gasped and said goodbye (my voice had gone high, something of nerves and embarrassment, the contagion of this stupid little girl’s voice). Eli turned in his chair and nodded, watching us with that clear-eyed comprehension.
Peter and Alice and I opened the door and stepped out into a changed world.
The earth was washed in a transparent film of amber, four inches of ice beneath which we could see mice run and frogs paddle and the oxblood of dead leaves. Ice coated the trunks of trees, the walls of the barn, and on the big gate, a magpie with a long wicked tail was frozen by its feet to the rail. We walked holding hands. Dad’s legs slipped out from under him, and we all fell on top of each other, scrambled to our feet, scuffled along at a snail’s pace. Upon the petrified land, snow fell in flakes the size of saucers coasting through the air, and even as we readied the wagon, snow covered the ice and our glimpse of a glass world was lost behind a blanket of white. It was a sticky coating that fell so fast it provided a decent passage for our horses, and so we made our way slowly home.
The wind picked up. Snow clung to the branches, six inches of it on the north side of the trees. Stuck to the hides of the horses, to fences (there were no electrical wires, no telephone wires, only grey-white sky between blue-white branches), eight inches of snow, upside down, defying gravity. My parents pulled up the wagon at the outer gate and stopped, looking at me with snow battening their eyelashes. They just sat there blinking. They looked like baby animals. I blinked back, waiting for them to proceed to the barn so we could shake down the horses.
“You go on in,” said Alice. She wore Peter’s old beaver hat, piled high with snow, and thick white epaulets of snow lay on their shoulders as they sat batting their white eyelashes like docile guards in the Gulag. I climbed down and stood beside the wagon, looking up. Peter gathered the reins and clicked at the horses, and they rode off, disappearing from view into the hypnosis of a gathering blizzard.
Deafened by white, I stood a minute, feeling the collar of my shirt get soaked. Then I walked to the house and went inside. Calcium light, bone blue. I stood around awhile. Stoked the stove. Sort of hungry. Still hypoglycemic from boredom. God knows where my parents had got to. So I went to bed.
I was looking at
Walden
, eating Mum’s earnest bran cookies, wearing Dad’s socks, when I thought I heard them come in. Sound of breath, of boots on a wood floor, and I realized it wasn’t my parents. I had been curled on my side. Listening, I rolled onto my back, looking up at the thatched ceiling, Vandyke brown, and the vanilla daylight. Eli walked across the kitchen and stood at the door to my room. I turned my head on the pillow to see him. He was staring out the window at the wings of snow. He glanced at me and smiled, then looked back at the window and said, “It looks just like feathers on an owl. Something strange flying by. Strong, you know.”
It smelled good with him coming in. I put my hands behind my head and breathed with that shudder of happiness you usually earn only after hard crying. After some time, Eli came over and sat on the bed, leaning over me, brushing the hair from my forehead. His hand felt dry and rough and smelled of horse. I lifted my chin and he put his hand on my cheek, and I rubbed against the rough callus on his palm and thumb. He looked me in the eye and nodded. He unbuttoned his jacket and let it fall on the floor. The quilt was wet. He unbuttoned his shirt and took off the undershirt, a faded red. His chest was thick, covered in hair; it looked like a piece of granite, moon blue with points of pink like feldspar, a chunk of flesh. He unbuttoned his pants and, his eyes on mine, raisedhimself just enough to pull them off with his long johns. Cold, he lifted the covers to climb in beside me, and I saw his chest and stomach as a wedge upon the narrowing
Peter and Alice and I opened the door and stepped out into a changed world.
The earth was washed in a transparent film of amber, four inches of ice beneath which we could see mice run and frogs paddle and the oxblood of dead leaves. Ice coated the trunks of trees, the walls of the barn, and on the big gate, a magpie with a long wicked tail was frozen by its feet to the rail. We walked holding hands. Dad’s legs slipped out from under him, and we all fell on top of each other, scrambled to our feet, scuffled along at a snail’s pace. Upon the petrified land, snow fell in flakes the size of saucers coasting through the air, and even as we readied the wagon, snow covered the ice and our glimpse of a glass world was lost behind a blanket of white. It was a sticky coating that fell so fast it provided a decent passage for our horses, and so we made our way slowly home.
The wind picked up. Snow clung to the branches, six inches of it on the north side of the trees. Stuck to the hides of the horses, to fences (there were no electrical wires, no telephone wires, only grey-white sky between blue-white branches), eight inches of snow, upside down, defying gravity. My parents pulled up the wagon at the outer gate and stopped, looking at me with snow battening their eyelashes. They just sat there blinking. They looked like baby animals. I blinked back, waiting for them to proceed to the barn so we could shake down the horses.
“You go on in,” said Alice. She wore Peter’s old beaver hat, piled high with snow, and thick white epaulets of snow lay on their shoulders as they sat batting their white eyelashes like docile guards in the Gulag. I climbed down and stood beside the wagon, looking up. Peter gathered the reins and clicked at the horses, and they rode off, disappearing from view into the hypnosis of a gathering blizzard.
Deafened by white, I stood a minute, feeling the collar of my shirt get soaked. Then I walked to the house and went inside. Calcium light, bone blue. I stood around awhile. Stoked the stove. Sort of hungry. Still hypoglycemic from boredom. God knows where my parents had got to. So I went to bed.
I was looking at
Walden
, eating Mum’s earnest bran cookies, wearing Dad’s socks, when I thought I heard them come in. Sound of breath, of boots on a wood floor, and I realized it wasn’t my parents. I had been curled on my side. Listening, I rolled onto my back, looking up at the thatched ceiling, Vandyke brown, and the vanilla daylight. Eli walked across the kitchen and stood at the door to my room. I turned my head on the pillow to see him. He was staring out the window at the wings of snow. He glanced at me and smiled, then looked back at the window and said, “It looks just like feathers on an owl. Something strange flying by. Strong, you know.”
It smelled good with him coming in. I put my hands behind my head and breathed with that shudder of happiness you usually earn only after hard crying. After some time, Eli came over and sat on the bed, leaning over me, brushing the hair from my forehead. His hand felt dry and rough and smelled of horse. I lifted my chin and he put his hand on my cheek, and I rubbed against the rough callus on his palm and thumb. He looked me in the eye and nodded. He unbuttoned his jacket and let it fall on the floor. The quilt was wet. He unbuttoned his shirt and took off the undershirt, a faded red. His chest was thick, covered in hair; it looked like a piece of granite, moon blue with points of pink like feldspar, a chunk of flesh. He unbuttoned his pants and, his eyes on mine, raisedhimself just enough to pull them off with his long johns. Cold, he lifted the covers to climb in beside me, and I saw his chest and stomach as a wedge upon the narrowing
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