H-12/19/02: Let it Snow

Currently I am surrounded by snow, really surrounded, the victim of
an avalanche. Well, perhaps not a victim, and not really an avalanche.
It's more an avalanche of my own making - the result of choices I have
made, and choices I couldn't make. Coupled with a clumsy misstep and
inattention, my choices (or lack thereof) have brought me here,
suspended in the grayness of a snow packed ravine.

Above me, muffled but still frantic, is Billy's voice. I'm not cold yet
- I had the foresight to dress warmly - but Billy's voice is chilling
nonetheless. It's satisfying to hear him panic, to listen to his
self-possession turn to shrillness. "Nancy!" he calls. "Nancy! Nancy!"
When my name ends with a question mark, and he's on his knees in tears,
perhaps I'll answer.

I wish I'd been in this position when Billy had first started talking,
his voice muted and not entirely real, after we'd met in the field
behind the trailer park. How strange to find him in the dark, as if he
were waiting for me. Which he was, I guess, though we were past
laughing at coincidences or the sneaky delight of adultery (or, even,
the real delight of just being together. When had that ended?). He'd
said something innocuous - fancy meeting you here, maybe, or nice night
for a walk - while I'd said nothing. It was neither fancy nor nice, so
what could I say? Instead, I'd sniffled, and shrugged off his arm when
he'd tried to put it around my shoulders.

We'd walked, the mismatched Christmas lights outlining the boxy trailer
homes behind us. And it was Christmas, after all, though the lights
could often be seen at any time of the year, depending on the moods of
the residents or the children who found the extension cords covered in
dirt and leaves and decided to plug them in. Depressing, really;
Christmas lights make a promise that trailer parks have trouble
delivering.

But I'm not being fair. Despite the cow smell from the nearby
meatpacking plant, the lack of grass, the thin walls - despite all of
it, the trailer park was a community of sorts. I had friends, people to
watch the boys, a place to park the car. And the rent didn't leave us
eating potatoes day after day. My trailer didn't have any Christmas
lights, but what did that matter? It hadn't mattered for three years,
at least until Billy came into the picture, right into my living room,
and sat drinking beer with my husband after they'd returned from a day
of skydiving. His eyes met mine again and again. "Self-possessed," I'd
thought even then, my face and palms hot with recognition.

Even at the age of twenty-two, this was not my first experience
with?what is the term? Extramarital affair? Stress the syllables
differently and tweak the vowels and it sounds like an Indian princess,
or a disease of the foot. "Goings-on," my mother would have called it.
"Sluttish" would be my father's word. My husband didn't call it
anything, but then he spoke more with his hands.

"I guess what I'm getting at," Billy had said eventually, his voice too
clear in the cold air, "Is that I won't have a place of my own. I'll be
staying with my sister and her husband. I'll have to sleep on the
couch. There just won't be room for you."

Too many thoughts had run through my mind. By "you," I knew Billy
didn't mean me, alone, without the boys. But me and the boys, the whole
package? That he couldn't - or wouldn't - be able to do. I'd thought of
the boys, back in the trailer, most likely asleep in front of the
television?that was perched on my mother's old bookshelf?that sat next
to my sewing machine?that sat on a rug I had made with my own two
hands?that, right then, were clenched into fists. I couldn't speak
because I had too much to say. Or maybe I just knew I had nothing to
say that Billy would want to hear.

In the end, it didn't make any difference, because right now is the
end, with me in the snow, wide-awake in a wintry womb. Billy is still
shuffling about, up above and out of sight. A moment ago his hand shot
through the snow, inches from my face, where I can feel the corners of
my mouth twitching. It's not from the cold. Let him sweat it out,
realize he's not a knight in shining armor, as much as I would like him
to be.

Perhaps Billy will jump into this ravine with me. Side by side we'd
flail about, bumping against each other until we'd dug ourselves so
deep that we'd never get out. Someone might find us in the Spring,
wrapped around each other, or at each other's throats, battling for
warmth and hating ourselves for wanting it.

But he wouldn't jump in, would he? No more than I would, it appears,
when given the choice.