left back over the pond I walked tentatively right through a dense tunnel of trees I knew led to a gated garden, and beyond that, a house. It was a path I generally avoided but I turned to it now like an old, forgotten book, with the hope that I might open it and find something new.
He walked closely behind me. I had already begun to expect this. The sight of his snowy footprints following mine no longer filled me with fear for my personal safety but I felt a faint sense of menace at the thought of our imprints being seen together, the fact of our leaving evidence behind, however fleeting. I was intermittently startled by the simple fact of his presence, of which his footprints were a stark reminder. I was like a reader on a train who is so absorbed by her book that she slips in and out of contact with her surroundings—one moment forgetting her destination, the next jolted by signs of its imminent proximity.
Like spring, winter has its share of newborn openings and fresh paths. In the absence of leaves, another world is illumined; the ancient ways become more evident. Walking through the tunnel of snow-lined branches was like traveling inside a long cage of the most intricate ribs. The cage was still, black trimmed with white, while we were red as a beating heart within it. The pond was on our left. I scanned the trees on the right for openings. I took the first one I saw. The young man was silent. He was an excellent follower. Not once did he fall behind or encroach too closely upon me. I searched for shelter of any kind; I would have settled for a large tree. I wondered if he knew I was plunging ahead aimlessly with nothing more than a libidinal sense of purpose to guide me.
The path narrowed and rose up. I sensed we were nearing something. At last I saw, at the top of the next ridge, a small gray house backed by a stand of towering black trees that all leaned slightly to the left like meddlesome spectators. Miss Marple-like, I scanned the path in front of us for footprints but it was smooth. I turned back to look at him. “Here,” I said, nodding as if to say, “Here is the place I was looking for,” when in fact I meant, “Here. It will have to be here. There is nowhere else.”
He nodded as if he had heard and understood both versions. The attentive quality of his silence moved me; it seemed suited to the priesthood. What a frightfully attractive priest he would have made. I smiled at the thought and waited for him to join me.
I felt the need to pause before the house. It was a Cape Cod cottage with a chimney and one snow-covered window on each side of the door. Snow had collected as well on the front steps. The threshold looked like a wedding cake.
“Do you want to go back?” I asked and turned to look him in the eye, that dark evasive eye. I felt morally obligated to give him a last chance to escape.
“No,” he said quickly and shook his head. As he did so, some of the real snow that had fallen onto the snowflake pattern of his hat fell to the ground. “Do you?” he asked. It was his first question of the day, his second in our short history.
Slowly, methodically, I repeated his question to myself. I did not charge forth unthinkingly. Indeed, I proceeded mindfully as a Buddhist; his posing of the question only infixed my desire for him.
“God, no,” I said. I had never been so sure of anything in my life and I was not decisive by nature. I placed my black boot festively upon the frosted steps. The door was fastened with a simple iron latch. As I lifted it, though I reminded myself repeatedly that the path had been smooth, the steps white, I could not rid myself of the feeling that we were on the verge of intruding upon someone.
The door opened easily and quietly. There was no one inside. The only sounds were the soles of our boots scuffing the wood floor. He began at once to remove his hat and coat, which alarmed me, I could not help but read his movements as foreshadowing. The thought of him
He walked closely behind me. I had already begun to expect this. The sight of his snowy footprints following mine no longer filled me with fear for my personal safety but I felt a faint sense of menace at the thought of our imprints being seen together, the fact of our leaving evidence behind, however fleeting. I was intermittently startled by the simple fact of his presence, of which his footprints were a stark reminder. I was like a reader on a train who is so absorbed by her book that she slips in and out of contact with her surroundings—one moment forgetting her destination, the next jolted by signs of its imminent proximity.
Like spring, winter has its share of newborn openings and fresh paths. In the absence of leaves, another world is illumined; the ancient ways become more evident. Walking through the tunnel of snow-lined branches was like traveling inside a long cage of the most intricate ribs. The cage was still, black trimmed with white, while we were red as a beating heart within it. The pond was on our left. I scanned the trees on the right for openings. I took the first one I saw. The young man was silent. He was an excellent follower. Not once did he fall behind or encroach too closely upon me. I searched for shelter of any kind; I would have settled for a large tree. I wondered if he knew I was plunging ahead aimlessly with nothing more than a libidinal sense of purpose to guide me.
The path narrowed and rose up. I sensed we were nearing something. At last I saw, at the top of the next ridge, a small gray house backed by a stand of towering black trees that all leaned slightly to the left like meddlesome spectators. Miss Marple-like, I scanned the path in front of us for footprints but it was smooth. I turned back to look at him. “Here,” I said, nodding as if to say, “Here is the place I was looking for,” when in fact I meant, “Here. It will have to be here. There is nowhere else.”
He nodded as if he had heard and understood both versions. The attentive quality of his silence moved me; it seemed suited to the priesthood. What a frightfully attractive priest he would have made. I smiled at the thought and waited for him to join me.
I felt the need to pause before the house. It was a Cape Cod cottage with a chimney and one snow-covered window on each side of the door. Snow had collected as well on the front steps. The threshold looked like a wedding cake.
“Do you want to go back?” I asked and turned to look him in the eye, that dark evasive eye. I felt morally obligated to give him a last chance to escape.
“No,” he said quickly and shook his head. As he did so, some of the real snow that had fallen onto the snowflake pattern of his hat fell to the ground. “Do you?” he asked. It was his first question of the day, his second in our short history.
Slowly, methodically, I repeated his question to myself. I did not charge forth unthinkingly. Indeed, I proceeded mindfully as a Buddhist; his posing of the question only infixed my desire for him.
“God, no,” I said. I had never been so sure of anything in my life and I was not decisive by nature. I placed my black boot festively upon the frosted steps. The door was fastened with a simple iron latch. As I lifted it, though I reminded myself repeatedly that the path had been smooth, the steps white, I could not rid myself of the feeling that we were on the verge of intruding upon someone.
The door opened easily and quietly. There was no one inside. The only sounds were the soles of our boots scuffing the wood floor. He began at once to remove his hat and coat, which alarmed me, I could not help but read his movements as foreshadowing. The thought of him
Similar Books
