Davy flew through the front door, but not before riling Topsy, who now barked as if to warn us of a monstrous intruder.
“Be quiet, you fluffy mongrel,” I called out, “or you’ll make me sorry I ever rescued you.” I stepped over a pile of toy trucks in the foyer with Topsy fast at my heels. By this time in our lives we’d gathered a menagerie of animals—four cats, two dogs, a bird, and now Davy wanted a snake.
Bill was in his refurbished attic office, typing as fast as his fingers knew how, working on his second novel to pay the bills, which were piling as high as the snow would soon be. The shouting and barking and bedlam must have stirred him from his typewriter, for suddenly there he stood at the bottom of the stairwell.
Douglas cowered, and I reached for his hand. “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “Daddy won’t yell. He’s feeling better.”
Bill’s hands were limp at his side in a posture of defeat. At six foot three inches, my husband often gave me the impression of a reedy tree. His thick, dark hair was swept to the left side like an undulating wave that had collapsed. He was sober now, and his verbal lashings had subsided. AA was doing its job with the Twelve Steps, spiritual sayings, and group accountability.
He pointed at the spilled basket of library books beside the door, then pushed up on his rimless glasses. “You could pick all of that up, you know.”
“I know, sweetie. I will.”
I darted a glance at him. His blue button-down shirt was wrinkled and misbuttoned by one. His blue jeans were loose on him; he’d lost weight over the past months of stress. I, meanwhile, had gained—so much for life being fair.
“I was trying to write, Joy. To get something done in a house so full of disarray I can scarcely focus.”
“Dogs. Kids.” I tried to smile at him. “What a combination.” I walked into the kitchen. I wanted to defuse any anger—the argument that could ensue would be a repeat of a thousand other quarrels, and I wasn’t in the mood. I had a letter, a glimmer of hope in my pocket.
Davy climbed onto a chair and sat at the splintered wooden table and folded his hands to wait. I shook off my coat and draped it on a hook by the door, placing the mail on the kitchen table. Except for the letter. I wanted to read it first. Wanted something to be just mine if only for a small while. I slipped off my gloves and shoved them into the pockets to conceal it. With bare hands I dug into the dirty dishes piled in the sink—another reminder of my inadequacies as a housekeeper—and found the saucepan, crusted with tomato soup from the night before.
This house had once been the fulfillment of a dream. When Bill’s Nightmare Alley was released and Tyrone Power starred in the movie, we’d found ourselves flush with cash for the first time in our lives. It was just enough money to buy this patch of farm upstate. We didn’t know that dreams coming true weren’t always the best thing. That wasn’t what the stories told.
I turned to Davy, my voice full of manufactured cheer. “We might get snow today. Wouldn’t that be great fun?”
“Yes,” he said, swinging his legs back and forth to bang on the underside of the table.
Bill strode into the kitchen and stood by quietly, watching me clean the crusted pot.
“More bills,” he said, rifling through the mail. “Fantastic.”
I felt his eyes upon me and knew they weren’t radiating with love. Love dwindled, but each day I gauged what remained. Companionship? Admiration? Security? At the moment it felt like rage. I lifted the clean pot and wiped it with a green dish towel from the side of the sink, then turned to him with a smile. “Would you like some hot chocolate?”
“Sure.” He sank into a chair next to Davy. “Mommy is going to warm us.”
I opened the old Coolerator—more white coffin than fridge—and stared at the lonely shelves. Wilted lettuce, an open can of last night’s tomato soup, milk, eggs, and a pan of ground beef that had gone the dark, foreboding brown of rancid meat. I needed a trip to the market, which meant another afternoon of writing would be lost. My mood curled over like the spoiled meat, and I hated my selfishness that cared more for the page, the writing, than for my family’s meals. I didn’t know how to change, but oh, I was trying.
I watched as the milk came to a slow boil in the pot; then I poured the chocolate flakes into the white froth, transfixed. Outside, the first snowflake fluttered into view, then melted as it settled on the windowpane; it was a natural wonder and it lifted my heart. The bird feeder hung from a low branch, and a cardinal paused there and turned its black eye on me. Every simple thing radiated for a brief moment with extraordinary beauty, a daily grace.