“Daphne, darlin’, we work well together because it’s just right, this family we’ve got. And no way could we afford to have you quit your job, not with another kid.” He resisted pointing out how old he’d be when this hypothetical fourth kid left the nest. Never wise to remind her how much older he was, how very much older he’d seem in another twenty years.
She moved away. She said quietly, “Families aren’t balance sheets.” Beneath the sweet fragrance of her perspiration, Jasper could almost smell her reasoning at work, her powers of persuasion churning to win his agreement.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not going to be changing my mind.”
“It’s late and we’re tired. We’ll talk more when we’re fully awake.”
Had that been the beginning of the end? Jasper wondered when she left. Most certainly the end of the beginning. Or had it been a sign that they were doomed from the start? Not that such niceties mattered.
“Oh my,” said Rayburn when Jasper told him about this can of worms. “Don’t you know that law of physics?”
“I stopped at biology,” said Jasper. “And cheated to pass.”
“Second wife’s gotta have at least whatever the first one had. If not more. The law of matrimonial equilibrium.”
Jasper didn’t bother to answer.
“Two kids for Vivian, ergo, two kids for Daphne.”
“That is the most cockamamie thing I ever heard,” said Jasper. “Vivian got an early death. You think Daphne wants that?”
“Parse my advice till the cows go to Harvard, but you’ll see I’m speaking the truth here, boss.”
One thing Jasper did not ask Rayburn was whether he thought Jasper should say yes to Daphne. After all, it didn’t matter. He was certain, and furthermore, they’d agreed on this before they married.
But what if he had said yes? Would they still be together, still happy, more or less? Would he have a daughter, someone to care for him when he, too, lost his mind? Though look at Rayburn’s daughter out in Chicago; she came back maybe three times a year.
Rayburn might have said, Oh just give in. What does a loser like you stand to lose? Rayburn was full of hot air, mock abuse, callow generalizations that often turned out to be true. Is, Jasper has to remind himself. Rayburn still is.
——
Within half an hour of the first flakes, Jasper can usually predict the outcome of a snowfall—leave aside the meteorologists’ satellite photos, the computer’s sparklings and twinklings. This will be a true storm, a humdinger, he knows ten minutes after it begins. The snow falls with a determination at odds with the feathery look of the flakes. It’s coming down thick yet dry, dead vertical, swift. No drifting, dallying, gusting. No flirtation. The ground takes none of it in.
He’s home, enjoying his usual solitude for the first time in days—or the illusion of solitude. He came back at three to find a note from Kit: gone to the store to “stock up.” Kyle’s rusty Jeep is still in the driveway. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Jasper can just detect the sound of light snoring from upstairs. Please, he thinks, let him not be sleeping something off.
He remembers the night, not two years ago, when he woke up to the sound of muffled wailing. Realizing it was inside the house, he picked up an old bowling pin he kept under the bed and crept out onto the dark landing. The sound came from the boys’ bedroom.
Two scenarios, he knew, and he wasn’t sure which he dreaded more: a total stranger in there or Kyle, who should have been in Rutland leading his own life. But there he was on the lower bunk, sobbing into a pillow; the odor of booze was powerful, even from the doorway. Jasper spent that night curled around his son’s shaking body in that child’s bed, trying in vain to comfort him. The next morning, while Jasper was in the shower after feeding Kyle breakfast, he bolted. Didn’t return his father’s calls for days.
Jasper can’t help looking in the bin where the bottles are thrown.
So far, so good. Mountain Dew galore: piss made potable.
Not that Jasper’s history is all that pristine.
The week after Daphne moved out, he kept up his work routine, but every evening, once he’d sloughed off his gear in the mudroom, thrown food at the dogs, he aimed his whole being at the business of drinking like a pirate on shore leave. It wasn’t easy, considering he had Kit shuffling sadly about whenever he wasn’t in school. Some sort of masochistic guilt made Jasper continue to feed him, even if he did nothing more than shove a frozen dinner in the oven. At times, Jasper wanted to howl at the boy to get lost, vamoose, good riddance, with his Jezebel of a mother. Every time he caught a glimpse of the unguarded Kit, however, he looked ready to collapse in tears; Jasper almost wished he would.
“Oh Jasper, I was so, so afraid this would happen, and it did. I’ve fallen in love with someone else, a man who wants to have more babies with me. I fought it as hard as I could these last months, but the heart will have its way.” Right along with the pussy and the womb, thought Jasper as she delivered the initial thrust of her bayonet. At least, Rayburn pointed out, she didn’t offer up some pathetic fib about “needing space.” She just let the guillotine fall.
Jasper wasn’t sure whether he was angrier at Daphne for fucking the man-who-wanted-babies or at his own dull-witted self for not guessing. (He assumed Kit hadn’t guessed. Too painful, and pointless, to ask.) But the anger, like a four-alarm fire, required a major hosing down. So Jasper started with the random collection of spirits they had kept for guests. He’d pour a glass of gin and curse himself, then a glass of vodka and rip into her. Day four or five, he started on the liqueurs and aperitifs, the so-called cordials: her beloved crème de menthe, the giant bottle of Kahlúa a visitor had brought, the bitter Lillet that Daphne had read about in some travel magazine. After Kit was holed up in his room that night (studying or mourning or raging—likely all three), there was Jasper, puking green-and-taupe foam into the kitchen sink.
When Jasper had failed to open the shop for a second day, Rayburn showed up at the house. Jasper was so steeped in bile, so racked with pain of every conceivable sort, that Rayburn had to piece the story together for himself. Not exactly rocket science, what with all the blank spots on walls and shelves.
“If I told you I saw it coming, I wouldn’t be lying,” he said, “but shit, man. Up and leave on a fuckin’ dime? I’d like to nail her prissy, two-timing ass to a tree. Or drop her off the North Ledge. Hope for a catamount to finish the job.”
Rayburn poured the last bottles of sweet, syrupy liquor down the drain and took Jasper out for a steak at three in the afternoon. Only at the restaurant did Jasper tell him that Kit had chosen to stay. Rayburn’s eyes widened.
“That’s fateful,” he said, with none of his usual embellishments. “That’s a testament. Just think about it. If you’re half smart, you’ll take it as a lifeline.”
If anyone could predict the future, at least a sorry fraction of the time, that would be Rayburn. Rayburn when he had all his marbles.
Jasper calls the shop to check in with Loraina. Lessons for the next week are stacking up like planes at JFK. The Cocoa Hut is up and running (“Doomsday for my hips”), and all the grooming machinery in the big shed is purring and stuttering to life. Jasper tells Loraina to start e-mailing the A-list instructors, make sure Stu knows he’s on all weekend.
“Stu there, as a matter of fact? Put him on.”
Stu takes his time getting to the phone. Jasper hears a customer asking if the water bottles are stainless steel. In the background, the bell above the door jingles repeatedly.
“Boss.”
“Results?” asks Jasper.
“Not much of a challenge, dude. Ezekiel and Lucinda Burns, Sanctuary Farm,” and he rattles off an impersonal-sounding address on some numbered rural route. But Jasper recognizes the name of the town (its stone walls straight, its houses old and proud, its common—flanked by three steeples—the stuff of tourist brochures). “Want the phone number?”
Jasper scrambles in a chaotic k
itchen drawer to find a pencil.
“Children? Names of their kids?”
“Yeah. Well, a son named Jonathan who lives, I’m pretty sure it’s him, in Berkeley, California, and a daughter, Christina, in Burlington, married name McFarland.”
Jasper, high on his success, is tempted to offer Stu a bonus, but he lets the urge pass, not wanting to encourage the boy’s smug, lazy attitude on days the snow isn’t falling. “Good job,” he says. “Thank you.”
“No problem. You’re the boss,” says Stu, his tone implying neither gratitude nor resentment. The general tonelessness of young people’s speech mystifies Jasper. Maybe it’s all that texting. They don’t know how to exercise their vocal cords for social niceties, never hear themselves converse. Talk-deaf.
He takes the sheet of notes to his desk and puts it in the top drawer. He still has a great deal of pondering to do. As he stands at the computer, wondering if he will succumb to the vortex of e-mail (there will be a buttload, weather like this), he sees Kyle standing at the foot of the stairs, watching him.
“Dad,” he says, “okay if I hang till the roads are clear?”
“Of course. But prepare to dig in—and then dig out. We’re now lookin’ at a one-two punch. Two storms ganging up, from the west and the south.”
Kyle grins. “Good news for you.”
“Careful what you wish for, as is often the case with weather.”
Kyle’s smile is suspiciously polite, a little too Eddie Haskell. He must be getting up the nerve to ask for something. If it’s anything other than money, Jasper will be floored. He lets a moment pass, then says, “Kit take the truck? I don’t like the thought of our professor on these roads in his suburban putt-putt.”
Kyle nods. Still he hovers.
“Going out to check on the dogs,” Jasper says.
Kyle quickly offers to join him.
In the kennel run, the dogs’ paws have packed down the snow, but still it sits surprisingly deep. Behind the fence, their masks are dusted in white, as if they’ve been painted on velvet. Jasper tells Kyle to get the mucking shovel from the shed while he lets them out for a romp. Kyle can make himself useful, too.
The wind pushed east by the second storm has risen and scoured the meadow, sculpting the snow into waves and troughs, trampled brown grass showing through at the low spots. “A quick one, gang!” calls Jasper as the dogs spread out, leaping, sashaying, shaking their voluminous fur.
Kyle is suddenly at his side. “Dad, looks like I might be getting married.”
Jasper turns his head, dislodging the hood of his parka. Snowflakes find their way in at once, pricking the back of his neck. “Married?”
Kyle actually blushes. “Sally.”
“Sally.” Jasper sees Dot starting into the woods. He calls her back.
“She’s great, Dad. She really understands me. What I’ve been through.”
“She does.” No mistaking the plea in that “Dad,” yet still Jasper cannot respond the way a father should to news like this. Good news, for a change—isn’t it?
“She’s been through a lot herself.” Kyle is shivering, his jacket too light for the weather. “Dad? You don’t look too pleased.”
“I’m stunned, is what. I mean, you’re certainly old enough.” He stops short, realizing how cruel this must sound; Kyle is forty-six years old. “But I guess, being the duffer I am, I wonder if maybe you don’t want to be a little more … your feet more solidly planted. This job you mentioned …”
“Dad, it’s not like I’ve quite asked her.”
“Quite asked her? Then how can you be sure—”
Kyle stamps his feet, horselike. He makes a sound that could be laughter or throat clearing. “We know each other pretty well. What am I saying? Really well. We’ve had more than a few of those what-if conversations.” He pauses. “I met her in AA, a couple of years ago. Supposedly it’s not kosher to hook up like that, but we were really careful. I mean, took our time. Like I said, she’s been through a lot, too. Has a really great daughter. I think we could do a great job of … holding each other together.”
Jasper wishes he could forget how many setbacks and breakdowns Kyle has had over the past “couple of years.” Too often when Kyle is talking or laughing, Jasper fixates on the broken tooth that Kyle doesn’t have money to fix; only a small corner snapped off, but Jasper can’t forget the binge that led to the breakage, his trip to the emergency room to rescue and try to steady his errant son. What was that—three, four years ago now? Was this Sally around to witness and tolerate all that hysteria? Or, God forbid, was she an accessory? Jasper takes a deep breath of the harsh dry air. “I’m glad you’ve found someone. I’d be happy to meet her.”
“Well, I hope so!” says Kyle. “She’d love to meet you. She asked before now, but I wanted to be more committed about it. Us, I mean.”
Didn’t want me passing judgment if you failed, thinks Jasper. As indeed he would. Kyle may not be wise for his age, but he does know his father.
“She used to be a competitive skier,” Kyle adds. “Way back.”
Jasper has to clap his hands to break up a spat between Dot and Trixie. He wonders if Dot is getting close to her heat; he’ll have to check the calendar he keeps inside the shed. His neck is now cold and wet; when he pulled up his hood, the snow that had gathered inside it fell onto the back collar of his shirt.
“Sorry I seem so damn speechless,” he says. “I should be congratulating you.” Is that Kyle’s hand on his well-padded back? “Congratulations, Son.”
“Dad, you have a thousand reasons to be skeptical.”
“I know, Kyle. And I’m going to try to squelch each and every one.”
The lights of the truck veer around the side of the house, casting twin beams through the dense snowfall. A door slams. “Hey!” Kit waves at them with both arms. Three of the dogs run toward him, barking, looking for a new playmate. “A big limb’s gone down at the bottom of the road!”
Jasper sighs, glad (coward that he is) to have a reprieve from heavy talk with Kyle. He’s dismayed at Kit’s news, but it’s no surprise in a storm like this one.
“I’ll go help with groceries,” says Kyle, heading toward the truck.
Jasper calls the dogs to the kennel, more loudly than usual; the snow filling the air muffles his whistle and the clapping of his hands. Snow may fall without emitting a noise of its own, but it greedily consumes the sounds of whatever world it fills.
After shedding his wet parka and boots in the mudroom, Jasper digs around in a closet till he finds the crank radio Rayburn gave him for Christmas a few years back. “If limbs are falling already, we’ll lose power. Prediction’s for a rise in temperature, just enough to make the snow turn wet. Heavy.” To Kit, who’s unpacking the food, he says, “Want a hot meal, I’d start on it now.”
Check e-mail. Call the shop. (Remind Loraina and Stu that cell-phone reception is basically null out here.) Haul in extra firewood. Light the woodstove. Build a fire in the hearth. Test flashlights. As he starts in on his mental list, he hears and then smells onions cooking in oil. That boy follows orders fast. He deserves a job, deserves one more than Kyle does. Unfair thought, but true.
First e-mail’s from Loraina, already anticipating his troubles. Iron Man Rod is salivating for all the eager customers, the income promised by a storm like this one, but even he knows when to close the hill. Today they’ll close even the main run before dark; the rink will close, too, due to driving conditions. Jasper looks out the window: nearly night already. He phones.
“Yee. Hah,” Loraina deadpans. “Rod looks like he’s on crack.”
“Not there now.”
“Gone home to celebrate with whatever vice he fancies.”
“Body like that, I’d say steroids.”
Loraina laughs her ratchety laugh.
“You better go soon,” says Jasper.
“Plows are running and I’ve got chains. To quote Aretha, ‘Chain, chain, chain!’ I’m makin’ Stu stick arou
nd another hour, help me get all our ducks in phalanx formation. We’ll leave in tandem.” She deepens her voice. “ ‘Con-voy.’ ”
“What are you on, Loraina?”
“The promise of a steady income, bluebird.”
“Well, global warming’s off our ass for now,” says Jasper. “Storm’s to go through tomorrow afternoon.”
“Rod’s gambling it’ll taper off by noon. Nobody gilds the lily like weatherfolk. One thing we can all agree on.”
“Noon,” Jasper ponders aloud.
“He’s got his fingers crossed for a solid afternoon, evening, of business.”
Jasper hears the oldfangled adding machine Loraina insists on using to tally her numbers. “Jasper?”
“Still here.”
“Don’t drive on the roads out by you, all right?”
“Dogs’re good to go.”
“Yeah, but stay in with your boys. Play Scrabble.”
“Old Maid’s more like it.” The only time he ever played Scrabble was with Daphne; that scab-colored box went to the dump with most of her flotsam two weeks after she moved out. (The robe she left on the back of the bathroom door. A set of cutesy little knives with ceramic flamingo handles. A French jam jar filled with squiggly hairpins, a straw gardening hat, a frayed silk scarf. He was tempted to toss her records but couldn’t bear the waste. The tapes she took.)
The house lights go off, then on. The digital clock on his desk flashes noon—or midnight. (What does it say about you, whether you see those fallback numerals telling you it’s day or night?) “Gotta go,” he says to Loraina.
In the kitchen, Kit’s chopping like a samurai. Rice is cooking on the stove. “Chicken and peppers, ten minutes away,” he says.
Jasper hears Kyle upstairs. The shower goes on.
Hot water. Right. The sequence of likely failures trickles through Jasper’s corroded brain. Come to think of it, at least one winter’s gone by without a loss of power; maybe two. In the old days, when his boys were boys, they’d lose electricity two, three, four times a winter. “Some things do improve around here,” he says to himself.