THE DANGER OF LIGHT AND JOY

        He sits down on the chair next to the window and scans the far-off slopes of the mountain for signs of life, for movement. From this distance human beings are indistinguishable from boulders or evergreens.
        Given enough distance, he realizes, all things, even souls, blend together, are reduced to black dots. He unfocuses on the slopes, takes them in as a whole; it is only in this way one can separate the animate from the inanimate, detect the subtler movements.
        "There's one," he says.
        "One what?"
        "A person."
        "Huh."
        "On the mountain."
        "Huh."
        Superimposed on the black and white rounded slopes, like a lingering dream, is the reflection of his wife in warm colors, her brown flesh, her pink nightgown in pleasant contrast with the bleached world outside. She rubs her eyes with both hands, then lowers her arms, a lazy movement that smashes the mountains like clay.
        He turns in his chair and watches her. Studies and commits to memory the shape of her arm slipping into a sleeve, the bend of her leg stepping into a skirt, her fingers working with delicate, practiced movements at buttons, zippers. She stands opening and closing dresser drawers, remembering that they are empty, and begins rifling through nearby boxes of clothing, shifting from one leg to another. As he watches he understands that she is aware of his eyes, understands that she is uncomfortable, that her rummagings are arbitrary. He turns back to the mountain with its patches of dark green trees, nearly black, dusted with snow or frost, looking like a bowl of moldy fruit.
        "I lost him," he says, a half-sigh.
        "What?"
        In the window he sees her drape a skirt and blouse over her arm.
        "I'm going to take a shower," she says.

        He heats water in a silver kettle. In the cupboard: an array of colorful boxes of various types of tea, raw honey, white sugar, a strange collection of tea-making implements that one could easily make due without. Quaint, small tools he only half-understands. He cannot remember if she has a favorite among them, these exotic teas purchased at small stores, stores crammed between other stores, sharing walls.
        He decides to make breakfast for her. To have it ready by the time she is finished showering. He opens the refrigerator. It is empty. He moves to the boxes stacked on the kitchen table, scans their contents. Everything perishable has already been discarded. Boxes of useless condiments, a few ice trays.
        From the bathroom comes the sound of water and the perfect, liquid voices of N.P.R. For a moment there is comfort. The phone rings.
        He lays the receiver over his shoulder, but does not yet speak. He opens the refrigerator and closes it again with a frown.
        "What."
        "Is this how we're answering phones now?"
        "What is it."
        "I'm hanging up."
        "Okay. What is it."
        The line goes dead.
        "Hello."
        He hangs up the phone without looking. It rings again. He answers.
        The voice asks, "Is Jane there?"
        "She's in the shower. Who is this?"
        "So she's not there?"
        He loses energy. It moves through the house like a bird, escapes through cracks in the ceiling.
        "She's in the shower."
        He opens and shuts the silverware drawer. Empty. Straightens the rug with his foot.
        "So is she there or what?"
        "That's three times."
        A sigh and a pause.
        "Happy Anniversary."
        "Yeah."
        
        Insubstantial snowflakes fall. He watches them from the large window in the breakfast nook. Empty snowflakes, much too light, affecting no one, adding nothing. They hit the window and disappear.
        Sunlight comes and goes swiftly, as if playing a game. It comes pale and cold, it leaves no impressions. The trees, the snow, they instantly forget, are surprised every time the light reappears, like a distant relative.
        This was his idea and she was in love.
        "Man was created to be alone," he said.
        They were students once. They had courses together. In the evenings, in all-night cafes, hidden in a corner, huddling over their words like chess players, they would speak, and do greater damage than silence.
        "Woman was a future development. A salve."
        "You're not sexist."
        "I'm not. This is just how I understand it. The first human was initially supposed to function by himself, or else why would the Creator have brought him to life alone?
        "I don't know what your point is."
        "Yes you do. He was happy for a time, perhaps eons, in solitude, but eventually he needed another, and was paired with a woman. This also worked for a time, but eventually it caused the destruction of the world. They should have stopped after their partnership had served its purpose."
        "So what do you suggest?"
        "That we have our cake and eat it too."
        "And what then?"
        "I'm not sure. Maybe it's supposed to be cyclical."
        "It feels like blasphemy."
        "What?"
        "To suppose God's plan had a flaw, and that you possess the wisdom to correct it."
        "That's not what I said."
        "God also said his purpose for humankind was to fill the earth. Are you suggesting Adam was asexual?"
        "Maybe."
        "Oh please."
        "Maybe babies grew from him like buds and fell off when they were ripe."
        
        She emerges from the bathroom, drenched, smooth, luminous. Like a figurehead on the prow of ship, she cuts a path through the mist and into the clean light. The words of an old French song follow her out into the breakfast nook where he sits drinking coffee. She sees the snow outside and wraps the towel tightly around her body.
        "Feel better?"
        "Much."
        "I love this song."
        "It is a wonderful song."
        A pool is forming at her feet, which are nestled together like birds.
        "Careful," he says, "you might freeze there."
        Beyond their yard a river can be seen, shallow and clear. It descends from the mountains with great speed, as if afraid of something it has seen there. Its waters are always cold. The sun can do nothing. The river refuses its caress, and in the winter, it refuses to be held, moving too swiftly to be clutched.
        It was not long ago, when they waded in those constant, inflexible waters, passing afternoons together in luxurious ignorance of time, their bodies freezing, that she told him. He stood very still afterwards, wanting to embrace her, forestalled by the solemnity of her expression. The trees became calm around them, a sudden indiscreet silence, as though they listened in.
        "Are you not happy?"
        "What are we going to do?"
        "What do you mean?"
        "The Anniversary is in two months."
        He had not forgotten.
        She continued, "I have no intention of backing out of the deal, if that's what you're thinking."
        "Don't we have to?"
        "No. Nothing has changed."
        "Something has changed."
        "No."
        She would move forward then, make a path to the ocean, mingle in deep waters, wash upon another shore, sustain new kinds of life. They remained still for what seemed like hours. The sky was the color of amber. The sun was beginning to descend, slowly, into a pool of honey. And then:
        "That is the happiest rock I have ever seen," she said, the joy in her voice disarming.
        "What?"
        "That rock," she repeated, "I have never seen anything look so happy."
        She pointed it out to him, her laugh delightful, unexpected, pure, dispatching his worry like a messenger. The stone was large and oddly shaped, like a potato. Its features contained the rough likeness of a simple, laughing face. Water broke on it and fell musically.
        "It does look sort of happy."
        "It's hilarious. It is thrilled to be alive."
        
        He is reading the paper. She takes a sip of coffee from his cup. She scrunches up her face.
        "You hate coffee."
        "I know," she says, smiling.
        "I was going to make you tea."
        "And you didn't?"
        "I couldn't remember which one you liked. I was going to wait. Don't you have a favorite?"
        "No. I love them all."
        She touches his hair, the tip of his ear, his cheek. A section of newspaper lies on the floor. She bends to pick it up, places it on the table.
        "Is this new?"
        "No, it's yesterday's. None came today. They probably couldn't make it up the road...I was going to make you breakfast, but, obviously, we don't have any food left in the house."
        "We can go into town."
        "I don't think we can."
        "What do you mean?"
        "The snow."
        "Is it that bad?"
        "Nearly two feet last night."
        They both scrutinize the snow outside, the flakes suddenly beginning to swell and fall with greater weight, holding the future like a seer. They cast unsure gazes over it, as though waiting for it to explain itself.
        "I'll walk to the highway and catch a bus into town later. I'll bring something home."
        "What about the appointment?"
        These words bring him low, drag him by his ankles, break his bones. He feels something separating, like ice suddenly spiderwebbing under his feet. He steps lightly, to save his life.
        "I think we'll have to do it another day."
        She begins to object, but he forestalls her with a glance.
        "We can't today. It's dangerous. What if you fall?"
        He glances significantly at her swollen stomach.
        "Okay. But if the weather looks better later--"
        "Then we'll go later. Right now I think it's a bad idea. We can always reschedule the appointment. I'll take the bus in later and get some things."
          
        The twin, unsteady tracks of a single, intrepid vehicle mar the unbroken, white landscape. Walking to the bus stop he feels brave, chivalrous, overcoming great obstacles. He walks in the deep grooves left by the tires. He falters once, twice, having to reach down and steady himself with both arms, which sink up to his shoulders in a drift. A pair of dogs, barking ecstatically, follow him, plowing through the snow awkwardly, like steam boats.
        "Stay back, boys," he calls to them. They nip each other's ears, muzzles, necks.
        Looking back at the house he sees her, still in her robe, her face small, features unclear, watching from the window. He waves at her. She does not wave back. He decides she does not see him. She stands still, as if being fitted for a dress.
        He climbs into the bus, he pays the driver, who does not smile, and finds a seat easily. The bus is empty. The strong smell of vinyl, of exhaust. He sits in the back, where the long benches, the color of dried blood, face each other from opposite sides of the bus.
        He remembers the first years, the years of content, of easy joy. Their love was true but effervescent, strong but always escaping. They savored their time like a fine meal, knowing always it was being enjoyed at a cost. Perhaps it was the sweeter for it. Perhaps not.
        The bus stops. A young woman, bundled haphazardly, like a snowman built by children, enters and begins scanning the seats as travelers will do with faces in a crowd, looking for something familiar. She latches onto his eyes quickly and hopefully. She sits down, somewhat sheepishly, across from him. They exchange smiles. She is the first to break the silence.
        "Do you ride the bus often?"
        "No, actually. We were snowed in. We live up the mountain."
        "Oh. You are married?"
        She sees the question in his eyes.
        "You said 'we'," she explains.
        "Oh," he says. "Yes."
        She is very young, he guesses fifteen or sixteen. Her face is one of a sufferer, of a Holocaust survivor. Her eyes dark and deep-set. Her skin pale, face somewhat gaunt, malnourished.
        "I've never rode the bus before."
        "Is that so?"
        "Yeah," she says, a small laugh, repressed and unsure, as if rarely used. She settles her hands in her lap, smoothes her red coat over her knees.
        "Do you go to school in town?" he asks.
        "No. I don't go to school anymore. I'm sort of sick."
        "I see. I'm sorry."
        "It isn't your fault."
        She leans in, affecting a look of suspicion.
        "Is it?"
        "No," he answers. Smiles.
        She laughs again, this time clearer, freer.
        "I have an appointment today," she continues.
        "Me too. My wife and I. Or at least we were supposed to. I don't think my wife will be able to make it, though."
        "Is she sick too?"
        "She is pregnant."
        She smiles broadly, a wonderful, surprising smile revealing small, white teeth.
        "Congratulations," she says.
        "Thank you. Today is our anniversary."
        "Congratulations again. How many years?"
        "Not enough," he says, unable to mask the sorrow his words bring him. "Not yet."
        "Well," she says, "here's to never having enough." She lifts up her hand, making an invisible toast.
        The smile leaves his face. He struggles to replace it, to fasten it tight, but fails.
        She makes small adjustments to her hat, rearranges the wisps of dark hair reaching out from under it, growing toward the light of her eyes like wonderful, slender stems.
        He tries to forget.
        "If you don't mind me asking," he says, "what kind of appointment do you have?"
        "Oh, I just have to see my doctor. Again."
        "I'm sorry to hear that."
        "It's not that bad," she says, "I'm used to it. I go all the time."
        "Don't you have someone to go with you?"
        She shakes her head, looks down again at her hands, which are small, a doll's hands. Looking at them, he gets the urge to hold them, to make them warm. He regrets having asked the question, struggles to find something to say, something to correct his mistake.
        "Would you like me to go with you?"
        "Oh, thank you, no," she says. "I'll be fine."
        "I would go with you."
        She studies his eyes a moment before replying.
        "I know. I know you would. Thank you."
        The bus turns, the sunlight moves and shines from behind him, illuminates the girl's face in golden warmth, her eyes soft as a martyr's. She falls asleep. For a long time he watches her, gathering every detail, wanting to remember her.
        The yellow warmth spreading from the back of his neck into his whole body, he soon follows her into sleep.

        He wakes and she is watching him. He rubs his eyes, mildly embarrassed, checks his chin for drool. She continues to look upon him, her eyes stronger than before, focused, intent.
        "I always fall asleep in the sun."
        A small, knowing smile is on her lips, which seem blue, almost purple. He meets her eyes, a little off-guard, his heart beating faster. He is strangely excited, as if a great secret were being revealed to him.
        A look of panic comes into her eyes and leaves just as quickly, is replaced by a horrible emptiness, as if an unseen predator had sneaked in and stolen away what was valuable there and alive. He sees the change, he feels it and is terrified. Though her eyes had not moved from his own, they seemed now to be looking at something far away, vacant as a camera lens.
        "Are you okay?" he asks.
        The bus suddenly lurches, and the girl's body falls over in the seat, slack as a marionette. He stands up, fists clenched at his sides.
        
        From the window she sees him coming up the road, moving indifferently, as if without clear destination, sees him pass the driveway and have to retrace his steps. The sun is waning now, has seen its zenith and had its fill. The earth is beginning to show through the snow, like skin through a tattered garment, like peeling paint. She is still in her robe, a creature of luxury, of warmth, when she rushes out the door to reach him. The snow is melting, but large drifts still survive, clinging to the house, seeking shelter from the sun. Her feet are bare. She calls to him. She falters in the snow. She calls to him. He says nothing but hurries to help her.
        Once inside, she leads him into the light of the living room, the sun coming through the window in a single, charitable column. He lowers himself to his knees and lets his face sink into the folds of her robe. Her feet are red from the cold. He places his hands over them. His tears come all at once, each sob she feels like a wound.
        She touches his hair, the tip of his ear, his cheek.
        "There, there," she says. "I'm not going anywhere."

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