Astrid Amara (11 page)

“Well of course I do! You don’t think he’d keep that from his mother, would you?”

I felt like I had been stabbed. What kind of person was I, keeping something so

important from my own mother?

My mother shook her head. “It’s just a shame that he won’t be a father, though. He

would be such a good one. You too. I can’t wait until you have children of your own. I dream

about it, you know.”

I closed my eyes. “Mom…” I swallowed. The words were on the tip of my tongue. Just

say it.

“Still no sign of the pushke?” My uncle suddenly came in, dressed in both sweater and

coat.

“I heard on the radio that the highway has been plowed,” Matthew said, entering as

well. “I need to leave soon -- I’m supposed to be back at work on Monday.”

“What? You don’t have all of Hanukkah off?” my uncle complained.

“Are you going to leave me here then?” Goldie asked, coming in moments later,

wearing her nightgown and a comforter draped over her shoulders.

“No, Mom,” Matthew said. “I’d just go and see if I could get some supplies. And check

the roads to see if we can make it back to Boston together.”

Within minutes half the household appeared in the kitchen, bumbling around for

glasses, snacking on crackers, looking yearningly at the growing plate of eggs. I had missed

my opportunity to speak with my mother. So I finished cooking breakfast instead and

thought about how I would broach the subject later.

* * * * *

Astrid Amara

Ethan was still sleeping when I went up to fetch him.

I sat beside him on the bed and ran my hand through his hair. “Rise and shine, Doctor.

Time for breakfast.”

Ethan mumbled something that sounded vaguely obscene and rolled over.

“By the way, I think I’ve concluded that it couldn’t be my mother, father, or my Aunt

Goldie who took the pushke. They were in the kitchen when the power went out.”

Ethan still didn’t stir. Even the prospect of further sleuthing didn’t inspire him? I

pulled the comforter down. He pulled it back over his head again.

“Get up,” I said.

“No.”

“I made eggs. There’s even coffee.”

He still didn’t stir.

“And if you get up, we could start looking through everyone’s stuff and search for

clues.”

He threw off the comforter at this, and ran a hand over his rough cheeks. He squinted

at me even though there were only the beginnings of sunlight in the room.

“You want to?”

I shrugged. “It’s the only way to be sure of someone’s guilt.”

He smiled crookedly.

I shook my head. “A hot meal doesn’t motivate you, but rifling through other people’s

stuff gets you out of bed in no time.”

Ethan laughed. I checked to make sure I shut the bedroom door and then kissed him.

He tasted sleepy, his skin warm and soft.

“Come on,” I said, dragging him out of bed. “Sherlock Holmes hardly slept on a case.”

“He was also high on cocaine.” But Ethan followed me diligently to breakfast.

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During the rest of the day, it was difficult finding chances to sneak into everyone’s

room. But as my family made forages outside, or fed the ravenous fire, or read, or slept near

the sole heat source in the house, Ethan and I took advantage of the opportunities provided

to poke around.

We started with the living room after breakfast, hastily shuffling through Rachel’s

suitcase. We found nothing of interest, and didn’t bother with the rest of the room since my

mother and uncle had already arduously been over it.

We searched Daniel and Matthew’s room next. I noticed that among a small stash of

presents for his mother, Matthew had one wrapped with our family’s blue and white paper.

And it was for himself.

“Who gives themselves a present for Hanukkah?” I asked, bewildered.

“More bizarre, who wraps a present for themselves?” Ethan responded.

Near Daniel’s belongings, we found a small paper bag full of coins.

“Probably from a slot machine,” Ethan reasoned.

I shook my head. “What slot machine pays out in nickels, dimes, and quarters? And

why bring it to our house in a paper sack?”

“Odd,” Ethan agreed.

Aunt Goldie’s guest room had already been turned upside down by Uncle Al, which

only left his room and my parents to paw through. But they were frequently occupied. Only

shortly before dinner, as my uncle went outside to turn over his car engine and my mother

and father wrestled through a crossword, did we find a chance to sneak in.

“How much time do we have?” Ethan asked, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Not much,” I said, “unless it’s the Sunday crossword. Otherwise my Dad can finish it

in mere minutes.”

“Then let’s search your parents’ room first,” he suggested.

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Astrid Amara

Once inside, Ethan found it amusing that I refused to look through my parents’

drawers.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked, smirking.

“Everything,” I said with a shudder. “What if I found something I can’t reconcile with

the people who gave birth to me? A cock ring, or a picture of some other woman? I would be

scarred for life.”

“Fine, I’ll look in the dresser. You take the bedside table drawers.”

“That’s worse. That’s where ointments could be stored.”

“Be strong, Jonah.”

“And for the record, I’m a little weirded out by the idea of my boyfriend looking

through my mother’s underwear drawer.” I pulled open my father’s bedside table drawer

with dread. Inside I found a Torah, several cruise pamphlets, a flashlight, and dental floss.

Relief flooded me.

I didn’t hear Ethan opening drawers. I turned around and caught my breath, as he was

standing right behind me.

“What?” I asked suspiciously.

He looked very pleased with himself. “You called me your boyfriend.”

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t mean it.”

Ethan frowned. “You didn’t?”

I took a deep breath. “Maybe I did. Do you want me to mean it?”

Ethan reached out and touched my shoulder. “Yeah.”

Something fluttered around in my throat. “Great then. That’s settled.” I could barely

speak. I moved to my mother’s side of the bedroom, excited and nervous and feeling

extremely embarrassed all of a sudden. I could feel Ethan’s eyes gazing over me. I swallowed

down my flitting emotions and opened my mother’s bedside table drawer.

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I paused.

“What is it?” Ethan whispered. He rushed to the other side of the bed and stared down.

My mother’s drawer was full of children’s drawings and clippings from my elementary

school newsletter. I fumbled through the stack of papers. Every single card I ever sent her,

every letter I wrote home. It was all here. Even the short stories I wrote in second grade. A

note with a stick-figure drawing explaining I would be late home from school. She had saved

everything.

“You know,” Ethan said quietly, “my mother loved me very much, but even she didn’t

keep a drawer full of my memorabilia at her bedside table.”

I sighed. How could something both fill me with affection and dread at the same time?

All her hopes in me. All her pride. Was I going to change all that with a single sentence?

I heard someone coming up the stairs and so I quickly shut the dresser drawer. The

bedroom door knob turned, and Ethan I stared at each other in shock. Before I could think

he grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the closet, managing to shut the door just as my

mother walked in.

My mother hummed to herself as she went into her attached bathroom and washed her

face. Ethan and I stood chest to chest, breathing heavily, peering through the crack in the

closet door. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so excited.

Ethan stifled his laughter, but I could feel his frame shake slightly with the effort. He

pulled me to his chest and I pressed myself against him. Our breathing sounded loud,

especially when my mother stood next to the closet as she put on a necklace.

Finally, she departed, and I let out a heavy sigh.

“Close call,” I whispered.

“That would have been one way to come out of the closet,” he said.

* * * * *

Astrid Amara

I spent the rest of the day in a daze of contentment, remembering the feeling of Ethan’s

chest against mine, reliving the sight of his cock looming above my face, that pure smile of

his as we said good night. Perhaps I was wrong about him after all. I could let go of my

worries. They were based on events from over a decade ago. Surely I had to allow a man to

change?

My contentment seemed to spread to the rest of my family. Aunt Goldie hummed to

herself as she knitted beside the fire, and my mother clearly appreciated the fact that I

changed into my other sweater halfway through the day, just to please her. We ran out of

firewood, but I convinced my father to sacrifice his impressive collection of lumber in the

spirit of survival.

This was a big deal for my father, who had a cherished vision of building himself a

workbench and shelves in the garage since I was in first grade. He had manuals and magazine

articles; he had even acquired a band saw and a drill press. It had been a source of tension

between my parents, as the amount of wood multiplied and years went by without a single

nail driven.

The mythical workbench was generally a sore topic, but when I gingerly broached the

idea of burning some of his prized collected lumber to keep us warm, my father clapped his

hands and stood up resolutely.

“You’re right, Jonah!” He said, his brow furrowed. “Sacrifices have to be made in times

of crisis. The workbench must go!”

I helped him haul in wood from the garage, keeping a keen eye on his expression to see

if he turned remorseful. The “workbench” was currently a dozen two by fours of varying

types of wood, depending on the year and his mood.

He kept a stiff upper lip, but almost looked relieved as the flames lapped at the wood. I

wondered if he had been looking for an excuse all these years to get out of the grand project

he had talked up since I could spell.

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Dinner that night was peaceful. Aunt Goldie had been productive while the rest of us

bemoaned our fates, and had completed nine scarves in matching bright orange fuzzy wool.

We wore these to dinner, wrapped around our faces to stave off the cold.

My mother clapped her hands every time another of my father’s never-started

carpentry projects succumbed to the fire. He tossed in wood with previously unseen

enthusiasm.

“Enough of the carpentry!” he shouted, throwing in another mill end. “I’m going to buy

a workbench, damn it!”

Daniel found a radio station that played oldies from the swing years, and my parents

danced by the fireplace. Matthew danced with his mother, and Rachel blushed furiously as

her older brother tried to teach her how to break dance to Benny Goodman.

Only my uncle, Ethan, and I abstained. My uncle fell asleep in the recliner, but Ethan

and I smiled at each other as the others danced around us.

When the music changed to a slower beat we huddled around the fire, my mother and

father laughing as they argued playfully, all of us admiring our matching scarves, and it was

suddenly one of the happiest family gatherings I could remember. Yes, we were eating

canned corn in large quantities; yes, we suffered powerless and cold and had to cope with

boredom and hunger; yes, my secrets still lingered, foul with the taint of lies; but it didn’t

matter. My cousin Rachel lit the fourth candle and I felt connected to them all, boundless,

yet bonded, for the first time in years.

Ethan sat beside me. His hand reached out and stealthily touched the small of my back.

With the fire blazing, burning my face, his hand scorching me through, my family’s

laughter, our perseverance -- it all suddenly came together as an instant memory, something

so beautiful it fills one with nostalgia even as one lives through the moment. I held on to that

feeling like the caress of a lover, the smell of a loved pet, the first sight of something new and

beautiful. It was as close to perfect as I could imagine.

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Astrid Amara

Uncle Al’s room was the only one left that Ethan and I hadn’t searched. Our

opportunity came the morning of the fifth day, when Al and my father dressed in multiple

layers of Gortex and wool to venture down the street to the Dektor family household in

search of extra supplies. Our candles and toilet paper were running dangerously low.

As soon as they departed Ethan and I ran upstairs and went through my uncle’s

belongings. Al was sloppy; his stuff strewn across the sewing room as though he never

planned on leaving.

“Hey, check this out,” Ethan said quietly. I walked over to the suitcase that Ethan

methodically searched. He held a magazine and wore a mischievous smirk.

It was Bouncers, a porn magazine with the most ridiculous cover I’d seen in a long