traffic light changed from green to red.
Tonight, snow muffled the car tires and ticked like sugar granules on the window ledge. Snow created a silence similar to the silence of God. God was where your mind went when it wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. She stared at the paisley carpet. Pine needles from the Christmas tree floated in the weave. She watched the carpet; red light from the tree bewitched the wool threads. Mary pulled up her nightgown, the one with the bloodstain on the back from her first days home from the hospital, pulled it up gently around her thighs like a girl wading into a river.
After his three A.M. feeding the baby wouldn’t sleep; he was fussy and agitated, so she told him the plot of
Anna Karenina
, leaving out all the boring agrarian details, and explained that in “The Beast in the Jungle,” Marcher was definitely gay. She told the story of the turtle and the hare and tried the fox and the grapes, though once she established the fox sitting there watching the bunch of grapes she couldn’t remember exactly what had happened.
The key was to keep talking so the baby would be soothed by her voice and fall asleep. She felt his little fistagainst her collarbone and his tiny kneecap pressed into her breast, and wondered why he was so upset. She began to tell him the Christmas story, starting with the angel coming to Mary, ran through the star, the Wise Men, the divine baby sleeping in straw. Then to Jesus’ later childhood when he was left in the temple but she couldn’t remember the order of his miracles, and after the fishes and the loaves she got discouraged and started telling him what all the various religions thought happened to you after you died, how Jews didn’t believe in heaven or hell and how the Hindus believed in reincarnation. She could come back as a lamb; he could come back as a butterfly. The resurrection sounded ludicrous so she covered its grim details quickly.
Snowflakes big as quarters slapped wetly against the glass, and the baby’s heart was like a tiny fluttery bird pinned inside his chest. She was so tired she was near tears and she missed her own mother’s generous lap and her way with a hamburger, and while she knew her mother was now with God, she was confused about where certain aspects of her personality had gone. Her interest in the occult and the British royal family, the way she laughed even at the smallest joke like it washysterical. The baby started to scream. What else? She’d exhausted all of her oral information and now felt shapeless as a larva. Maybe it was colic. His arms flung around, and he twisted his head against the collar of her nightgown.
Mary walked into the kitchen to switch on the faucet and let the water mesmerize him. But there was no need, as sparks were falling from the ceiling. At first she thought someone was welding in the apartment above. But who did ironwork at this hour? Besides, the sparks weren’t falling but hovering like fireflies. Maybe there was an electrical short inside the wall. Either way the baby was distracted, he hung onto her neck with his little hands and stared up at the bobbing flames, his mouth wide open.
With one hand she swung the broom up, tried to knock out the tiny fires, but strains of straw just went through the mass as though it were a hologram. A reflection, Mary thought, remembering how once on a train she’d seen what looked like a small pond suspended over a field; it had undulated like tinfoil before the train turned. She glanced out the window into the narrow alley; no moon, and clouds covered the stars. Not enough light really for a reflectedmagic trick. The lights churned with the same motion as glitter inside a snow dome. The motion enchanted the baby, who bicycled his legs again and rocked his whole body forward.
TWO
WALTER HAD FESTOONED St. Paul’s front doors with evergreen garlands and the little statue of the Holy Mother wore a holly wreath around her head. Mary opened
Tonight, snow muffled the car tires and ticked like sugar granules on the window ledge. Snow created a silence similar to the silence of God. God was where your mind went when it wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. She stared at the paisley carpet. Pine needles from the Christmas tree floated in the weave. She watched the carpet; red light from the tree bewitched the wool threads. Mary pulled up her nightgown, the one with the bloodstain on the back from her first days home from the hospital, pulled it up gently around her thighs like a girl wading into a river.
After his three A.M. feeding the baby wouldn’t sleep; he was fussy and agitated, so she told him the plot of
Anna Karenina
, leaving out all the boring agrarian details, and explained that in “The Beast in the Jungle,” Marcher was definitely gay. She told the story of the turtle and the hare and tried the fox and the grapes, though once she established the fox sitting there watching the bunch of grapes she couldn’t remember exactly what had happened.
The key was to keep talking so the baby would be soothed by her voice and fall asleep. She felt his little fistagainst her collarbone and his tiny kneecap pressed into her breast, and wondered why he was so upset. She began to tell him the Christmas story, starting with the angel coming to Mary, ran through the star, the Wise Men, the divine baby sleeping in straw. Then to Jesus’ later childhood when he was left in the temple but she couldn’t remember the order of his miracles, and after the fishes and the loaves she got discouraged and started telling him what all the various religions thought happened to you after you died, how Jews didn’t believe in heaven or hell and how the Hindus believed in reincarnation. She could come back as a lamb; he could come back as a butterfly. The resurrection sounded ludicrous so she covered its grim details quickly.
Snowflakes big as quarters slapped wetly against the glass, and the baby’s heart was like a tiny fluttery bird pinned inside his chest. She was so tired she was near tears and she missed her own mother’s generous lap and her way with a hamburger, and while she knew her mother was now with God, she was confused about where certain aspects of her personality had gone. Her interest in the occult and the British royal family, the way she laughed even at the smallest joke like it washysterical. The baby started to scream. What else? She’d exhausted all of her oral information and now felt shapeless as a larva. Maybe it was colic. His arms flung around, and he twisted his head against the collar of her nightgown.
Mary walked into the kitchen to switch on the faucet and let the water mesmerize him. But there was no need, as sparks were falling from the ceiling. At first she thought someone was welding in the apartment above. But who did ironwork at this hour? Besides, the sparks weren’t falling but hovering like fireflies. Maybe there was an electrical short inside the wall. Either way the baby was distracted, he hung onto her neck with his little hands and stared up at the bobbing flames, his mouth wide open.
With one hand she swung the broom up, tried to knock out the tiny fires, but strains of straw just went through the mass as though it were a hologram. A reflection, Mary thought, remembering how once on a train she’d seen what looked like a small pond suspended over a field; it had undulated like tinfoil before the train turned. She glanced out the window into the narrow alley; no moon, and clouds covered the stars. Not enough light really for a reflectedmagic trick. The lights churned with the same motion as glitter inside a snow dome. The motion enchanted the baby, who bicycled his legs again and rocked his whole body forward.
TWO
WALTER HAD FESTOONED St. Paul’s front doors with evergreen garlands and the little statue of the Holy Mother wore a holly wreath around her head. Mary opened
Similar Books
