Love Begins in Winter (13 page)

A
FTER THE STORM, NIGHT
filled the wet city.

George had been still for such a very long time that evening had etched his face into the window before him. It was a face through which city lights twinkled in the windy distance. George leaned forward. The figure before him also leaned, as if ready to hear the whispering of a secret. George imagined his daughter's hands upon his face, like someone blind trying to feel his way around. He wondered what she would make of it.

Would she touch it?

Would she wonder what stories swirled behind the eyes?

Would she find it handsome?

Perhaps she might see herself.

And, then, perhaps in time, it might be a face that she cared for, that she was pleased to see, that gave her comfort in the night when she surfaced on the back of a nightmare.

George ripped open a box of Raisinets and chewed each one carefully. He decided to write a letter to his sister. Since he'd received the photograph of the little girl in the mail, the old love for his sister had stirred; a love that had become buried under the rubble of his life. Growing up, they hadn't said much to one another but sometimes held hands in the car and sometimes cooked together listening to David Bowie after their mother had passed out on the couch, still clutching the neck of a bottle.

One Easter, George left several drawings of rabbits outside her bedroom door. When he found them in the trash can in the kitchen that afternoon, George stormed into her room, grabbed the egg that she was decorating, and stamped on it.

Not until she was a woman did George's sister realize how much her younger brother had looked up to her, and how lonely his life must have been without her friendship. But by that time George had disappeared from her life completely.

George wondered what he would say to her in the letter. He found a pen and some paper from a drawer and sat down at his desk. He went to switch on his lamp, but there was no bulb in it. Then he remembered two boxes of bulbs in the cupboard under the stairs. He went to fetch one.

Several weeks ago, while walking home from work, George passed what he thought was a shop. In the window were packs of diapers, dusty toys in sun-bleached boxes, a pile of women's clothes, and three dirty boxes of lightbulbs, which reminded George that he needed some.

When he tried to enter the shop, however, he found the door locked. As he stepped back to see if the opening times had been posted, a panel opened in the door and a face appeared.

“Yeah?” the face said.

“How much are those lightbulbs?” George asked.

The face eyed him suspiciously.

“What lightbulbs?” the face said.

“The lightbulbs in the window—how much are they?”

The face tightened as if agitated and then disappeared, leaving the panel open.

A moment later, the face returned. It stared curiously at George Frack.

“So how much are they?” George asked.

The face laughed.

“A dollar,” the face said.

“Each or for the pack?”

“For the pack.”

“Great,” George said. “I'll take two packs.”

“Okay,” the face said, “that's two dollars.”

“What about tax?” George asked.

“Okay, that's two dollars and nineteen cents,” the face said, and laughed again.

A week later, the shop was raided by the police and then boarded up by city workers with cigarettes in their mouths.

George found the two boxes of lightbulbs in his closet under the stairs where he had set them. He put one in the lamp on his desk.

It came to life before he had finished screwing it in.

Then he began the letter to his sister.

She was a single mother to a boy named Dominic with Down syndrome. George had not spoken to her since Dominic was born. All George knew was that his nephew was conceived one night on a skiing holiday in Canada with a man who had another family. As George wrote his sister's name, he realized that Dominic would have no idea who he was.

 

Then George crossed out his name, and wrote “Major Tom.”

A few days later, Human Resources from George's office called. They kept calling him Mr. Frack. George asked them to call him George, but they wouldn't. There were two people talking on the same line, and at various points in the conversation, nobody knew who was talking to whom. George kept looking down at his velvet loafers. After ten minutes, George's boss came on the line. It sounded like he was chewing. He was a boorish man from the suburbs who picked his nose when he didn't think anyone was looking.

George said he didn't understand why they had called. His boss asked George if he was kidding. Then he told George that he was being fired. George sighed.

“Well, that's fine,” George said, “because I'm going to Sweden for a while.”

There was silence, and then his boss said:

“Where the hell is Sweden?”

“It's like Scandinavia—or something,” George said, looking for an open pack of Raisinets.

A week later, his passport arrived. In the package was:

1. A pair of adult-sized mittens
   
2. A kid's drawing of a whale with “Good Luck!” written on it in blue and yellow crayon
   
3. A letter from his sister
   
4. A list of things they had cooked when they were children
   
5. One of three drawings secretly rescued from the trash after the egg incident
   

The letter from his sister was addressed to “Major Tom” and signed “Ground Control.”

A short P.S. read: “You've really made the grade.”

G
EORGE'S TAXI BROKE DOWN
on the way to the airport. The driver cursed in Hindi, then ripped a tiny plastic deity from the dashboard and yelled into its face.

George leaned forward and explained to the driver that he had a daughter he'd never met, that she was waiting for him, that he had only one chance to find her. The driver replaced the deity with a kiss, then threw open his door and ran out onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waving his arms. George noticed that he was wearing loafers—patent leather.

Several cars skidded, almost hitting a Wonder Bread truck. The bread truck driver jumped from the cab and stood with his chest against the taxi driver's face. The cars behind suddenly stopped honking. Just when it seemed the truck driver was going to punch the taxi driver, the two men shook hands. The cars behind started honking again.

George climbed into the bread truck. A small Puerto Rican flag dangled from the rearview mirror. The driver swerved in and out of traffic as though sewing up the highway. He smoked one cigarette after another. A can of Red Bull fell from the cup holder and spilled all over George's velvet loafers. The driver laughed. George could hear the bread flying around in the back, hitting the sides with dull thumps.

When they arrived at Newark International Airport, the driver looked at George and shouted, “Go, motherfucker, go.”

George grabbed his bag and fell from the cab, then sprinted through the doors into the terminal.

The woman at check-in had a glass eye. She told George he had five minutes to get to the gate. Then a large African-American man in gold-rimmed glasses studded with fake diamonds appeared on an airport golf cart. He told George to climb on, and they beeped their way to the gate, scattering passengers on all sides.

Once at a cruising altitude, the passengers around George began to sleep—like people falling into pools of their own lives.

George thought about his journey to the airport. He'd never see those men again. Love between strangers takes only a few seconds and can last a whole life.

Then he thought back six years to the night he'd spent with the Swedish hotel clerk at a truck stop in upstate New York; it was the night of beginning, because it was the only night they were together. To think that one unplanned night with a stranger in a strange place could create the most precious person who ever lived.

Six years ago, George had a sort of nervous breakdown. Instead of calling an ambulance and waiting on the couch in his underwear, George decided he was going to drive to his ex-girlfriend's wedding in Massachusetts and then charge the cake as it was brought out. He pictured himself being arrested and then institutionalized. He imagined the pleasure of sitting in a bathrobe on a bench beside a rose garden, nurses gliding past like swans.

The wedding was to take place on a Saturday morning. George left on Friday and drove until his nerves could no longer handle the traffic. He took the next exit and followed the car in front. He wondered who was in it, what sort of life they were having. He knew he would never see their face and that their lights would soon disappear along the road to somewhere he could not imagine.

Then George spotted a red neon sign:

 

 

He parked and went inside.

The waitresses wore white shirts with frilly collars and black vests. There were plastic flowers on all the tables. The wind howled against the windows.

Opposite the diner, about half a mile in the distance, burned the lights of a correctional facility.

There were photographs of 1950s baseball players on the walls. Snow blew around the parking lot. A storm had been predicted, and the waitresses kept looking through the windows and pointing.

The silverware was flimsy. George bent his spoon with one hand. The spoon reminded George of a child's hand.

The lamp shades hung low over each table. George asked for the special. When he finished his glass of Diet Coke, the waitress brought another, but George's mouth was so full of bread, he could only nod when she set it down on the table before him.

A man walked his little son to the bathroom. They were both wearing neckties. The boy kept touching his. Near the entrance was a lobster tank with only one lobster in it. George wondered what the lobster was thinking; perhaps wondering when the others were coming back.

When George returned from the bathroom, his food had arrived. The lobster tank was empty. George ate a few mouthfuls painfully, and then concentrated on the coleslaw which lay in a sad heap half off the plate.

Outside, snow lay thick upon the picnic tables. A couple at the next table was eating dinner. They were about George's age. They were wearing scarves and laughing. They ordered a bottle of wine, and it arrived with a napkin around its neck. Why did everyone else's life seem perfect?

At the other end of the restaurant, a father held his daughter aloft, as though he had just pulled her from the ground. George felt dizzy. There were plastic snowflakes hanging in the windows.

George tipped the waitress the year of his ex-girlfriend's birthday, $19.72—more than the meal itself.

He knew he was only twenty minutes from where the wedding was being held the next day, so when George saw a sign for lodging not far from the restaurant, he followed the flashing arrow. The hotel was a line of connected cha-lets, each with the same color door. Lines of trucks filled the parking lot, their engines like snouts gleaming and puffing in the moonlight.

Drivers milled about, smoking and stomping the snow from their boots.

The check-in desk was lit by a long fluorescent bulb missing its cover. An ashtray on the counter was full of ash but no cigarette butts. There was also a calendar with a glossy photograph of a Mack truck.

George rang the bell and waited. Nobody came.

As he turned to leave, a woman with short black hair appeared.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It's okay,” George said.

Her skin was pockmarked, but her eyes were very beautiful. Her hair was uneven, as though she'd cut it herself. She also had an accent. When she spoke, it sounded like she was singing.

“A room?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” George said.

“Are you a driver?” she said, looking at her book.

George thought for a moment and remembered all the rigs parked outside.

“No,” he said, “just a regular person.”

The woman laughed.

“245,” she said. “It's on the second floor. How do you wish to pay?”

George handed her his credit card.

“Nonsmoking—is that all right?”

“I don't smoke,” George said.

The woman looked at his credit card and said his name aloud.

“George Frack.”

“Yes,” George said.

“That's a funny name.”

“Is it?”

“It sounds like it's made up.”

“Well, it's not made up,” George said. “I've had it for years.”

“Well, here's your key, George Frack.”

George took his key and thanked her. Then, for some reason, instead of going immediately to his room and getting into bed as he'd planned, he turned to her and said:

“Where are you from—I like your voice.”

The woman stared at him closely.

“Sweden.”

“Oh,” George said, “so you're happy about the snow.”

“I am,” she said.

“What are you doing here?”

“You mean, working at a truck stop in Nowhere, New York?”

“Yes.”

“It's a long sad story, George Frack. Why are you here?”

“It's a long sad story also.”

A trucker passed through the lobby and disappeared into the bar, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke.

“Do you want to watch TV with me in my room later?” George said.

“Okay,” the woman answered without looking up. “I'll be over in two hours—shall I bring anything?”

“Orange juice, please.”

“And how about some Raisinets?” she said.

“Candy?” George said.

“You'll see.”

An hour later, Marie sat with George on his bed. The room was quite sad. Cigarette burns in the carpet, a ball of sweatpants in a drawer, dirty ashtrays, the cap from a bottle of something under the bed.

Instead of watching television, Marie told George about how she'd come to New York to find her father. Her mother said he was a truck driver—at least he was in 1978.

“You picked a good spot,” George said.

“I suppose so,” she said.

“How long have you been here?”

“Almost three months—but I'm going back next week because my visa runs out.”

“You didn't find him then?”

“I hoped I'd recognize him.”

“At least you tried.”

Marie shook some Raisinets into George's hand.

“My father is dead,” George said.

“Is that why you're so unhappy?”

George thought for a moment. “Actually yes,” he said.

“But why are you up here, George Frack?”

“I don't think I know anymore,” George said, moving deeper under the covers. Then Marie kissed him.

Afterward, they lay in each other's arms without saying anything.

When George woke up the next morning, Marie was gone. The bed was full of Raisinets. He'd missed the wedding. The television was a reflection of the room. He took a shower, then got in his car and drove home. The traffic was very light.