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Snow Day by Robert Brunelle |
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Byrrh by Auger, 1930 |
I
"Francis, come to bed.""Soon." He didn’t look up.
"Define ‘soon.’"
"Jesus Christ, Alice, I’m working."
"I wish you’d work this hard on us."
He looked up. He composed his reply and returned to his work saying nothing.
"You’re an ass," she said as she left the room.
"I love you," he said as he closed the door behind her. Then he settled in his chair and wrote:
"It’s finished." He felt his insides glide hearing himself confess it. "It’s over. I want out. I’m telling her it’s over. I’m telling her I want to be with you."
"You mean it, Eddie? Really?" Her forehead wrinkled over her swollen eyes and she wrenched his hand tight between hers, as if it could stop him from changing his mind.
"It’s you," he said. Gazing at her in the cold December moonlight, her shiny black curls tumbled and tucked by her ears, her frosty eyes capped by the perfect twin arcs of her brows, he was certain a more beautiful girl never lived.
The door opened.
"Francis, come to bed."
"I’m coming," he said, and he put down his pen and turned off the light.
* * * * *
"Francis, get up," she said.
He rolled away from her.
She pushed him. "Francis, get up. Get up it snowed." She said it all at once like that.
Silence.
"Honey wake up."
There was no use pretending he didn’t hear her.
"Francis."
"How bad is it?"
"I don’t know. The plows are out."
"Christ, just tell me how much snow there is."
"I don’t know. Seven, eight inches?"
"Is school canceled?"
"I don’t know yet."
"Okay."
"Are you getting up?"
"I guess I have to."
"I can shovel."
"No, I’m getting up," he lied.
* * * * *
When he woke Alice was gone. She would be back at three from work, and now it was only eleven, which gave him four hours to work. He looked out the window The snow had stopped and it was raining and everything looked black and muddy He liked the rain. At first the snow was fine because it made things look clean by covering the patches where the grass didn’t grow anymore. But when it melted everything was crusty and filthier than it ever was before. He went into the study and sat at his desk and it was very quiet, except for the rain. He liked when he could see grass peek through the pockmarks in the snow where the rain had melted it most. He hoped it would rain all day.
"Hey, George."
"Hey."
"What’s new?"
"It’s slow tonight, Eddie."
"I noticed. Where is everyone?"
"It’s Christmas Eve."
"Can you get me a beer?"
George drew a draft. "Is everything okay, Eddie?"
"Sure," he said.
"Okay." He pushed the beer across the bar to him. "You know she came by earlier. Looking for you."
"Yeah."
"She looked worried."
"Yeah."
"It’s a hell of a thing to be alone on Christmas Eve."
"Yeah," he said. He sipped his beer.
"Christ, Eddie."
"Christ, like I don’t know what it’s like?"
The phone rang. He answered it.
"Hi. It’s me."
Francis rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch.
"Francis, are you there?"
"Yes."
"Did you just get up?"
"A little while ago. I’ve been writing."
"I shoveled for you."
"Oh?" He pulled aside the curtain and looked outside. "Yes." She’d cleaned the snow off his car. He suddenly felt ashamed "I overslept."
"I didn’t want to wake you."
He coughed. It was cold standing by the window and he could see his breath plume in the air. He rubbed his eyes again.
"Francis?"
"Yes?"
"I couldn’t tell if you were there."
"I’m here," he said.
"My car won’t start," she said. "I can’t get home."
"Are you sure?" He scratched behind his ear.
"Can you come get me?"
He noticed that he needed to trim his fingernails. "What’s the car doing?" he asked.
"Nothing. It won’t start at all."
"I was writing." He looked at his watch. Eleven forty-five. "Is school canceled?"
"Yes," she said.
"So what exactly is the car doing?"
"Francis, I don’t have any more change!"
"Don’t yell at me."
"It’s cold."
"I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. Christ."
"I’m just cold," she said.
* * * * *
He walked home. It was snowing steady in big wet flakes, and he stopped walking for a moment to watch the snowflakes fluttering past the streetlights like winter locusts. It seemed too warm to be snowing and the flakes felt cold as they melted and ran down the back of his neck. He was drunk and he noticed everything He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the snow falling.
"Are you hungry?"
"What?"
"I said are you hungry."
" No."
"Not even a little soup?"
"No." She hadn’t knocked and so he didn’t look up at her.
"Okay," she said. She softly closed the door.
"What do you want for dinner?" she said.
"I’m not hungry," said Eddie.
"Are you sure?" she said.
"I’m sure," he said.
"You got to eat something," she said.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he said.
"Eddie!" she said.
"What?" he said. She said nothing. "What?" he said again.
"Where have you been?" she whispered.
"What?" he said.
"I said where have you been? Where have you been all night, Eddie?"
"I’m going downtown," he said.
"Tonight?"
"For a bit," he said.
"Do you have to?" she said.
"It’s just for a bit. I won’t be long."
"Why do you have to go?"
"I won’t be long."
"Why do you have to go tonight?"
"It’s just for a bit," he said.
"You promise?"
"Sure."
"Okay," she said.
* * * * *
Outside the air was clear and cold and the moon was full and white and the sidewalks ran glassy with black ice. The rain had melted most of the morning’s snow, and what it hadn’t rinsed away mounted high and frozen along the curbs and gutters in salty piles left by the plows. The walk downtown was short; Francis Einstein walked briskly and tried to forget the cold.
II
She hadn’t asked for this, not any of it. And she never complained about a goddamn thing, nor did she regret it as long as he was happy, but he was never happy. The problem, he told her, was that she remembered too well how it used to be, in the beginning, and that she’d never be happy again until she surrendered that silly romantic optimism.
What was hilarious was that it was true, she should have known better. She must have known then, for it all seemed so goddamn ridiculous now. Surely she hadn’t expected him to remain faithful to anything but the writing. The goddamn fool. Fucking Christ, her too, for that matter, for ever believing that his efforts would shame her, that their goddamn poverty was poetic. He couldn’t lie all the time, who lies all the time? But then of course, lying was his goddamn profession.
* * * * *
Francis lit a cigarette at the bar.
"You shouldn’t," said Pete, sliding a beer over to him.
"I know," said Francis. But there was something about the flavor of tobacco and beer. Francis pulled out a miniature leather-bound notebook and wrote "smoke and beer" in it. He put it down on the bar, replacing it in his hand with the cigarette, and took a long steady pull, holding it in his mouth for a moment and then he chased it down with a cold swallow of stale draft beer. It was the same with cigarettes and coffee.
He crushed the glowing butt of his first cigarette into an ashtray and immediately lit a second, tugging on it softly as it took the match while looking up at the television screen suspended above the hard liquor shelves behind the bar. A game was on.
"Who’s playing?" he said.
"Notre Dame and S.C.," said Pete.
"Who’s winning?"
"Tied, going into the half."
"Who’s favored?"
"Southern Cal by seven."
"Huh." Francis sipped his beer. He looked up at the screen. It was sunny in Los Angeles. Francis ordered another beer and a shot of Southern Comfort. There were many attractive women performing in the half-time show. Most of them were blond and suntanned, much like the stereotype.
"Did you walk here?"
"Huh?" said Francis.
"You’re not driving?" said Peter, wiping a wine glass dry.
"No." The television cameraman held his focus on one particularly astonishing woman. "Pete!" said Francis. "Hey, Peter!" he said. "Now there’s an acrobat!"
Peter looked up. He looked back down.
"California’s really something," said Francis. He’d never been, but he figured he’d go one day.
An old man from the table in the dark corner of the bar paid his bill and left. The open door blew hard cold air across the bar chilling everyone left behind, and Pete hurried to the door and closed it. Then he returned to his place behind the bar and resumed the task of polishing glasses. "It’s not so bad here," he said.
Again the wind shook the door, but this time it did not open. It was very cold outside, and Francis was not eager to walk home.
"You like a white Christmas, don’t you?" said Pete.
"California," said Francis. "Who here drinks wine?"
"You’re not the only one here," Peter said.
"You know where they make that wine? California." He rapped the bar with his mug.
"Watch your acrobats."
"Barkeep, I do believe my glass is empty."
Peter refilled his beer mug. Francis drained it.
"Let me tell you about Christmas," Francis bellowed. "Nobody should have a monopoly on holidays."
"It’s early for you to be drunk, Frank."
"A man’s got to drink to keep warm in a meat locker like this."
"For Christ’s sake, quit crying in your beer, Frankie."
"I don’t have a beer. If your head wasn’t pushed up your ass you’d see that." He instantly regretted it.
Pete poured a beer into a fresh frosted mug. "Drink it and get out."
"You know I didn’t mean it." The second half of the game had started and Notre Dame was driving.
"I don’t want to hear it, Frankie. You come in here and start drinking, you bring everybody down."
"It’s the holidays."
"It’s something."
"Can’t I just sit in the corner?"
"Whatever."
Francis relinquished his barstool and moved to a table in the corner.
* * * * *
Just for a bit, he said. Just looking for material, he said. He’s looking for something all right. Did he really believe she was that stupid? Don’t ask questions. Goddamn son of a bitch. There was plenty of material at home, how much does he need? Don’t ask questions.
She shivered; the apartment was freezing. They agreed to keep the thermostat low when he quit his job to write full-time, and so they were always cold. And the bastard kept the dial in his pocket because he didn’t trust her to keep it where he wanted. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? he’d say. Well, fuck you.
He was right, she would have turned it up. And why shouldn’t she? Because then we can’t afford the bill and then they turn it off completely. Or perhaps you’d prefer to pay the heating bill and come up short on rent and live in a box on the street? Or pay the heating bill and the rent and then have nothing left for food and then we’ll starve. Or maybe shut up and put on a fucking sweater. Don’t ask questions. The son of a bitch probably cranks the heat all day.
* * * * *
There was a window in the corner where frigid wisps of wind slipped through the cracks along the pane. Francis turned up the collar of his coat and blew on his fingers to warm them. He counted the whiskey glasses in front of him Seven. He then began to methodically calculate the amount of alcohol he’d consumed that evening, at home and then at Jack’s. He determined that a saloon was no place for complicated arithmetic.
She was dressing in the bathroom while Eddie lit a cigarette, because that’s what one did. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t let him look at her afterwards, or he thought he did, but it was ridiculous and so he figured it was something else. He scooped some ice cubes from the champagne bucket by the bed and dropped them into a glass tumbler.
"Are you making me a drink?" she called from the bathroom.
"You want one?" he said.
"Whatever you’re having."
He poured them each a drink, he drank his, and then he poured another.
"There are quicker ways to kill yourself," she said, stepping out of the bathroom.
"Go fuck yourself," he said. He was beginning to feel a little philosophical.
"You’re an awful drunk, aren’t you?" she laughed. She primped in the mirror.
"Why won’t you let me look at you?"
* * * * *
He kept a pair of pliers in the toolbox beneath the bed. He wasn’t coming home anytime soon, and she wasn’t going to freeze all goddamn night. Alice Einstein walked from the kitchen through the living room toward the bedroom, stopping by the hallway mirror to look at herself.
The name, he loved that. It was funny at first, to have her name a punch line. Then it bothered her, and then after a while like most anything else, she didn’t care anymore.
But she could not bear how he’d fashioned her face.
She began to weep. She was never a particularly vain woman, but standing before the glass she found it extraordinarily difficult to compose herself in light of the remarkable abuse her face had suffered because of him. Her eyes were pink and dull and her cheeks sagged like cargo pockets, framing two cold-cracked lips caked with inexpensive drugstore cosmetics. He never hit her.
She would be warm, at least. She walked into the bedroom, and kneeling before the bed she discovered the toolbox. She worked the latch and lifted the lid and found a pair of needle-nosed pliers. She did not know they were called needle-nosed pliers because she was not permitted to use his tools.
She walked over to the thermostat and gripped the shaft that held the control dial in place and turned it clockwise. When she heard the furnace click downstairs she felt a tiny surge of adrenaline and giggled.
She walked back to the bedroom to replace the pliers. Again she worked the latch and opened the lid. She was already warmer. She placed the pliers in the box and closed the lid. She drew the bedskirt aside to slide the box beneath the bed and noticed several more boxes, unlike the toolbox in shape, which she had never seen before.
* * * * *
"Last call, Frank," said Pete.
"Truly?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Because it’s late and because you’re loaded."
"You’re a fine bartender, Pete."
"Thanks, Frank."
"Truly, I mean that. Sincerely. You’re okay."
"Thanks."
"No, Pete, you’re the best," he said. "I’ll have another whiskey."
"Southern Comfort?"
"Yes please."
"Okay."
"Pete?"
"What?"
"Oh, I don’t know."
Peter poured an undersized shot of whiskey in a glass and brought it to Francis.
"You’re okay by me, Pete." He swallowed it.
"Are you able to walk, Frank?"
"Oh, I’m able." He wiped his forehead. "Christ, it’s hot in here."
"I’ll see you, Frankie."
"Who won the game?"
"Southern Cal."
"I figured that."
"Yeah."
"So long," said Francis, and he sighed and turned to face the cold.
The End
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