Absent a Miracle

by Christine Lehner

  By telling Abelardo these things, had I revealed more than I cared to of my misplaced priorities and my tendency toward melodrama? Surely he would make the connection between the loss of my Dream Radio job and the onset of Dandy's illness. And what were the chances he would tell me his dreams early next morning?

  6

  Snow Was General

  IF Dream Radio WERE still on the air, I thought, and if I were someone else who was not the host of Dream Radio, then I could call in and tell that host-other and all the sleepy listeners in the tri-state area my dream this morning. No such luck.

  I drew back the curtains. It was still snowing. Maybe I had missed one weather report, or even two, but there had been nothing about this snow lasting through the night. Here we were, living in a new century in which every snowflake was predicted, charted, and analyzed. Yet these had not been. Not this profusion of snowflakes. Not that I knew of.

  From the warm impress of my body that was greedily in the middle of the flannel sheets, I remembered Abelardo. What was I going to do with him? And why hadn't Waldo called? Did he even know about the snow?

  There was only silence, thank God, coming from Abelardo's room, from Ezra's room.

  I tiptoed downstairs to let the dogs out. The snow had drifted toward the back door, and I pushed it away with the storm door. Whirling snow flew in and blew me backward. Flirt and Dandy cowered behind the counter. "You're dogs, guys. You have to go out. That's the deal."

  He's going back to the city today, I assured myself. He'll take the train in, and snow isn't so deep in the city, it never is. And then it's Oyster Time.

  Abelardo was standing in the kitchen, looking somewhat bereft — but ever so crisp, buttoned, and tucked in — when I came in from clearing a path to the car and shoveling it off. Was I discovering in myself a latent attraction to a well-groomed man?

  "Good morning. You slept well?"

  "I enjoyed young Ezra's bed. It was unusual."

  "What was unusual about it?" Globs of snow were melting off me, puddling the floor. This man needed his breakfast.

  "I don't think I meant exactly that. I meant it was very soft. And the panic button was a nice touch."

  "It's not a real panic button," I said. "Ezra and Henry both like disaster scenarios."

  There was no way I was going to shovel the whole driveway. I figured I could clear around the car, start her up, and then rock back and forth a few times to generate enough momentum to get down to the road in first gear. It worked. It was no surprise that Emerson Street was slow going. I guessed it had been plowed maybe once the previous evening, and not again since. What was surprising was that Route 72 had barely been plowed either.

  This could have been the result of recent shakeups at the Department of Public Works. For almost fifty years Max Stone had ruled the DPW like it was his private fiefdom; his was a benign dictatorship over the snowplows, graders, garbage trucks, and cherry pickers. He had retired early in the winter, in the full expectation that his son and right-hand man, Max Junior, would be named head of the department after him. Our town supervisor, however, for reasons he refused to say publicly, did not do so. He brought in a new man from outside the town. But Max Stone had no intention of going gently into his retirement. His letters to the local paper, the VerGroot Sentinel, aspired to and sometimes achieved new pinnacles of outrage. Waldo read them aloud each Friday and considered it a dreary week if there was no new indignant screed from Max Stone or his large family. Waldo's favorite letter, often cited, compared the merits of a well-plowed road to those of well-folded laundry.

  Still, and notwithstanding my terror of ice, I considered myself a good driver in the snow and I safely delivered Abelardo to the train station. I surprised myself by being almost sorry he had to leave. I would not say he had begun to grow on me, but given that the storm was going to keep us all inside for a while, I caught myself imagining we two sitting by the fire. (Remember Annabel! Remember Inner Resources!)

  The VerGroot station was a Gothic revival building of a silliness that belied its sturdy structure. "The station looks closed," Abelardo said.

  "It can't be," I said. So I looked. There were no lights on inside, and a notice was posted on the door. "Damn."

  DUE TO HEAVY SNOW AND HIGH WINDS, ALL TRAINS ARE CANCELED. Period. You'd think they might have inserted the word temporarily. But no such luck. It hadn't occurred to me to call first or check online. I never had before. Maybe there was more snow somewhere else, because our inches did not seem enough to warrant this egregious halt in public transportation.

  "I guess I'll have the pleasure of your company awhile longer," I said cheerily.

  "Snow was the one thing at Harvard I could never abide," he said.

  "Really?"

  "I could tolerate the bad food and the bad music. But the snow was terrible. The way it stays around."

  "It's not so bad," I said, unconvincingly.

  The drive home took much longer than the trip out. It hadn't seemed like so much before, but now I could see that the snow was pummeling the ground. The aforementioned high winds had found their way up the railroad tracks. So really the snow was falling horizontally, in millions of paths parallel to the curve of the Earth.

  The situation on Emerson had not improved in the meantime. Getting up our driveway was going to be a challenge; I would have to get a running start. The good news was there would be no other cars on the road. As we approached I drove far onto the wrong side of the road, aimed at the driveway, shifted into first gear, and slammed on the accelerator.

  The car didn't make it. About a hundred feet in I skidded and made an almost perfect one-eighty.

  "Perhaps I can help you?" Abelardo said. He was whiter than the snowdrift I had driven into, if that was possible.

  "Don't worry. I often don't make it on the first try."

  The second try was a breeze. I was nervous about the icy spot, but we roared past it and then it was smooth sailing to the house.

  "You will excuse me if I go lie down," Abelardo said as we crossed the threshold.

  "I hope I didn't scare you."

  "Perhaps I didn't sleep as well as I thought last night."

  I was watching the television weather, all weather, lots of weather, when the phone finally rang.

  But it was Posey. "Why haven't I heard from you folks?" she said.

  "We're having a snowstorm," I said.

  "Of course you're having a snowstorm. That's why I'm calling."

  "Are you having one as well?" Posey and Edgar Cicero lived in Catamunk, Maine.

  "We are not," Posey said, as if she were being denied a snowstorm that was rightfully hers. "I suppose the boys are out sledding. We simply have snow."

  "They're not here. Remember? They went to see the caves."

  "I can't be expected to remember everything."

  "Of course not," I said.

  "What on earth will they do in the caves?" she said.

  "Whatever they want. They are fascinated by caves, and bats, all the limestone formations and all the dripping water. Honestly, I haven't a clue."

  "You never told me what Waldo wants for his birthday."

  "Nothing. I'm sure he wants for nothing," I said.

  "Doesn't he need a new sweater? The last time I saw him he was wearing that same ratty blue one."

  "It's his favorite sweater," I said. "He barely ever lets me wash it."

  "When he was a boy I would have to do his laundry while he slept. I'd have everything back where he liked it in the morning, and he never knew the difference. And at least he didn't smell."

  Years ago, whenever Posey disparaged Waldo's attire or personal hygiene, I'd taken her comments personally and assumed that I was deficient in my uxorial duties. Not Waldo. He heard his mother's comments selectively, and responded selectively; it was his way of loving her, by only ever hearing or recalling the aspects of her that he could love. For the longest time, Posey's critiques of Waldo's grubby clothes and unshorn hair had filled me
with wifely self-doubt. However, this was one job I still had.

  "I know, Posey," I said. "But I usually fall asleep before he does."

  "That's the problem."

  "Well, he's a grown man. I think he should be able to make his own fashion decisions."

  "You're both so modern about those things. I put Three's clothes out for him every morning of his life."

  I knew that. She had shared it with me many times.

  "Does Mr. Cicero like his clothes laid out for him?" I said.

  "I gave Waldo that sweater more than ten years ago. I really think he needs another."

  "He loves whatever you give him, Posey."

  She said, "I have to go now. Apparently, Mr. Cicero thinks he can shovel the walk without any help from me."

  "Be careful, Posey. Remember your sciatica."

  "It's bursitis. And tendinitis. But I can't let that stop me."

  I let the dogs in and we settled down to our private revels with the weather report.

  A dome of frigid air over the Northeast will organize snow.

  There is a broad jet-stream disturbance slowly moving off the plume of humid air that will arrive by dawn, that arrived last night, that will last through midnight, that will go on forever.

  Accumulations of up to four feet are expected, are regretted, are a thing of the past.

  The roads, the schools, the massage parlors are closed, are opening late, are not opening at all. You are kindly requested not to drive unless it is another day, an emergency, a relief.

  You will be asked the differences between a winter storm advisory and a winter storm warning and a winter storm alert. You will be asked to define a blizzard. You will be surrounded by snow.

  The snow fell and fell. Everything was closed. I listened for the telltale rattle-and-clank-and-screech of the snowplow out on Emerson, and heard nothing. It struck me as remarkable how something as large as a snowstorm could happen so silently. Even the wind blew silently. Mere inches past the windows and doors, past everything but the warm interior of the house, was a complete whiteout. That morning I had seen the dark winter trees, their burrowing trunks and reaching limbs, delineated in the chilly white blanket. Now there was no shape out there at all.

  The dogs refused to go outside. Waldo often pointed out that they were hunting dogs, and, as such, they were meant to be outdoors. He asserted that they should stay in the barn and never muddy up the house. Not that the boys or I ever paid attention. We were happiest in the proximity of a sleeping dog.

  The snow made them clingier than usual. Flirt and Dandy were with me as I searched the shelves for dinner inspiration. I looked with longing at the tinned oysters and knew I could not serve them to Abelardo. The dogs were with me as I folded the laundry. I thought about taking this opportunity to clean and organize Henry's room, but I didn't want Abelardo to hear me rustling and thumping around up there, with the dogs, who would not leave me.

  "When will it stop?"

  I must have dozed off in front of the weather report. My eyes popped open. Flirt's tail beat a staccato rhythm on the floor. Dandy slumbered on. Of course it was Abelardo, down from his lair. He wore pressed khakis and a pale blue oxford shirt. Not winter wear.

  "Tomorrow. Certainly tomorrow," I said.

  "This is intolerable."

  "Oh, it's not so bad," I said. "I'm sorry you're stuck here with me. I realize it's not all that exciting, but at least we're warm. Do you play Scrabble? Cards?"

  "I wish I could see it as you do. As a diversion. But I have this problem that has only exacerbated with time. I need a warm climate. It is my tragic flaw."

  "Tragic flaw? You don't think that's a little histrionic?"

  "Not at all."

  "I don't mean to be critical," I said. Well, then, what did I mean to be? "But isn't a tragic flaw more like being doomed to marry your mother?"

  "I disagree. It was Oedipus's fate to marry his mother. His flaw was having the desire to do so."

  "But he didn't want to marry his mother. Quite the contrary."

  "He wanted to marry Jocasta, and she was his mother," Abelardo said.

  "But[[[mdash.gif]]]

  "Please excuse me. I should not argue with you. It must be the weather."

  "I could turn up the heat," I said. Although I very much doubted the house could get any warmer.

  "I'm not that cold. I just find the snow excessive. The way it falls and then stays on the ground."

  "I guess we should be grateful we're not in the Antarctic, or the Arctic. Snow that falls there lasts for thousands of years, turns into glacial ice. Because it's so dry, I think."

  "I'm afraid I have no interest in weather conditions at the extremities of the globe," he said. "My focus has always been equatorial."

  "You write for a newspaper?" I said. Not very surreptitiously, I rubbed my hands up and down my thighs, trying to smooth out the damp rumpled corduroys. There were two smallish puddles where the snow on my cuffs had melted and dripped.

  "I don't even read the newspapers. In that, I am like your president. But only that, I hope."

  "I thought you said your focus was editorial."

  He pulled at his left earlobe, a gesture I was beginning to see as emblematic. "I said equatorial"'

  "May I ask you a question?"

  "But of course, dear Alice."

  "Stop me if it's too intrusive."

  He just smiled. As if that were impossible.

  "Why did you leave the seminary?"

  "Aha. Yes. That was before I had undertaken this effort with Tía Tristána. It had nothing to do with this."

  "Then why?"

  "But if I consider it, the reason I could not stay is exactly because I could not make the choice, I could not dedicate myself, as she had. Without benefit of seminary."

  My wet socks, draped over the radiator, were steaming.

  "I realized, dear Alice, that I would not be able to forgo physical love."

  Dear Alice? I asked, "So you fell in love?"

  "Oh, no. But I knew I would some day."

  "That seems reasonable," I said.

  "I would say that the last thing it is, is reasonable." He vehemently tugged both earlobes. "Either love or faith."

  "Of course," I said. "I wish Waldo would call. You'd think he'd be curious how we are managing in this snow. He must know about the snow, don't you think?"

  "But isn't he in a cave?"

  "Not all the time. I really wish he would call. I'm sure he'd like to talk with you," I said.

  "One would think so."

  That evening we sat again by the fire while the snow continued to fall. I stuck a yardstick in a drift by the back door; it sank in to twenty-six inches. Which meant that more than those twenty-six inches had fallen, because of the compaction factor.

  Then when I got up to coax the dogs out-of-doors for even the briefest time, the yardstick was no longer visible. The whiteout was complete and blinding. Flirt dug in her heels. Dandy lay down and slept. They were immovable. I gave up, and spread newspaper down in the back hall.

  "Why don't you tell me about your aunt," I said to Abelardo. "That is why you are here. The purpose of your visit. Not to keep me company."

  "Yes, it is, but it is more complicated than it seems."

  "That's true for everything except your dreams. And they are simpler."

  "But in my aunt's case, it is vastly more complicated," he insisted. Again, his fingertips touched, pulsed in and out, became a dome, then a peaked roof, and then a dome again. There was not a frayed cuticle in sight.

  "First, you should know that for generations the Llobets were always giving birth to boys. Boys are generally considered desirable, but there were always too many. Until my generation. But that is something else. Boys tend to fight, and there is the matter of inheritance, and farms being split up. So when my Great-Aunt Tristána Catalina was born, she was the considered the greatest of all possible blessings. That was in 1896."

  Abelardo told me how very bea
utiful she was. He told me that her piety and serenity were an example to her brothers, her feckless brothers. He didn't mention the matador portrait by Sorolla.

  "Then she refused to marry. It was not that she disliked the young men—and there were many. She had a clear vision of her life as an accretion of good works, and marriage was not part of it. But where — you may ask — did she get that vision?

  "A person does not set out to be a saint. To do so would be — unsaintly, I think. But she wanted something else. Something other. Born rich and beautiful and beloved, she had to depart from the expected path in order to achieve sanctity. Virginity was only one component. But in the eyes of the church, a big one."

  "But not essential," I said. "Marriage is a sacrament. Married people make more little Catholics."

  "Exactly. And I can cite Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, Saints Waldetrudis, Adelaide, and Anastasia. Who all married and even gave birth. But I don't need to tell you that most female saints are virgins."

  A little voice in my head asked: Why me, oh, Abelardo? Why that stress?

  "Dear Alice, my country could use a saint. And Tristana Llobet would make an excellent one. She led a saintly life. Especially, she is renowned for her goodness to the dying and her uncanny prescience. Also, there were several miraculous cures while she lived. I have told you of the hiccups, and that is not the only one."

  "She cured more hiccups?"

  "More ailments. Also, since her death. Those are the ones that count."