Snow Angels (26 page)

I opened my door and stuck my head out. Nothing.

After a minute I snuck into the kitchen and slowly brought my eyes level with the sill of the front window.

They were standing a few feet apart, my father gesturing with open arms, my mother hugging herself against the cold. My father talked and then waited, bending down to peer into her face.

My mother said one word—“No.”

He talked again, palms up, trying to reason with her.

“No,” she said, this time loudly enough for me to hear, and followed it with a burst of words. My father stood nodding and looking at the snow between them, and when she was done, turned and headed down the stairs.

I skittered back to my room, just getting the door shut as my mother came inside.

“Arthur?” she called. “He's gone.”

I came out and realized I still had my jacket on.

“Did you have a good time?” my mother asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was okay.”

In my room, with the lights out, I thought of Christmases at our old house. I remembered how light the garbage bag full of wrapping paper was; outside we used to throw it around like a boulder, pretending we were Hercules. And the train tracks that gave you a shock if you touched them with your tongue. Needles hid in the carpet; for months you had to wear shoes. In a dish on the mantel the orange my mother had jammed a whole box of cloves into dried and shriveled like a shrunken head. We all had stockings, even my father, who seemed embarrassed that he'd received any gifts. Unluckily, his birthday was December 27. It was a gyp; he ended up getting stiffed. He'd take us all to dinner in Butler, usually Natili's. Once we went to
Pittsburgh, I can't remember where downtown. We had fish.

One New Year's my mother and father went out dancing and left us with Annie. Her father dropped her off in his truck. The minute she was in the door we started following her around. She sat on the floor in the front hall and took her boots off, blew her nose in the bathroom. My mother, in her usual flurry before leaving, went over what snacks we could eat and how late we could stay up, gave Annie the number where they'd be. Annie nodded and smiled; she'd been through this.

“Don't worry,” she said. “You're going to be good for me, right, guys?”

We all watched my parents get into the Country Squire and drive away.

“Can we stay up till midnight?” Astrid asked.

“Please?”

“When did your mom say you have to be in bed?”

“Ten-thirty,” we lied, trying to sound glum.

“Is your mom here?” Annie said.

“No.”

“Who's in charge? Who makes the rules?”

“You!” we shrieked, already claiming victory.

“We'll see,” she said. “What kind of munchies do you guys want?”

We watched TV, one on either side of her, working
at the cheese curls in the bowl on her lap. Astrid brushed her hair, then it was my turn. She let us have Pepsis, as many as we wanted. We jockeyed for her attention, making fun of whatever show was on. Annie turned her wrist over and checked her watch. It was past our bedtime.

“Okay,” she said when the bowl was done, “what game should we play?”

“Monopoly!”

“Risk,” Astrid voted.

“Arty can't play that yet.”

“Life,” I tried.

“Life is boring,” Astrid said.

“How about Sorry, or Trouble?”

“No,” we said.

“Monopoly.”

“Okay,” Astrid said, “but I get to be banker.”

We got down on the floor for it. Annie went upstairs for her cigarettes. As Astrid systematically crushed us with the light blues and purples, I watched Annie smoke, so different from our mother. She wore plum nail polish that she sometimes dabbed on Astrid, but no lipstick. She let a little smoke out of her mouth and made it curl into her nose. She blew a tiny ring through a big one.

“This is no fun, you guys aren't even trying,” Astrid said, signaling the end of the game.

“I saw some Klondikes in the freezer,” Annie mentioned, as if it were top secret, and we ran upstairs. “First I want you to put your pj's on.”

She gave us each a bowl and a spoon and let us take them to the basement, something my mother never did.

Guy Lombardo was on. Times Square was full of people behind long sawhorses marked
POLICE, DO NOT CROSS
. With five minutes left, Annie made sure everyone had a Pepsi. We counted down, watched the ball drop and then jumped on the couch, screaming. Annie kissed us and we guzzled our bottles like the people on TV, tipping them up and laughing so the bubbles fizzed in our noses.

“All right,” she said, “let's get in bed before your mom and dad come back.”

“Awww,” we protested.

“Get up there.”

Astrid was too old for stories. She had her Barbies and a fat Raggedy Ann to keep her company. I waited in bed while Annie tucked her in, listened for the springs to bounce back, then her footsteps.

“It's got to be short tonight,” she said in the doorway.

I asked for my favorite,
Charlotte's Web
.

“Too long.” She took it from me and sighed, sat
down on the bed and swung her feet up. She smelled of baby powder and cigarettes, with just a hint of their oil burner, and when she reached across me to turn a page I caught a spicy whiff of her herbal deodorant.

She let me keep the book when she was done, pulled the covers up to my chin. I started to ask for another story, but she put a finger to my lips.

“Hush. Go to sleep now.”

She started to leave.

“Happy New Year,” I said, to make her stay.

She laughed at my inventiveness, came back and leaned over me, her smoky-sweet hair falling like a curtain around my face, and kissed me on the forehead.

“Happy New Year,” she said.

Now, in the same bed but in a different house, I wondered why I hadn't missed her before.

The day of Christmas Eve, my mother had to work. It was an easy shift, she said. A lot of the kids went home for the holidays, and she was glad to stay with the ones who were left. They would have a party, and presents; it was not depressing at all. She would be home as early as she could.

I had known all of this in advance, and had invited Lila over for the afternoon. We sat on my bed and talked. I had her present behind the stereo, and when I went to flip the record, I palmed the box. I kissed her and let it drop to the bed behind her. She lay down on it.

“But I didn't bring yours,” she argued.

I had to restrain myself from helping her open it.

“Oh,” she said, and “Oh,” taking it out of the box. “It's beautiful.” She held it around her neck. “Put it on me.”

I fumbled with the tiny clasp but got it on. She turned and kissed me and we lay down.

We had our shirts off and our jeans unbuttoned when I heard a car slow and stop outside. We both froze and looked toward the front door. A car door closed and someone started up the stairs.

I found Lila's bra and tossed it to her, yanked my shirt over my head, jumped off the bed and closed my door. Lila had her shirt on now; her hair was a mess, as I suspected mine was. I patted my head with both hands and waited for my mother's key in the lock.

The footsteps retreated, going back down the stairs. The car door clunked shut, and the car started.

I ran to the front window in time to see the Nova pull out. Another letter, I thought.

“It's just my father,” I called to Lila.

She came out of my room, brushing her hair, then sat down and turned the TV on. The chain looked great.

I put on my shoes and went out to see if he'd left a letter. On the landing sat a huge black garbage bag bursting with presents.

I wrestled it inside.

“Whoa,” Lila said. I said that he'd probably done all his shopping in one day. “Whoa,” she said again.

My mother said nothing when she saw it. She was late. It was past six and dark and snowing. I had begun to worry. She stopped in the doorway and took off her gloves. She tugged at the bag but it didn't budge.

“Arthur, help me with this.”

I came over and got a grip and helped her take it outside.

“Thank you,” she said, and motioned for me to go inside. She closed the door behind us, hung up her coat and took off her shoes. “Have you eaten?” she asked, and when I said I was waiting for her, she began making dinner noisily.

She stopped and poured herself a scotch.

“What a perfect day,” she said with a sneer, and poured another. “God, I love the holidays.”

Later that night, in the middle of
It's a Wonderful
Life
, my father called. My mother was into her ninth or tenth drink and arguing with the TV. She ignored the ringing.

I answered with “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Arty,” he said.

“Is that him?” my mother asked. “Is that your wonderful father?” She gestured with a finger for me to hand over the phone.

I gave it to her.

“Hey,” she said, “just what is the big idea with the fucking Santa Claus bag?”

“You know what I got for you?” she said. “Nothing. Not one goddamn thing. No, no, wait. I got you the divorce. That's your present. So enjoy it. Stick it under your fucking tree and enjoy it.”

I headed for my room and put my headphones on. I tried to think of Lila, but all I could see was Annie's girl and then Annie in the water.

I was only on the second song when my mother pushed the door open.

She swayed in the frame. She had been crying and hadn't bothered to wipe her eyes. She came in and sat on the bed, her head bent. She took my hand and held it to her cheek.

“I hope you understand what just happened,” she said, “and why it has to be this way.”

And I thought that I did and I didn't.

“Arthur.”

“I guess,” I said, and it was not an evasion. Because though it was already happening to me, I could not see how I would ever come to hate the people I loved. Yet at the same time I could do nothing to stop it, and that would not change for a very long time.