Snow Angels (22 page)

As the Christmas season picked up I saw my new love interest at least once a week. It seemed like everyone called him Bax and soon it was falling easily from my own tongue. We were both absolutely slammed with holiday work and were so exhausted most nights that we didn’t have official dates. He’d drop off his work at Handmade and we’d grab lunch or if it was afternoon we’d grab an early dinner. It was on one of these later occasions that Bax met my mother.

“Should I call you Miss Edwina?” he asked, a note of mischief about him.

My mother rolled her eyes at him and then to me she said, “He’s cute.”

Later, after we’d dropped her off at her friend’s house, Bax came home with me. It was one of the most natural things I’ve ever done. It was never discussed. We just went to my house and got directly into bed.

We didn’t even try to act as if we wanted a glass of wine. We came in the front door and Bax looked around and said, “I never pictured you living here.”

I willed him to turn around and grab me. And like he’d read my thoughts his attention shifted and when his hands were in my hair I lost all sense of time and place.

I’d put out candles earlier. I had wine. The seduction was on. When we made it to the bedroom and clothes started to fall, I was amazed by how easily I shed my inhabitions too. I had wanted him for months and I was going to allow myself this pleasure without guilt or reservations or shame.

His breath was hot against my neck and then down over me. His kisses soft, yet firm as if his lips were on the most delicate china. I shivered and thrill bumps covered me.

“Ooh,” he whispered when he saw my skin’s reaction. He put his body all over mine in ways I’d never known. He was insistent and strong and focused on me. It felt amazing in all the right ways.

The next morning, as I sipped my coffee, I leaned against the bathroom doorframe and watched Bax shave. After he left I went into the bathroom and found his razor on the sink and his shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I decided to leave them there for when I came home that night.

I also decided then that I was going to file for divorce.

I waited until the next weekend to bring up the idea.

We were on our way up the mountain behind Asheville to his house and studio. I’d helped him shop for his family’s New Year’s party, which they always held on the first Saturday after the holiday.

Bax’s house rambled up the mountainside, three floors staggered, the bottom one a garage studio. He’d inherited the place from his grandparents twenty years ago and had been adding on to it all this time in what he called “my homage to Frank Lloyd Wright.” I loved his studio. There was a tang to the air, a metal influence that I loved—the propane and the solder smell of a man’s work.

We got out of the car, each of us lugging hemp grocery sacks.

“Let’s go in through the studio,” he said, indicating that the recent snow would make his outside slate walk slick. Inside the garage studio it wasn’t much warmer. Strewn about were all shapes of metal—copper, aluminum, steel, wrought iron.

“It’s always so cold in here,” I complained. “Don’t you freeze working in the winter?”

“Nah. I love it cold. When I get to working and have things fired up it gets hot in here.”

“What are you working on now?”

“I’ve been sketching ideas. Take a look at these.”

He pulled a black portfolio from behind a cabinet and spread its contents on a drawing table. “What do you think?”

The elaborate drawings showed ideas totally different than either his tree limbs or his fish. They were abstract and not something I had been that exposed to.

“They’re wild I know,” he said.

“But I like them. Would you ever do something as little as a tree ornament?”

He stood a moment looking at his sketches, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d have to see what I could come up with. You think there’s a market for that?” He slid his artwork back into the portfolio and picked up the grocery sacks. “Come on. Let’s go cook.”

From the kitchen window above his sink a high ridge severed sky from land in a jagged line. During the few times that I had been to Bax’s before I’d gotten lost in that view. It was so beautiful that I frequently let my thoughts wander from my assigned cooking task.

“Why don’t you just sit here, have a glass of wine, and look at my mountain?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Really. What’s on your mind tonight?”

I shrugged. “I’m a little nervous about meeting your family.”

“Don’t sweat it. They’re gonna love you. What are you worried about?”

“I’m not divorced yet. What if they ask me if I’ve ever been married?”

“They won’t ask you that. Has Miriam asked you that?”

“No. But I have decided to go ahead and file. Do you know any divorce lawyers?”

He nodded. “We can find you somebody. Do you know where he is so he can be served papers?”

“No.”

“Does he have a best friend who would know where he is?”

“Not if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“So just where do you think he is?”

“There are a couple of places he could be hanging out. I guess I could have him served at work.”

“That’s a plan.”

Bax dumped out gourmet eggplant dip into a bowl while I arranged soft, smelly cheeses on a tray. An hour later the table was filled with wine bottles, the air was filled with music, and the house was filled with Bax’s crazy family, the most liberal group of people I had ever met. Once the New Year’s party got into swing there were twelve of us in all. Bax’s parents and his mother’s mother, Grammy. Two brothers and their wives each brought a tween girl apiece, planned that way they said. Miriam brought a bug-eyed dog who appeared to be the most loved family member of all. It had taken awhile to get Grammy into the house and eventually Bax and one of his brothers had put the tiny woman in a chair and carried her inside as if she were as light as a feather.

The conversations started immediately—politics, international and domestic—topped the agenda. They discussed the economy, the war in Iraq, the future of the country. Then it was wine and food, a long discussion on art and furniture design. I sat in awe as two different conversations raged at each end of the table, neither of which I would even chance to interject into.

“Michelle?” I started at my name in a lull in the conversation.

“You’re an English major,” Baxter said. “Tell us, what do you think makes someone a Southern writer?”

All eyes were upon me and I felt a little trickle of sweat form along my hairline. I took another drink of wine to stall, but I’d had enough that wine was no longer my friend.

“Well,” I needed to sound well informed. “There’s the simple school of thought that a Southern story has to be set in the South or the characters have to be quirky Southern people, but I don’t agree.”

“Why so?” Miriam asked. “You know what Flannery O’Connor said, ‘Whenever I am asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it is because we are still able to recognize one.’”

Laughter exploded around the table and everyone clinked their wineglasses.

“Hey,” Baxter said. “Let Michelle answer the question.”

Everyone politely settled down and turned their attention to me again. I swallowed and formulated my statement.

“That’s truly one of the great quotes about writing, but I think Southern lit is more than characters. I think that a Southern story is about rhythm and a certain sensibility that reflects our strong history of oral storytelling. We write like we talk to a certain extent. There is a lyrical quality to the prose. Then, of course, there are reoccurring themes like the love of land, a strong connection to family, a rejection of outside influence.”

“Well put!” Baxter’s father bellowed and slapped his hand on the table. “I agree!”

As if the matter were settled, talk turned to music, then Bluegrass music. I was relieved to be off the hook. I knew there was no way I could make that level of contribution on any other subject. I wondered if Baxter had included me because he knew I’d have an opinion on the topic of literature and a little flash of gratefulness stirred in me.

As if he had read my thoughts Bax winked at me. Then he rose and walked to the cabinet that housed his sound system and music library. He pulled out an impressive Bluegrass collection and all the men gathered around the stereo.

“Lord, here we go with the Bluegrass again,” Trudy said. Bax’s mom Trudy was a hippie in the finer sense of the word. She embraced a wide worldview, but she chose very little of it for herself. Her clothing was subdued and comfortable, her jewelry handmade and cheap. Her hair was uncolored and gray streaks ran through it and swirled around where she had knotted it in the back. Like her husband, Mort, she was tall and lean and healthy in a carefree sort of way. Bax’s father had a long white bread, round wire-rimmed glasses, and a loud opinion on everything. He cursed insistently, was an outrageous flirt, and a complete delight.

“We women ignore them when they get to debating Bluegrass,” Trudy said. “Grab your wine and come with me.” On the way outside she stopped to remove two blankets from a trunk by the door.

I followed her to a screened porch where she plopped into one of three rocking chairs. “I love this view,” she said. “We always loved living here.”

“Why’d you move?” I asked as I took one of the blankets she offered. We wrapped ourselves up and began to rock.

She looked at me sort of funny and then she said, “We wanted Bax, our oldest, to have it.”

“It’s so big for one person.”

“Well,” she hesitated and then said, “Grammy couldn’t climb the stairs. We needed a place that was all one story.”

“Oh. I understand that. I have a mother I’m taking care of too.”

“It can be quite the responsibility to care for a parent. Do you have help?”

“I’m using an adult day care when I work. My mother has friends she can stay with on occasions like tonight. I think I’ll start driving her over to her sister’s in Knoxville some weekends. Eventually she’ll need more care, but right now things are manageable.”

The New Year’s party went on into the evening. Grammy dozed on and off and the tween girls who had disappeared into a back room reappeared to be fed again. Everyone had another go at the food and wine and then said their good nights with bear hugs. They picked their way down the icy drive to their vehicles, their laughter fading into the dark.

“Well,” Bax said. “That went well.”

“I love your family. They’re so strange.”

He laughed. “Strange in a good way?”

“Oh yes. They’re so interesting. My family is just so normal. Just so ordinary.”

I was washing dishes, sliding his handmade plates in and out of warm soapy water with care. It seemed that everything he owned was made by someone he knew. No store-bought, mass-reproduced thing for Bax. Even his spoons and forks were some he had forged himself, with stems and leaves for handles. Everything in his life seemed to have life, some extra detail or effort that raised it above the norm, from his wooden salad bowls to his handmade soaps.

“Hey,” I said as I washed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. What?”

“I don’t mean to pry or anything, but why did you get to inherit this big house all to yourself when both your brothers have families?”

He stopped drying dishes and said, “It wasn’t supposed to be just me.”

I stopped washing and waited for him to explain.

“Remember I told you that I almost got married?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. So that’s why I got this house. I was getting married. We were going to have a family. We wanted four kids, so this was perfect for us. Grammy needed a one story. It was all working out.”

“So, what happened?”

He hesitated. Picked up a glass and considered it.

“She was killed.”

“Oh, no.”

“Car accident. About three weeks before the wedding.”

How awful for him. How awful for me.

“Were you…” I mumbled.

“No. No. I wasn’t involved. It was just a freak one-car accident.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“About fifteen years ago. I was young and in love. I’m okay about it now. Life goes on. Look, anyway,” he said readjusting his stance and starting to dry dishes again. “I tried to get both my brothers to take the old home place when they got married, but they were happy where they were. So, I just started pouring all my energy and money into this house. It’s the art project of my life.”

“Fifteen years and you never found anybody else you wanted to marry?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had girlfriends, you know. But nobody who was really the one.”

Later, as we lay in bed, our skin pressed together, our hearts slowed into a resting rhythm, I watched our reflection in the window against the star-filled sky. We were on our sides. His arm draped my waist. We looked at peace, but my mind wouldn’t rest.

The notion that Bax was still in love with his dead fiancée rubbed my brain. How could I ever compete with the perfect dead love? Nobody had been able to so far.

Four kids? That wasn’t going to happen either. My heart dropped.

I stared at my image, faint like a ghost in the glass.

Enjoy this
, I told myself.
It won’t last forever
.

Randy showed up again in the spring. I’d hired an attorney and put the divorce into process. The papers had been served to him at work. It only took a week to get Randy’s response. He came again when I wasn’t home and this time he didn’t have to leave a note. When I opened the door I thought I had been robbed.

Furniture was overturned and scattered around. Dishes were smashed on the kitchen floor. I picked my way through the mess assessing the damage. I quickly registered that the television and stereo were untouched and I knew immediately it was Randy.

In the bedroom, the sheets were shredded and in the middle of that mess was a pile of all the things Bax had left in the house—a razor, a shirt, a pair of shoes, a magazine, a toothbrush—all things that had spelled out to my husband that I had moved on. Randy had even gotten Bax’s beer out of the refrigerator and poured it all over the mattress and tossed the cans on top of the pile. And in the middle of the pile, ripped in two and soaked in beer were the divorce papers.

I was slightly astonished by the level of anger in his act. I wasn’t sure he would even care since he’d been gone nine months without a word. I was suddenly mad. How dare he come into my home and wreck it because he was suddenly jealous of my new life.

The message light on the answering machine was blinking green so I pushed the button knowing in my heart that it was Randy. His voice came on, distant. He was on his cell.

“Michelle,” he said. “You made me do it. I just lost my mind. I came home and found that other guy’s stuff. Who the hell is
he?
I want to talk to you. We’re not divorced yet and I want to talk about this. You can’t just go off and hook up with some other guy. I got the divorce…” His voice faded and then came back. “I wanted to talk. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have done it, but damn it, Michelle, I love you. You know that don’t you? I love you and I want to come home. Call me when you get this message. I’ll pick up. Call me.”

Had he gone upstairs and seen that my mother was no longer living with me? Only the week before my mother had moved into a nice facility in Asheville. So now that she was gone he suddenly wanted to come home. It seemed Randy hadn’t been quite as unhappy as he thought.

And why would he think pouring beer on my bed would make me want him back? But then he was thinking of the other Michelle. The old Michelle who would have somehow found it romantic that a man would be moved to violence by thoughts of me with another.

But that old Michelle had no dreams of any other life. The new Michelle had seen a few things in the last few months. I gathered the sheets with all of Bax’s stuff and carried them to the washing machine. I pressed towels down onto the mattress, threw them in the wash too. As the machine whirred I stood by it just wondering if Bax was truly interested in me or if I was going to be only the latest woman whose heart he broke in his own kind way.

And Randy wanted to come home. It wasn’t as though he had ever been mean. He’d always been a lot of fun and he definitely had a sense of humor to go along with his outbursts of juvenile behavior. He had his good points and he wasn’t bad in the sack either, but that, of course, had cooled off a lot in the past few years.

Most likely Randy had never sincerely wanted to leave. Most likely he only wanted my mother to leave. When he saw her stuff gone, he was ready to come back. Bax’s things put a kink in his new plan.

Bax had a way of affecting my life now, usually positively. When a spot came open for my mother in Asheville, Bax had been such a help with his van and strong arms and patience. He made the move much easier than I had thought it could be.

Now I was in the process of painting and repairing so I could put her house on the market. One more thing Randy hadn’t been around to help me handle. Bax had offered his assistance, but I didn’t want to take advantage, so I’d hired a crew of local boys to make a few improvements.

I decided to try Randy’s mobile number, but I couldn’t remember it. I found my purse that I’d dropped to the floor in the kitchen, dug my cell out, and pushed the button for my soon-to-be ex.

The number rang once.

“Michelle?”

“Randy. You son-of-a-bitch.”

“Michelle, don’t freak out on me now. I’m coming home so we can talk.”

“No, you’re not. I don’t want you to come home. All I want is for you to sign those divorce papers. I’ll have my lawyer serve you another set.”

“Michelle, just hear me out. I promise I won’t waste five minutes of your time if you let me come home and talk to you. Just hear what I’ve got to say.”

“You can’t come home to live. You’re not welcome here.”

“Okay. Fine. But just listen to me anyway.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

While I waited for my husband to arrive I decided I wanted a beer and didn’t realize my mistake until I opened the refrigerator.

Damn him
, I thought.

About fifteen minutes later, after I’d made a bourbon and coke, I sat down on the front porch to wait. Randy didn’t disappoint, but came barreling up into the drive, jumped out and was on the porch before I could raise my glass to my lips.

“Michelle, you can’t divorce me,” he said.

“A little late for that, Randy.”

“Look. I know I’ve been a jerk, but just listen to me. I want to try again. We’ve been together a long time. I like our life together.”

“Really? What about it do you like?”

His sudden bewilderment was humorous. “What?”

“What exactly do you like about our life together?”

“Well, um, let’s see…I like sleeping with you.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t mean sex. I mean I like sleeping with you and listening to you breathing and I like how your hair spreads out across the pillow and you look like an angel when you sleep.”

Now I was bewildered.

“And I like that you’re the sort of person who likes to have dinner every night. I grew up that way and that’s how you hold a family together, even if the family is only the two of us.”

I was really surprised. Who was this man on my porch who had suddenly found two beautiful things to say about our life together? Apparently wonderful things for which his appreciation went unexpressed all our years together.

“What else?” I demanded.

He postured. “Um, okay. I
love
that you know so much about me.”

“Apparently there’s a lot of stuff about you that I don’t know.”

“Nothing. You know me inside and out.”

I laughed and looked away.

“Who’s the guy?” His voice was darker.

I hesitated. I knew he’d ask.

“He’s just somebody I met at work.”

“Where do you work now? I called Mountaintop and they said you hadn’t been there for like five months or something.”

“In Asheville at a Christmas store.”

“No way. He works at a Christmas store?”

“No.”

“I thought you said you met him at work.”

“I did.”

“Shit. Fine. So what’s up? Are you dating or just shacking up?”

“Dating.”

I knew it wasn’t in my best interest to admit this to him, but he could have easily found out on his own and I wanted to see the expression on his face.

“He stays here?”

“Only a few times.”

“Do you love him?”

“That’s not the question.”

“What is the question?”

“The question is…do I love you?”

“Well?”

“Yes. I do.”

“I knew it.”

“But it’s a two-part question.”

“What’s the second part?”

“Do I love our life together?”

“And you’re going to say that you don’t love our life together.”

“That’s right. And your five minutes are up.”

I could see the disappointment, and then the anger boil up inside of him. Randy always had a hard time concealing his strong emotions.

“I won’t sign those papers until you have a real discussion with me. I want to go to counseling.”

That made me laugh again.

“Are you kidding? You abandoned me for nine months. That’s solid grounds for divorce no questions asked, really. Just sign the papers.”

“Do they say you get the house?”

“You haven’t read them?”

“
No. I haven’t read them
. What do they say?”

“They say you take your stuff and I take my stuff and the house. We split the money in the savings and our CDs.”

“And why should I give you the house?”

“Because you should.”

“Okay. Look. Let’s go out to dinner and have a talk about this. If you still want a divorce after we go out then I’ll sign the papers and you can have the house.”

“So you think you can charm me out of divorce in one date? Fine. You’re on.”

“Good. It’s a date then.”

“Your five minutes are definitely up.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”

“What if I have plans on Friday?”

“Well? Do you?”

Actually I did usually have a date with Bax on Friday, but he would think nothing of it if I told him I had another obligation.

“I’ll change something around,” I said. “Pick me up at seven. I don’t want to stay out late.”

“Okay.” Randy walked back to the truck, got in and drove away. He checked me in the rearview when he got to the end of our drive, then turned onto the highway and rumbled out of sight.