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Finalist,
1996 Robert V. Williams SNOW FAIRIES "I have no ears," Maggie, my sister, says; but what she means is, No one is listening to me. In high school, Maggie learned of a psychological disorder called "primary process thinking". A disorder involving the breakdown of conceptual images. At the time, Maggie thought it was cool to speak odd little sentences like that, but somewhere along the line I feared that Maggie was no longer in control of her speech patterns. "Don't," Dad says, lifting his finger, pausing for the space of time needed to express an unspoken threat. "Don't start with that crap." He tosses back a shot of whiskey. Dad's starting the Thanksgiving feast early. "It's not that we're not listening to you," Peter, my younger brother--who happens to be a psychologist, by the way--lays his left hand on Maggie's shoulder. "Just tell us what you need help with and we'll help you, right honey?" Norma, Peter's wife, can't answer. She's too busy staring at the antique rocking chair. "How much do you think it's worth, Norma?" Dad says, and swallows another shot. "I'm not dead yet." I've been here for a grand total of ten minutes, and I already feel like I'm a kid again.
When I was seven years old, my mother died of a stroke. I have few memories of her, but one I think about every now and again is the explanation of the snow fairies. We lived in a small house in one of the outer suburbs of the Cleveland Metropolitan Area, and when Winter came, it came with quiet persistence. It came to take the color away from the landscape. And it came to stay. Mom had grown up in Lake Tahoe, though, where the sky could still be blue while snow fell. "When it snowed while the sun was out," she had told Maggie and I, "the sun would shine through the falling flakes, and you could see the snow fairies." "Sort of like when the sun's out while it rains," I said, eager to show off my second grade scientific knowledge. "So is there a different fairy living in each falling snowflake?" Maggie had asked. "Where does the queen live?" "Up in the clouds, of course," Mom had an answer ready. The memories of my family while my mother was alive were, for the most part, good ones.
I'm peeling potatoes with Maggie while Dad has long since passed out, head down, drooling on the kitchen table. Good thing we're eating in the living room. Peter and Norma are watching television in the family room. "Where's Jean?" Maggie asks, and I peel a bit faster. "She couldn't make it this trip," I answer, trying to distill as much truth as I can. I nick my index finger with the peeler blade and wince. Actually, Jean woke up one morning, about two months ago, looked in the mirror, and decided living with me accelerated her aging way past acceptable limits. I'm quoting from the letter, the note written on the back of a phone bill, that was left me. We've been separated ever since, and divorce is hovering, circling overhead. I can't hear Peter's voice in the living room, but Norma's comes through loud and clear. "For Christ Sake he's always drunk, Peter. I told you we should have gone to my parents for the holidays." I think I hear Peter's muffled voice, then Norma's again, "How you survived in this nightmare is beyond me." I shake my head and peel the potatoes faster. At least Peter has a shot at his own family. A normal family. The peeler becomes a blur in my hand. Maggie stops me in mid-motion, the peeler blade a half inch away from my thumb. "Is Peter snow?" she asks. At first I make the connection that Maggie's wondering if Peter's cold, but cold is a tangible feeling; goose bumps on your skin, hugging yourself to keep warm, wearing a heavy coat. Maggie could understand that. Then it occurs to me that sometimes, when it snows, you shiver in the cold. You can also shiver trying to shake off fear. "No," I answer, looking into her eyes. "He doesn't think this family's a nightmare." I look at Dad, snoring away on the table. "I think he'd classify us as troubled."
Our mother died in the early morning hours on a Saturday. This was important to keep in mind because our family had a very specific routine on the weekends. Our father would be out mowing the lawn and focus on other back yard work, our mother would travel to the grocery store, Maggie would be up watching Bugs Bunny, and I would sleep the morning away. On that particular Saturday, I was awakened by a soft, repeating voice. Shaking the sleep out of my eyes, I focused in on the voice. "Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up." It was Maggie. I looked at my alarm clock. What's she talking about? I thought. Mom's gone, she's at the store. I thought Maggie was having some sort of dream, but by the time I lumbered over to my bedroom door, I could tell Maggie's voice came from the hall bathroom. "Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up." I walked to the bathroom doorway. Mom was propped up in-between the bathtub and the toilet, head back, mouth open, eyes closed. I knew just by looking at her pale yellow skin. I didn't have to see Maggie continually pull Mom's hand. "Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up." I didn't have to watch Mom's hand slip through Maggie's grasp and drop to the floor. I watched for a minute, then I ran out to get Dad. We both ran back to the bathroom. Back to Maggie trying to raise the dead. "Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up." Dad passed Maggie, around his body, back to me. I held her while Dad shook Mom for five minutes. Then his head fell into his hands and he shook for five more. Maggie escaped my grasp and returned to her chant, trying to hold Mom's hand. "Honey, Mom can't answer you," Dad told her, and tried to pull Maggie's hand away from Mom's cold, dead one. "Why not?" Maggie asked. "Because she's," Dad hesitated, "passed on." "Passed on?" "She's gone away." Maggie shook her head. "But she's right here," she said. I walked back to my room, sat down on my bed and cried. I never heard the paramedics arrive.
Dinnertime. The wall heater in the living room kicks in and ten minutes later the fun starts. Trying to put stuffing on his plate, Dad crashes the spoon into his water glass. Maggie has set the good dishes out, dishes that Norma has eyed for the past forty-five minutes. The Waterford Crystal glass tips over, rolls to the edge of the table, and shatters on the floor. "That...that was Waterford Crystal," Norma glares at him. "Norma, calm down," Peter puts his hand on Norma's shoulder, but she shrugs it off. "Was it?" Dad says, and tries to stand. He succeeds for about ten seconds, then starts to sway. He picks up Maggie's glass. "Subtract this one from my worth, Norma." That one he pitches full speed at the wall. When it shatters, a fragment makes a small nick in Norma's cheek. "You have no clue as to how much damage you do to this family, do you?" Norma asks, the red line on her cheek has become her war paint. "The only reason you are a part of this family is because my youngest son lacked the reasoning to leave you at the alter." Dad picks up another glass, throws it straight at Norma, who sidesteps it. "Stop hurting," Maggie screams. "Stop hurting each other." "It's 'fighting', Margaret," Dad turns to her and grips the end of the table so hard his knuckles turn white. "Stop 'fighting' each other. Say it." It occurs to me that Maggie could make a good argument for her word usage this time. "Say it!" "Dad, stop," Peter stands up and walks over to them. "You're displacing. You're blaming Maggie for Mom's death." "I
can't believe this," I say. "We don't need Freud here. We're
not laying down on your fucking couch, Pete. We don't need that crap,
we're family." How the hell did I get wrapped up in this. Why am
I so angry? "All of you make me sick," I say, and leave the
room. Dinner's over.
The next morning, I'm sitting on the front porch, looking out at the white, snow-covered ground. God, I used to love snow as a kid. You could throw it, build things with it, sled down it, try to walk on top of it (if the top iced over). As a kid, snow was the material of one hundred and one uses. Now, it just seems to have one; to cover. To hide the ugly, uneven, dirty ground. Yes, it takes the colors away, but sometimes that could be a good thing. I hear the front door close. Maggie sits down next to me. She's wearing a heavy, blue winter coat and mittens, which reminds me just how cold it is, even though the sun is shining today. "Are you living?" she asks. I think for a minute. I decide I can't figure this one out. "I don't understand, Maggie. What are you trying to say?" "You don't look like you're living," she traces my lips with her fingers. "No smile." Oh. Am I happy? I think hard about the answer. "No. No I'm not. I lied to you before, Maggie. Jean left me, she went away to God knows where." Maggie starts to cry. "You mean she's dead? Jean's dead? Oh, I'm sorry--" "No, wait. She's not dead," then I remember Mom's death, and I understand Maggie's sorrow. "She's going to divorce me." I actually say that word. "I'm not happy, because I see my brother with a wife, a shot at having a stable family of his own. My brother who didn't have to witness Mom's death, and I want that so much to be me." Maggie puts her arm around me. "I wish the snow fairies would visit today," she says. I look up at the blue sky, then across the white ground below. "So do I," I answer. Then I stand, and walk inside to go apologize to my brother. |