Bennett’s house.
I get my gun out of my glove box; I get out of my car.
I close the car door very quietly, as if trying not to wake a sleeping baby, I randomly coo: “Shhh.”
The street is sugared with snow and grit and so I move carefully. I hold my gun up in my coat sleeve and walk, a girl with no hands, across the street. I really should be used to the cold by now.
I step from the street up to the curb, and then I crunch across the front lawn, each step shattering the ice, a crashing storm-trooper stomp that ruins the snowy silence. In a lame movie, a soft-eyed deer would appear leaping under the streetlights—a moment of foreshadowing and throwaway majesty—but in real life there’s just the gigantic nutcracker standing sentry in the front yard. And I hadn’t seen it from the street, but the side yard features more holiday art: an ancient wooden Santa whose red coat is surely flaking lead paint, waving from his sad sled—a pioneer’s wooden cart full of faded boxes. Santa’s hand waves jovially at nobody. In my own hand, the gun feels like it has adhered to my fingers, like I have an all-new metal palm, because my gloves are mostly for aesthetic purposes—soft navy suede lined with a sateen fabric that makes my fingers feels colder than if I were wearing no gloves at all.
Earlier, on the radio news, I learned that it’s official: today is the coldest day since 1987. I flare my nostrils so my snot won’t freeze, and when my eyes water, my mascaraed lashes freeze in chunks: my new world is fringed in icy black glitter. It is so quiet that when I hear panting, I expect to turn and see some rottweiller snow monster, icicles dangling from its gaping jaws. But the sound is just me, breathing.
I crunch through the snow to the side of the house, to the lit window. And I thrill a little—my heart hammering in my chest—Catherine Bennett has no idea that I am standing outside her house with a gun. Who’s not paying attention now? I press my back to the cold house for a moment and then, step by snow-crashing step, I slither down the side of the house, closer to the window, my gun tucked up in my coat sleeve but there all the same, bumping along the cold siding of Catherine Bennett’s house. Mrs. Bennett! Yoo-hoo! Do you know who’s standing outside your house right now! Are you paying attention? Do you even know how to pay attention?
At the window frame, I lean forward. There are icicles over my head, some sort of icy horror-show premonition. The window is curtainless, though fogged, perhaps just above the heat vent. I put my hand on the side of the wooden frame, press my body closer and take a look inside.
Gazing though the fogged pane gives me baby kitten eyes, the world wreathed in gauze, but I can see Catherine Bennett. I can see Catherine Bennett sitting on a turquoise couch.
I am holding my breath so I don’t hear the monster dog panting. When I finally exhale, my breath is a slow plume that defogs a few inches of the window.
Turquoise.
The turquoise couch looks to be velvety, with a baroque arched maple back. I had envisioned Mrs. Bennett as someone with a drab, neutral couch, nubby and office-beige and possibly sheathed in a vinyl couch condom. I had not imagined her drawn to the fanciful. Or had I? “Alecia, what kind of earrings are those, goodness gracious. Pull back your hair and let me see.… Oh, ponies …, no, unicorns … sparkly purple unicorns.”
There is a poster-sized photograph of Mrs. Bennett and a man, Mr. Bennett, I’m guessing, on the wall. Catherine Bennett is eating an ice cream bar. She’s looking right back at me, as if in a trance. But no, no, she’s not looking at me, but just below me, at the TV. The voices are muted, metallic. My head cocked at an angle must look large, floating and tilted. I step forward and trip on something,
I exhale a snow-star sound, the softest fuuuuuhhck .
I look down and see that beneath the windowsill are two stone lawn ornaments.
I get my gun out of my glove box; I get out of my car.
I close the car door very quietly, as if trying not to wake a sleeping baby, I randomly coo: “Shhh.”
The street is sugared with snow and grit and so I move carefully. I hold my gun up in my coat sleeve and walk, a girl with no hands, across the street. I really should be used to the cold by now.
I step from the street up to the curb, and then I crunch across the front lawn, each step shattering the ice, a crashing storm-trooper stomp that ruins the snowy silence. In a lame movie, a soft-eyed deer would appear leaping under the streetlights—a moment of foreshadowing and throwaway majesty—but in real life there’s just the gigantic nutcracker standing sentry in the front yard. And I hadn’t seen it from the street, but the side yard features more holiday art: an ancient wooden Santa whose red coat is surely flaking lead paint, waving from his sad sled—a pioneer’s wooden cart full of faded boxes. Santa’s hand waves jovially at nobody. In my own hand, the gun feels like it has adhered to my fingers, like I have an all-new metal palm, because my gloves are mostly for aesthetic purposes—soft navy suede lined with a sateen fabric that makes my fingers feels colder than if I were wearing no gloves at all.
Earlier, on the radio news, I learned that it’s official: today is the coldest day since 1987. I flare my nostrils so my snot won’t freeze, and when my eyes water, my mascaraed lashes freeze in chunks: my new world is fringed in icy black glitter. It is so quiet that when I hear panting, I expect to turn and see some rottweiller snow monster, icicles dangling from its gaping jaws. But the sound is just me, breathing.
I crunch through the snow to the side of the house, to the lit window. And I thrill a little—my heart hammering in my chest—Catherine Bennett has no idea that I am standing outside her house with a gun. Who’s not paying attention now? I press my back to the cold house for a moment and then, step by snow-crashing step, I slither down the side of the house, closer to the window, my gun tucked up in my coat sleeve but there all the same, bumping along the cold siding of Catherine Bennett’s house. Mrs. Bennett! Yoo-hoo! Do you know who’s standing outside your house right now! Are you paying attention? Do you even know how to pay attention?
At the window frame, I lean forward. There are icicles over my head, some sort of icy horror-show premonition. The window is curtainless, though fogged, perhaps just above the heat vent. I put my hand on the side of the wooden frame, press my body closer and take a look inside.
Gazing though the fogged pane gives me baby kitten eyes, the world wreathed in gauze, but I can see Catherine Bennett. I can see Catherine Bennett sitting on a turquoise couch.
I am holding my breath so I don’t hear the monster dog panting. When I finally exhale, my breath is a slow plume that defogs a few inches of the window.
Turquoise.
The turquoise couch looks to be velvety, with a baroque arched maple back. I had envisioned Mrs. Bennett as someone with a drab, neutral couch, nubby and office-beige and possibly sheathed in a vinyl couch condom. I had not imagined her drawn to the fanciful. Or had I? “Alecia, what kind of earrings are those, goodness gracious. Pull back your hair and let me see.… Oh, ponies …, no, unicorns … sparkly purple unicorns.”
There is a poster-sized photograph of Mrs. Bennett and a man, Mr. Bennett, I’m guessing, on the wall. Catherine Bennett is eating an ice cream bar. She’s looking right back at me, as if in a trance. But no, no, she’s not looking at me, but just below me, at the TV. The voices are muted, metallic. My head cocked at an angle must look large, floating and tilted. I step forward and trip on something,
I exhale a snow-star sound, the softest fuuuuuhhck .
I look down and see that beneath the windowsill are two stone lawn ornaments.
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