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In the biting January wind, she stood below him twining up the fistful
of lights he handed her. Dropping them into the tub centered between
her feet, she noted how her hands burned and cramped from the
cold—despite her thick gloves. Around them, the night sky rose like a
fresh bruise, washing the horizon in a mix of reds, blues, and
blacks. Neither spoke. The fight settled between them like the
penetrating cold.
Perched above her, he leaned into task, plucking off the strings of
winking lights that had transformed the crab apple tree into a
colorful cotton candy tuft. Why they had decided to take on this
task, this day, at this time, during this intense cold snap, neither
knew. Except that it had been on their list of items to accomplish,
and yes, when an item was next on the list, Brad started in on it—no
matter what. So, when he donned his coat to go out, she had followed
spitefully, not wanting him to later complain how she had remained
inside, face buried in a book, tucked under a warm blanket, cat on her
lap. Selfish she while he, Brad, did all the unpleasant work.
He shifted his weight. The ladder wobbled on the bunched, frozen
ground. A wicked smile crept across her face as she considered the
ladder, as she contemplated his clumsy, wide boots perched awkwardly
on the rungs, at the snow pack below her feet, at his trust, his
innate goodness. Because he would never expect it from her, she
deliberated leaning against the ladder, tipping it to the side,
watching him flay his hands. Perhaps he might grip the metal with his
bare hands. Perhaps his fingers would stick to it like the time she
had tongued a metal fence when she was a child. Perhaps the pain of
his fingers binding to the metal would equal her unhappiness with
him. Perhaps her bit of folly would teach him not to take her for
granted, not to trust her.
But, instead of pushing against the ladder, she turned around,
studying the night sky, stopping when her eyes fell on the rising full
moon. Soon it would clear the frozen hay field. It was a mystical
yellow orb that hung low in the approaching night sky. It was
beautiful. She sighed.
Now, no longer angry with him, no longer frustrated by his mule-headed
persistence, she felt her heart trip in her chest. She no longer
found the cold unpleasant. In fact, she glanced up at him, hoping to
catch his eye. If he looked, she decided she would tell him she was
no longer mad. But he didn't look. Instead, behind her, he said, "Hon. Here. Hon .
. . HERE! Are you—" His voice registered his impatience. Hearing
this, she turned. He presented her with the final string of lights.
It was done. At her feet lay several strings of lights ready to be
stored for another year, and between them, yet another petty fight was
ready to be reconciled.
As she placed the lights away, she bent over, testing the snow. A
thought crossed her mind. She scooped up a handful and held it in her
glove. She wore a different sort of a smile now. Staring at the
whiteness, she had a sudden urge to fall to the ground, to scrape out
a snow angel, to lay back staring at the night sky, the rising moon.
She knew that when she was done, when she stripped off her
snow-covered clothes that her icy skin would be a boiled red. Her
fingers would prick as they warmed. Donning a robe, she would make
hot cocoa for the two of them, and they'd snuggle up on the couch . .
..
But, descending the ladder, his face mottled with the cold, was Brad,
her husband, king of determination. He was ready to move on to the
next task. She placed one hand behind her back and stepped forward.
A sly grin playing on her lips, she leaned in to kiss him.
"What are you—" he said.
She giggled as she held her snow-cupped glove over his head.
"Ready?" she asked.
His eyes widened. He howled at the unexpected coldness of it.
Seconds after giving him his snow bath, she sprinted for the door,
ducking, readying herself for the requisite whizzing snowball. If one
didn't come, she knew that he would be chewing on a new batch of
anger—anger over the fact that she'd dumped a handful of snow atop his
head.
She was halfway to the door. There was no snow, no sound behind her.
Sighing, she stopped.
Without turning she said, "It was meant to be a joke. Just a joke . .
. Bradley Jones." Her shoulders slumped. "Aww, just shoot me for
trying to have fun."
"Okay," he yelled, "Kapow!"
At that, she turned and fell on her back, sinking into a large drift.
The action tripped the spotlight. Encircled by the light, she moved
her arms and legs to form an angel. Above her, stood her husband, his
snowy glove hovering over her face. "You nut," he said.
"You married me. No one said it would be easy. Go on . . . do it. I
double dare you. In fact, I double dog dare you—to do it."
He stared at her. Tsking, he turned toward the house. There he goes,
she thought, being the proper adult—again.
Except, he surprised her by flinging up his handful of snow. The wind
caught it, scattering it around them. Then, he turned and propelled
himself back into the snow, landing next to her.
"You nut," he repeated.
"But a nut you love. I made a perfect angel, didn't I?"
"Yes," he said, just as the spotlight clicked off, "you did."
There they lay, two adults playing childhood snow games, as the night
folded them into its ever-growing darkness.
BIO: Amy. E Ochterski, a full time English teacher for Corning Community College, Corning
> New York, scribbles her story ideas on the backs of envelopes, during (boring)
> meetings, while driving (carefully of course), in her sleep—in essence—constantly. She
> earned her MA in literature from SUNY Brockport, Brockport New York. Given her
> hefty workload of reading student work paired with her other academic duties, she is often
> faced with the choice of sleep or writing. Large quantities of free trade coffee often tip
> this tossup. For her, the stuff of everyday life, the grit and grind, often becomes the source
> of her subjects. Writing is a wordplay skill she takes seriously; it is a passion that she
> tries to pass on to her students. |
