neither of them said good-bye.

  “She’s dead, right? They said ...” Randall whispered.

  “Yeah,” Kathryn finished gently.

  “That’s so weird,” Randall said again, shaking his head as he took another slug of his drink.

  “Sad," Kathryn said, because she couldn’t think of anything better.

  But it was good enough for Randall, because he nodded vigorously as he set his glass back down onto the bar with too much force.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE WOMAN DETECTIVE STOOD ACROSS FROM ERIC AT THE POCK-marked table, blocking the interrogation room’s single window. Her straight brown hair fell to her shoulders, in contrast to her mannish outfit. The undeniable curves of her body looked like they had been squeezed into the starched khaki trousers and white oxford shirt.

  Pat. That was her name. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed she was the one who had called to break the news. Eric sat slumped, back resting against the metal slats of the chair, feeling—and looking, he guessed—as if he had been punched between the shoulder blades.

  He had lost track of time, and he wasn’t sure how much longer the detective was going to allow this silence to continue. Did police officers take courses in how to deal with a man who had just identified the body of his wife by way of a black-and-white video monitor? When Pat asked him if he was ready to give a positive identification, he had expected to be led down a long, tiled hallway toward a set of double doors leading into the mortuary. Instead, she ushered him gently into a side room where he was greeted by the sight of Lisa’s face on a television screen. Her black hair radiated from her head in matted clumps, and it was impossible to tell whether the blue pall
or of her skin was the result of near-freezing water, the tint of the screen, or death. But there had been no denying that her sharp, birdlike features were just lax enough to suggest something beyond sleep.

  The detective had touched his shoulder, squeezed gently, and then left her hand there. When he brought his hand to his mouth, it wasn’t to fight a sob, but rather to conceal its absence. Maybe because it was the first time in years he had seen his wife without a glazed sheen of panic in her eyes, or a brow intensely furrowed as she realized that her latest medication had turned the task of chopping vegetables into an almost insurmountable project. The peace that came with her death made her seem more fully realized; it conjured up images of the first woman he had ever slept with, who had plied him with champagne on New Year’s Eve, in 1984, before taking him to bed in her room. As her parents slept down the hall, that young woman had said nothing when he told her it was his first time. Instead, without pausing to laugh or express incredulity, she had guided him gently through the motions. And from then on, she had regarded him as a challenge, as someone she had to draw out. Almost ten years later, all her efforts had failed. Accusations replaced conversation. Empty silences filled the spaces once occupied by the cold comfort of their intellectual companionship.

  “When did she start seeing this therapist?” The detective finally broke the silence.

  “Two years ago,” Eric answered, trying to lift his eyes to hers. “She had been depressed for a while. During the day she could barely get out of bed, and at night she couldn’t sleep.”

  “And the therapist prescribed something?”

  A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s funny?”

  “It’s. . . within two weeks of her first visit, our medicine cabinet was filled with a bunch of drugs. And I could barely pronounce the names of any of them.” A bunch of drugs. His careless choice of words sent a shiver through him and when he met the detective’s gaze, he saw a sudden intensity to her poker face, which indicated that part of the puzzle had fallen into place for her.

  “What kind?”