As Simple as Snow (32 page)

 

I called my brother and asked him if I could come and stay for the summer, or longer. “Absolutely,” he said. “Getting out of there might be just what you need. Mom and Dad could drive anybody crazy. They’re fine with you coming down?”

“They won’t even notice I’m gone,” I said. I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t talked to them about it. With any luck I’d be there before he could say anything.

“There’s a ton of stuff to do here, and all of us want you to come. You can stay as long as you like.”

It was easy. Why should I stay? My parents didn’t seem to care whether I was around or not; the whole town didn’t seem to care. If by some miracle Anna came back, I could come back then too. But what were the chances of that? Maybe she was somewhere else, living a different life as a different person, filling in her notebooks with the names and dates and deaths of a whole other town. Maybe she was in Louisiana right now, recording the deaths of one person after another. Maybe when she was done, our paths would cross or she would contact me. It was a fantasy, but there was nothing left for me here anyway, and who knows what was waiting for me in Louisiana? All I had to do was step on and off a plane and everything might be different. It was easy.

I left. I was gone.

I didn’t pack that much, only a small suitcase of clothes and a backpack with a few books and Anna’s notebooks. If I decided to stay, my parents could ship the rest of my stuff. There was nothing I needed, even the shortwave could wait. I could use my brother’s computer. Or just do without it. Now that I was leaving, it seemed so easy. Maybe that’s why Anna had left, because it was the easy thing to do.

I took the photograph Carl had given me—it was the only photo of Anna and me together, and it wasn’t even real, me with a dumbfounded look on my face, and the ghostly image of Anna hovering over my shoulder—and the first postcard she had given me, the one with the photo of Pancho Villa on the front and the Ambrose Bierce quotation on the back. After writing those lines he had disappeared, vanished into the thin air of Mexico or who knows where. I could vanish too, step off the plane and disappear into the crowd.

I fantasized about stealing a car, to get me to the airport, or taking my mom’s car and driving all the way to Louisiana. I wanted to disappear, leave without anyone’s knowing. But I also wanted to leave something behind, to keep everyone guessing. I thought about taking a canoe down the river about sixty miles, where I could walk to a train station. Then I’d get the train to the city and go to the airport. I still had the money Carl had left me. I would leave the canoe on the shore and be gone. I would defy gravity and fall off the face of the earth, just as Anna had done. It wasn’t as dramatic as an empty dress and a hole in the ice, but it was the wrong season for that, and I would still get out of here. People could still wonder what had happened; they could worry and look for me. They might think I had drowned in the river, or been kidnapped, taken against my will. Or they might think I had simply run off. Maybe they would think that I’d met up with Anna and we were finally together again, that it had been planned all along. She and I would be forever linked, both of us mysteriously disappearing into the river, or not. There would be questions and doubt. They would remember us both forever.

In the end, I simply told my parents that I was going. I came down for breakfast, and they were both sitting over their empty grapefruit halves and full cups of coffee, just sitting quietly, waiting for something to happen. “I’m going to spend the summer with Paul,” I said.

My father said he couldn’t afford it, and when I told him he didn’t have to worry about it, he was fine with the idea. That was the only obstacle. My mother came over and gave me a hug, but she didn’t protest. It was easy. It was certainly easier than some scheme of sneaking out of town on a canoe like Huck Finn. All I had to do was get in the backseat of the Volvo, and my parents drove me out of town.

“Anything you want to see before we leave?” my father asked.

I had to think about it. What was there left to see? Finally I said, “Gurney’s.”

We drove by on the way out of town, even though it wasn’t on the way at all. Derek and Erick were there, one of them pumping gas and the other sitting on a folding chair next to Mr. Hathorne in the dim coolness of the garage. Both of them were drinking Cokes and watching the road, waiting for traffic. They all waved as we drove past; my father slowed, and he and my mother waved back. A second later we were out of town, and even though they were out of sight, I could still see them waving, their arms raised high and happy, a shiny excitement on their faces, glad to see somebody they knew.

 

 

 

My brother is going to pick me up at the airport. He’ll be surprised when he sees me in my black jeans and black T-shirt. I’m a completely different person, more like Bryce than myself. Maybe I’ll shave my head; maybe I’ll dye my hair blond. No one knows me, so no one knows what to expect. I can have whatever past I want; I can forget how I used to be. It seems like it’s all just remembering and forgetting. Things happen so fast, and then they’re gone before you notice them. Events ambush you from out of nowhere, blindside you, and then you have to spend the time afterward trying to remember or forget what the hell it all was to begin with. The more you think about it, the more the events crumble, crack, break down, or refuse to change at all. They’re either pieces of ice in your hand, changing shape and melting away until they’re nothing like what they were to begin with, or pieces of glass, sharp and irritating, unchanging, reminders of pain and unpleasantness—or happiness.

I know absolutely nothing about where I’m going. I’m fine with that. I’m happy about it. Before, I had nothing. I had no life, no friends, and no family really, and I didn’t really care. I had nothing, and nothing to lose, and then I knew loss. What I cared about was gone; it was all lost. Now I have everything to gain; everything is a clean slate. It’s all blank pages waiting to be written on. It’s all about going forward. It’s all about uncertainty and possibilities. I have Anna to thank for that. I wouldn’t be here, flying into the future, unafraid, if it hadn’t been for her. Whether she meant to or not, she prepared me for this. I will be like her—the two of us gone wandering.

Back home they’ll be wondering whether I ran off to find her; some will say that I did. Others will have nothing good to say; let them say it. In a few hours I’ll be the new kid in town, with the neighbors lined up along the street, waiting for me as I arrive at my new home. I’ll be the new kid in school. Who knows, I might even be popular for a change. I could be. I could be a question, just like Anna—open-ended, curling around the answer without ever delivering it. I could be whoever I want to be. I could go out for the football team, I could become a drug dealer, or I could be the new kid all dressed in black. I could be mysterious and have secrets. I could send out letters and postcards and art. I could take people down to the basement and let them listen to the secrets coming over the shortwave. There’s a lot that I know. Anna didn’t teach me everything, but she gave me a good start. There’s a lot I can use. I could play games. I have the very last song she put on the last CD running through my head. Is that what she wanted to leave me with? My life is meant for joy? She always knew what she was doing. Maybe I will too, finally. This could be the best thing that’s ever happened.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
(with apologies to Harry and Bess)

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READERS GUIDE TO as simple as snow

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. Why does the author leave the narrator of the story unnamed, but tells us that he was named after his mother’s brother who had died at thirteen? What clue does Anna give the reader about what the narrator’s name might be?

2. Anna mentions the legendary escape artist and illusionist Houdini on several occasions. What about Houdini fascinates her? How does she ultimately emulate him?

3. The first time the narrator visits Anna’s house, he finds a Bible on Anna’s nightstand in which she has underlined the following passage: “And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly; I perceived that this also is vexation of the spirit. For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” The narrator finds a card in his locker with the same inscription, after Anna’s disappearance. Why was the passage so relevant to Anna? What might it say about her relationship with the narrator?

4. Why is Anna so fascinated with obituaries? Do you think she was telling the truth when she tells the narrator that her obituaries have come true? Do the obituaries serve another purpose besides describing each person’s life and death?

5. Who caused Anna’s bruises? Why does she lie to the narrator about them?

6. What was Anna’s relationship to Bryce Druitt? Why do you think she ran his car into the bridge? Why did Bryce also have a box full of things that Anna had sent him? Why did he know about the obituary that the narrator had received in the mail after Anna’s disappearnce?

7. Where did the condom wrapper that Anna’s father found come from? Do you think she planted it, and if so, why? Did she have another lover? What evidence supports or refutes this possiblity?

8. Why do you think the narrator’s sister Joan abandoned the family, avoiding contact with anyone? Why would she not at least contact her brothers?

9. Why was Anna so adamant that the narrator write a ghost story? Was that the real reason Anna wanted to visit Mumler? Was it coincidence that she walks across the ice?

10. What did Anna know about Mr. Devon and why does she dislike him? The narrator finds a letter from Anna when he’s helping Mr. Devon clear out his office for the summer. What does the letter reveal about Anna’s possible connection to Mr. Devon? Do you think his explanation about the letter is the truth? Do you think he’s told the truth about the fire that killed his girlfriend?

11. Why do the narrator’s parents relate so poorly to each other and their children? Does it have something to do with the loss of their daughter, Denise? How do they each try to reach out to the narrator after Anna’s disappearance?

12. What do you think actually happened to Anna? Interpret the evidence she left behind—does it support the idea that she killed herself, was murdered, or the theory that she ran away? What scenario does what she wrote in the narrator’s obituary suggest?

13. Early in the book the narrator says, “I’m bland. I’m milk. Worse, I’m water.” How has his opinion of himself changed by the end of the book? What has he come to realize about himself, and what does he credit for the change?