Read Light on Snow Page 7


  “Phillip still at the old place?” my father asks.

  “Phillip,” Steve says, shaking his head, as if he can’t just now remember who Phillip is. “Oh, Phillip,” he says. “No, Phillip’s moved on. To San Francisco.”

  “Well,” my father says.

  “Well,” Steve says.

  The silence that follows is a white noise inside my head.

  “Are you up here for a vacation?” my father asks after a time.

  “Yes,” Steve says, once again looking relieved. “We’re skiing different mountains. We went up to Loon and to Sunday River. Over to Killington. Where else did we go, Virginia? We’re headed home on Friday. Taking advantage of the early snow this year, you know, before the Christmas crowds.” Next to my father, Steve looks polished to a high sheen. “How about you? You do any skiing?”

  “Used to,” my father says.

  “I do,” I say simultaneously.

  “We mostly snowshoe now,” my father says. “In the woods.”

  Steve glances toward the window, as if searching for the woods. “Snowshoeing,” he says, considering. “Like to try that sometime.”

  “Yes,” Virginia says. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”

  “Must be quite a workout,” Steve says.

  “It can be,” my father says.

  “So,” Steve says, glancing around the room again. “We’ve been looking for a cocktail table. And I think, Virginia, we just might have found what we’re looking for.” He moves to my father’s table and runs his hand along the finish. I’m wondering if Steve and Virginia would be at all interested in the table if it weren’t my father’s, if my father hadn’t lost his wife and baby, if my father didn’t look as though he was on his last dime.

  “What kind of wood is this?” Steve asks.

  “Cherry,” my father says.

  “So it’s this color naturally,” Steve says. “Not a stain.”

  “No, it’s natural. It’ll darken up over time.”

  “Really. What kind of finish is this?”

  “Wax over polyurethane,” my father says.

  “What grade are you in?” Virginia asks, taking a ChapStick out of her pocketbook and running it across her lips.

  “I’m in seventh grade,” I say.

  She smacks her lips together. “So you’re . . .”

  “Twelve.”

  “That’s a good age,” she says, dropping the ChapStick in her purse. “What are you going to do over Christmas vacation?”

  I think a minute. “My grandmother is coming,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Virginia says, slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “My grandmother used to make pfeffernusse at Christmastime. Do you know what that is?”

  I shake my head.

  “So what’s the damage?” Steve asks my father.

  “They’re heavenly,” Virginia says. “They’re rolled cookies made with honey and spices and then dusted with confectioners’ sugar.”

  My father clears his throat. He hates discussing money under the best of circumstances. “Two-fifty,” he says quickly.

  I glance sharply up at him. I know the table has been priced at $400. I’ve studied the price list, tucked inside each of the two hundred brochures he had printed up on Sweetser’s advice. My father hasn’t given away more than twenty of them. Sweetser argued with him about the pricing, insisting that my father was quoting figures that were too low.

  “These are good,” Sweetser said. “How many hours did you put into that table?”

  “That’s irrelevant,” my father said.

  “Not irrelevant if you want what’s coming to you.”

  My father won the argument, and he thinks his prices fair now, even modest. My father is living on the money from the sale of the house in New York as well as my parents’ savings. Still, though, selling the table for $250 is like giving it away.

  “Sold,” Steve says.

  There is movement then, and tasks, and a discussion about the logistics of fitting the table in the couple’s car versus having it sent. In the end it’s agreed that my father will have the table shipped collect. Discreetly, Virginia writes a check and lays it on an end table.

  We all walk to the back hallway. The couple zip up their parkas and shake my father’s hand. “Good seeing you,” Steve says.

  “Good meeting you,” Virginia says to my father and me.

  “You know, maybe we could get together,” Steve says. “Go out for dinner or have a drink. We’re staying at the Woodstock Inn until Friday. How about I give you a call?”

  My father nods slowly. “Sure,” he says.

  “You got something to write on?” Steve asks. “I’ll take your number.”

  My father disappears into the kitchen.

  This ought to be good, I am thinking.

  “Would you like to see my mural of ski mountains?” I ask on a sudden impulse. Almost no one except my father and grandmother and Jo has seen it.

  “Oh, yes, we’d love to,” Virginia says. “Where is it?”

  “In my bedroom,” I say.

  I turn and walk, trusting they will follow me. They do, peppering me with questions. Do I like living in Shepherd? Do I miss New York? Do I play any sports at school? I begin to regret the invitation when I notice the package of toilet paper rolls wedged between the railings on the stairs. I’ve left a wet towel on the landing, and I can see that the bathroom is a mess, with tissues on the lip of the sink and another towel draped over the toilet. My father and I clean the house on Saturday mornings; by Tuesday it’s a mess. I wait for Virginia and Steve to climb the stairs. As we pass my father’s room, I have the presence of mind to shut his door, preventing the couple from seeing the unmade bed and the laundry basket on the floor. By the time we reach my bedroom, I deeply regret my stupid idea. I haven’t made my bed, my flannel pajamas are on the floor, and there’s an empty Ring Ding package on my bedside table. Worse, a pair of underpants is hooked over a chair post.

  “Oh, it’s fabulous,” Virginia says.

  “You’re quite an artist,” Steve says.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Virginia says.

  “What kind of paint did you use?” Steve asks.

  I see the mural then for what it is: a poorly executed and primitive panorama of the three northern New England states, Canada glowing pinkly near the ceiling, Massachusetts spelled wrong and ineptly corrected with black paint, the peaks lime-colored where they’ve been overpainted white to signal that I’ve skied the mountain.

  “You must be quite a skier,” Steve says.

  “Maybe you and your dad will come skiing with us,” Virginia says in a voice I wouldn’t use on a three-year-old.

  I pocket the underpants.

  “Is that a chalet?” Steve asks.

  “Oh, look, Steve—Attitash!” Virginia says.

  I move toward the doorway.

  “You’ve got your father’s talent,” Steve says. “Maybe you’ll be an architect like he was.”

  “I’m going down,” I say.

  “It’s a shame he had to give it up.” Steve pauses. “Not that the furniture isn’t terrific, too.”

  “Was my dad good at it?” I ask.

  “The best,” Steve says. “He was a beautiful draftsman. Not all architects are.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “It’s probably why his furniture has such a nice line,” he adds.

  “Beads!” Virginia exclaims. “You make necklaces!”

  We meet my father in the back hallway. Steve takes the piece of paper from him and waves it in the air. “I’ll give you a call,” he says.

  I watch the couple walk to their car through the thickening snow. I notice that they don’t speak to each other while Steve makes a three-point turn, a dead giveaway they’re waiting until they’re out of sight. They both smile on cue as they take off down the driveway.

  “You finish your glue-up?” I ask my father.

  It seems to take a min
ute for his eyes to focus on mine. “Sort of,” he says.

  “Did you know him well?” I ask. “I don’t remember him from when I visited your office.”

  “Not very well. He worked in another department.”

  “She’s pretty, don’t you think?” I snatch a knitted cap from a hook and start to bat it in the air.

  “I guess,” he says.

  “What did you write on the piece of paper?”

  “Just a number.”

  “Whose?”

  “No idea,” he says.

  I pick up the cap, which has fallen to the floor. “You want a tuna sandwich?” I ask.

  “That sounds good.”

  But still we stand in the hallway, neither of us willing to leave. I notice through the window that it’s snowing more heavily now.

  “Dad?” I ask, moving closer to him.

  “What?”

  I put the hat on my head. “Did you like your job when you worked in New York City?”

  “I did, Nicky,” he says. “Yes, I did.”

  “Were you good at it? Being an architect?”

  “I believe I was.”

  “What kind of things did you design?”

  “Schools. Hotels. Some renovated apartment buildings.”

  “Will you ever go back to it?” I ask.

  He plucks the cap off my head and puts it on his own. “I don’t think so,” he says.

  “Is this going to be a big snow?” I ask.

  “Could be,” my father says. He looks silly in the hat.

  “What a waste,” I say. “It’s vacation now.”

  “You just had a snow day,” my father says.

  “When’s Grammie coming?” I ask.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Did you get my Christmas present yet?”

  “Not telling,” he says.

  “I was thinking I might like a tape player. Actually, I need a tape player.”

  “Is that so,” my father says.

  Later that afternoon I am working on a beaded necklace for my grandmother when I hear a motor. I go to the window and look out and see a small blue car in the driveway. I watch as it keeps going to the side of the barn where my father keeps his truck.

  Wow, I think. A Christmas rush.

  I run down the stairs and open the door. A young woman stands on the doorstep, her hands in the pockets of a pale blue parka. She looks up through her dark blond hair. She pushes the hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear. Her hair is very fine and dead straight.

  “Is Mr. Dillon here?” she asks in a voice so faint I have to lean my head out the door.

  “Did you say Dillon?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Yes, he’s here.”

  “A man at the antiques store says Mr. Dillon makes furniture and has some pieces for sale? That I should come up here and take a look? I’m sorry, I didn’t know where to park.” Her voice is strained, and she speaks in a rush. She has eyes that match her jacket, and her lashes are covered with flakes. The snow is making a lace cap at the top of her head.

  “You better come in,” I say.

  She steps across the threshold. Her jeans fall over her boots and are wet at the hems. She takes a quick glance around the back hallway—at the woolen hats and baseball caps, at the fall and winter jackets, at a bag of road salt and a can of WD-40 on a shelf. It has grown darker with the snow, so I flip on the light switch. The woman flinches slightly with a small twitch of her head. Her hair falls across her face again, and she tucks it behind her ear.

  “I’ll get my father,” I say.

  I run along the passageway and into the barn. He looks up from the drawer he’s working on.

  “You’ll never believe this,” I say. “We’ve got another customer.”

  “I thought I heard a motor,” he says.

  He returns with me to the house. The woman is still standing by the back door. Her shoulders are hunched, and she has her arms folded across her chest.

  “The furniture’s in the front room,” my father says, gesturing with his hand.

  “I should take off my boots,” the woman says.

  I am about to say that it doesn’t matter, but the woman is already unzipping a black leather boot. She shakes it off and then unzips the other. She places them side by side on the mat. The hems of her jeans fall to the floor. When she stands, I can see that her face is pasty—not unusual in the winter in New Hampshire.

  “I need something for my parents for Christmas,” she says.

  “I can show you what I have,” my father says. He glances through the window. “You have any trouble with the road?” he asks.

  “It’s pretty slippery,” she says.

  I follow my father and the woman into the front room. Her parka flares at her hips. Her hair is caught in the back of her collar. She moves stiffly, and I’m guessing she’s wishing that she hadn’t come.

  In the front room the light is such that my father and I can see what we didn’t just an hour earlier: the cherry and walnut and maple tables and chairs are covered with a fine layer of dust.

  “Let me get a cloth,” my father says.

  When he leaves the room, the woman frees her hair from her collar. She unzips her parka. I examine her clothes. She has on a pink cardigan over a white blouse that she hasn’t tucked into her jeans. At her throat is a silver amulet on a leather cord. I make beaded necklaces on fine rawhide with silver clasps. I plan to sell them in the summer with the raspberries.

  “I like your necklace,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, her hand going to her throat. “Thanks.”

  “I make jewelry,” I add.

  “That’s great,” she says in a voice that makes it clear she isn’t thinking about jewelry.

  She fingers a table, leaving a meandering trail in the dust.

  “So you need a present,” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “For my parents.”

  “Do you live in Shepherd?” I ask, pretty sure I haven’t seen her in town.

  “I’m just shopping,” she says.

  “Sorry about this,” my father says as he returns with a dustcloth.

  The woman stands to one side as he polishes the table. “Your stuff is nice,” she says.

  She wanders from piece to piece, touching each one as she passes by. She rubs her fingers along the back of a chair and touches the side of a bookcase. She keeps glancing at my father. “Maybe they’d like a bookcase,” she says. I think she’s going to add something else, but then she shuts her mouth. She has a full face, though she doesn’t seem especially fat. Her eyes look wrong, though, as if they belonged in a different face, an unhealthy face maybe. There are bluish half-moons beneath her lower lids.

  I decide she’s too embarrassed to ask about prices, so I volunteer the list. “We have a price list,” I say.

  My father gives a quick shake of his head.

  The woman tosses her hair out of her face. “Yes,” she says. “Sure.”

  Ignoring my father I take a pamphlet from the mantel and hand it to her. I watch as she reads it. “What’s this made of?” she asks my father, pointing to a small cabinet.

  “It’s walnut,” my father answers, failing to add that it has paneled doors, inset hinges, and a beeswax finish as well. He’s hopeless as a salesman.

  The woman walks around to the back of the chair. She puts a hand out and leans on it. “This is really beautiful,” she says.

  She takes a step sideways and catches the hem of her jeans under her foot. She bends and rolls the hem into a cuff. I watch her as she does this. She rolls the other pant leg and stands, but I am still looking at her feet. In the moment that my mind registers the socks with the cable knit up the side—pearl-gray angora socks—she says to my father, “I didn’t come here to buy a piece of furniture.”

  My father looks confused for a moment. He thinks her a reporter, come to interview him under false pretenses.

  “I don’t understand,” he says.

&nb
sp; But I do, and how is that? The socks, of course, with their angora cable, frayed slightly at the heel. I see it in her face as well, even though I shouldn’t be able to see—I’m too young; I’m only twelve—the puffiness, the bluish commas under the eyes, the skin like something wet.

  Her hand on the chair presses down, and I worry that she’ll fall. “I’ve come to thank you,” she says to my father.

  “For what?” my father asks.

  And now it’s she who seems surprised. “For finding the baby,” she says, her voice light on the word baby, as if she hardly dared to say it, as if she might not be allowed to say it now.

  But still my father, who always seems to understand everything, doesn’t understand.

  “For finding her,” she repeats.

  He frowns and gives a quick shake of his head.

  I whisper to him, “The mother,”and his head shoots back in sudden comprehension.

  “You’re the mother?” he asks, astonished.

  Her cheeks pinken, making her eyes look as blue as the fish I once painted in Clara’s bedroom.

  The snow at the windows makes no sound. The woman’s hand, on the rung of the chair, is as white as a pearl.

  “You’re the mother of the infant who was left in the snow?” he asks.

  “Yes,” the woman says, pressing her lips tightly together.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” my father says.

  “I just wanted to say —”

  “Save it,” he says curtly.

  She is silent, but she doesn’t move.

  “You can’t be here,” my father says. “You left a baby to die in the snow.”

  “I need to see the place,” she says.

  “What place?”

  “Where you found her,” she says.

  My father seems bewildered by her request. “You ought to know the place.”

  But how can she know the place where her child was left to die, I want to ask, if she didn’t take the baby there herself? Wasn’t it the detective who said it was a man who put the baby in a sleeping bag?

  “I should never have come,” the woman says. “I’ll go now.”

  “Please,” my father says.

  The woman begins to zip up her jacket. She moves sideways around the furniture.

  “You should leave this area,” my father says. “They’re looking for you.”