The door shut and he
was left alone with the silence. Outside the snow fell in soft
sheets, collecting in downy piles, covering the frozen earth beneath.
The morning sun peeked through the storm clouds somewhere far off,
and white light shone in through the single window. It moved around
the drapes that had been pushed aside and shone calmly along the
hardwood floors. Miniscule shadows, intimations of the falling flakes
outside, tumbled across the reaches of the light.
Andy sat down on the gray covers of his mattress and stared at his
feet. He wore one sock, the other foot left bare and white and
glaring. Andy wiggled his toes, noticing how they felt suspended
upwards, muscles taut, and compared that to the cold touch of the
stained hardwood when he relaxed. He pressed his fingers against the
fabric of the sheet and every thread felt palpable. Sliding one hand
he felt static build.
The room yawned
before his searching fingers and feet. It had become his home for the
past two months but only recently had it begun to feel like one. The
door across from him was old wood, heavy and dark. It seemed too much
for the rest of the room, commanding a personality of its own. It had
squeaked violently the first two weeks that Andy had been on the job,
but he'd since oiled the hinges and now it was quiet as the falling
snow. The paper covering the walls of the room must have been birthed
at the edges of the big door.
The paper itself, a
mute green similar in color to an early spring bud, was old-looking
and a bit dirty in some spots. The wrinkles and creases he'd once
observed with distaste now made him feel at home. They welcomed him
in; they reminded him that it was beneath them where he was safe
enough to close his eyes each night. Watching the crows feet that
spread from the outer corners of his mother's eyes, he was a child
again, missing the ever-present wan at the edge of her tight lips.
A dresser, old like
the door but painted oblivion white, was placed a few feet left of
the entryway. The second drawer of four was open still, some folded
tee shirts stacked in. Andy noticed now the gooseflesh on his chest.
He stood from the bed and pulled on a shirt before shutting the
drawer. It creaked a little as well, though its voice was not near as
loud as the door's had been. His hands lingered on the wood for a
moment, his heartbeat finally resuming a natural tempo. The dresser
was like an anchor. He leaned on it, putting forehead against the
wood.
This is reality.
Andrew relinquished
the dresser and turned to the window. It was low, a little above
waist height, but tall. Placing his palms against the freezing glass,
he sunk down cross-legged onto the floor and stared out, his shadow
interrupting the ballet of silhouettes that had been carrying on
behind him without a sound.
Outside the world
was the same as it had been for the past few days. Snow fell from the
sky and covered everything. Some of the drifts were high enough now
that the frozen drops seemed to be multiplying on the ground without
the help of their sky-diving comrades. Every now and again the fine
powder would lump up and accrue just enough weight to send a hefty
amount off the edge of the rooftops. It would fan out immediately
like a magician's smoke bomb while it all fell. He watched some fall
from the top of the garage, wondering if the old roof would hold all
of the snow. The weight of the clouds seemed to push down and despite
the lightness of a snowflake Andy looked out and thought that
everything might be suffocating.
The over-saturation
of powder was not exclusive to the rooftops. The bare branches of the
monumental white ash trees, which flanked the main path up to the
estate, were bowed and drooping with the weight of the weather.
During odd moments snow would slip from the edge of an arm and the
branch might swing upward, sending even more clouds of white away
from its bark.
The fountain in the
courtyard was grand enough that it had yet to be taken under by the
three-foot-deep and ever-rising swath. Stone un-bothered by the cold,
the child atop the fountain held her pose mid-dance. One hand, her
left, stretched out and up while bending at the wrist, her open palm
forming a perfect plane for snow to rest. It collected there on the
marble in a perfect conical shape, reminding Andy of sugar. The
ruffles in her sweet dress held the powder as well, making it appear
as though the dark rock garment was trimmed with white.
Something tapped
the glass. A honey bee, the fuzzy gold of it's abdomen glaring
against the snow-laden gray brick, fell dazed on the outer sill of
the window. It's black legs flailed for a moment before it righted
itself and crawled to a small section of brick where the snow hadn't
reached. It's wings moved up and down as
it stood.
Andy pulled the
bottom of the window up and stared at the little bug. He didn't even
know bees lived through the winter. How could they? Wouldn't the cold
kill them all? He recalled seeing a beehive high up in one of the ash
trees. Could the bee have come from over there? Andy almost felt
compelled to touch the little thing, but stopped himself. It cocked
it's head back and forth, black eyes staring out without blinking.
The antennae on it's head swayed slowly in time with it's wings.
Then, without warning, it leapt from the ledge and buzzed into the
air. Andy tried to watch it go but soon it disappeared amidst the
downfall.
Leaving the window
open, he sat back, and placed his palms behind him, leaning to look
up at the still gray layer between the ground and the sky. The world
was the same, he was not the same. With fingers numb now, the fog
prints left on the glass by their heat long faded, he pushed against
the hardwood. Monochromatic haze covered everything, but Andy noticed
it now. All things were noticeable, noteworthy even. The room, the
sheets, the dresser, the sky, the snow, the trees, the bee. His
breath.
In and out. He
imagined the trunks of the trees outside to be the same as his
larynx, their branches kin to his bronchial tubes. Andy looked at the
thin twig-like branches of the White Ashes and the frozen motes of
moisture that clung to them like white blood cells. Trees oxygenated
all, but he could only breathe for himself. He thought of his mother
again, and the time when she breathed for the both of them through
one set of lungs.
Cold, he stood up
and put his hands in his jean pockets, walking around the small room
without a purpose. There was a night table next to the head of the
bed, atop which a few old books rested. He hadn't touched them since
coming here, too busy to be bothered to move them. Picking them up
now, he opened the top drawer and put them inside next to a stack of
old papers. The papers drew his interest so he removed them and
skimmed through. The documents were not of any importance. They
seemed to be old sheets of notes, a bank statement, and a couple
letters from friends that must not have been that important.
It
baffled and amazed Andy to think of the people he knew now living
completely separate lives from his own. The extent of his
consciousness was so limited yet it perceived each thing, each
person, as intimate and personal. His mind began to speed up and from
its nucleonic tresses he felt a tide coming in which had been absent
from him for some time.
Seeking
to calm himself, Andy moved to the window, as was his custom. He
resumed his cross-legged position and put his hands against the glass
again. The cold was an anchor. It moved from the depths of the
hardwood floor up through his bare ankle resting there. It penetrated
past his one sock, paralyzed his toes, and stretched upward into his
legs. From his fingers it crawled down like the tickling legs of
spiders, spreading up to his bent wrists and gripping there. He
closed his eyes.
How
could he have forgotten about the grief? How had Andy never been able
to grasp the guilt that always came hand-in-hand with the
aforementioned before today? He breathed deeply and shut his eyelids
together, bracing for the wave rather than trying to make it go away.
By now he knew that it wouldn't go away through intentionally.
When
it was over and Andy felt like moving again, he found his way to the
bed. The covers were cold to the touch, but he knew his body heat
would turn the bed into an oven as soon as he was cocooned. He rolled
in and pushed the pillows aside, electing to lie on his arm instead.
It was the middle of the day and there was work to be done, but he
didn't feel like doing anything. In his head, he mutely observed the
contrast between how he'd felt after the closing of the door and how
he felt now. The elation Grace had given him through the slightest
gesture, and the guilt and terror he felt towards his absent, buried
mother. How could this disparity exist within such a small span of
time? He thought of the bee, of its flight, and of the moment it
collided with the window pane.
