Light on Snow (7 page)

I leave my father and walk back into the house and into the kitchen, where I make myself a cup of hot chocolate. I stick an English muffin into the toaster and have an image of my mother mixing up a bowl of cottage cheese and peanut butter. Just the day before, I had a memory of my mother in her garden, bent straight over, her legs tanned, her shorts riding high on her thighs. My father was on the John Deere, headed toward my swing set. Because he was staring at my mother (trying, I think now, to get a good look at her from the front), he mowed right into the swing set, the prow of the John Deere catching on a swing and riding it up into the air. My father leapt off backwards and rolled out of the way. The engine cut out as he fell, but when he stood the mower was still stuck in the swing, its nose pointed skyward. My mother began to laugh, putting the back of her hand to her mouth.

And last night I had a memory of my mother lying beside my father on their bed, the loose strap of the slip in which she slept revealing part of an engorged breast. They were talking softly so as not to wake Clara, barely a week old, in a cot next to the bed. What had they been talking about? Why had I gone into the room? I can’t remember. As they whispered, a stain began to blossom on my mother’s slip, the milk leaking with surprising fluidity, an enormous flowering. I remember my mother’s hand going to her breast and her whispering to my father,
Oh, Rob; oh, look.

In the kitchen I smell smoke. The English muffin is stuck in the toaster. I pull the plug, remove the muffin with a fork, and Frisbee the charred puck into the sink.

I hear a knock then, and I think it’s a branch tapping against the side of the house. Then I hear the human rhythm: three taps, a pause. Another three. Another pause. I think it might be the detective again, and I wonder if I should say my father isn’t home. But what if the detective just barges through and finds out I am lying? Can I be prosecuted for lying to an officer of the law? I move to the cloakroom and open the door.

A couple stands on the steps, and I see behind them that it has begun snowing lightly. The woman has large, square glasses with blue-tinted frames and a hairdo one can’t come by in the entire state of New Hampshire: sleek and thick and blunt cut. She wears glossy lipstick the color of cherries that matches her leather gloves. She has on a white down jacket she clearly hasn’t bought at L. L. Bean. The man unzips his black ski parka, smiles, and says, “We heard down at the antiques store that someone called Mr. Dillon makes furniture that looks like Shaker. Are we in the right place?”

I say, yes, they are, but I am puzzled. Hasn’t it been more than a week since Sweetser told the couple about my father’s furniture? Where have they been in the meantime? In a time warp? I tell them to come inside because of the snow and that I’ll be right back. I have to get my father, I add.

“Dad,” I say when I reach his shop, “there are two people here who want to see your furniture.”

I’ve interrupted him in the middle of the glue-up. He shakes his head vigorously, as if to say,
For heaven’s sake, Nicky, not now.

“I’ll take them to the front room,” I offer.

The man and the woman stomp the snow from their boots onto the mat. I tell them that my dad will be with them soon, and that I’ll take them to see the furniture. The woman glances over at the man and smiles, as if to say,
Isn’t she cute?

We walk through the kitchen and the dining room that is now a den. We pass the room my father and I never enter, the room that is like a shrine. I show them into the front room, where the furniture is: two straight-back chairs; three small tables; a low, square cocktail table; a walnut dining table; an oak bookcase; and a small cabinet.

“My goodness,” the woman says.

“I see what the man at the antiques store meant,” the man says. “This looks very much like Shaker.”

“Simple but beautiful,” the woman says.

“Good finish,” the man says.

I wonder if they are complimenting my father’s work for my benefit; if when I leave the room, negative comments will emerge. When people come to look at the furniture, my father almost always excuses himself and goes outside for a smoke. He hates being a salesman. Customers usually come in pairs—couples from Massachusetts or New York looking to take something back with them to the house or the apartment, something to remember the weekend or the vacation by. I am idly thinking about how to bug the showroom when my father enters, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sorry about that,” he says as he crosses the threshold.

My father hasn’t shaved, and he hasn’t cut his hair. The lids of his eyes are pink-rimmed. Oh God, has he been crying? No, I tell myself, it’s the glue; his eyes are pink because of the fumes. He’s covered with sawdust, and he looks, frankly, frightening.

There’s a moment of silence. Two moments anyway. Enough to make me look over at the man, who is staring at my father, and then over at my father, who is staring back at him.

“Robert?” the man asks.

“Steve,” my father says.

The two men advance to shake each other’s hand.

“I heard you’d moved somewhere in New England,” Steve says in a disbelieving voice, as if he cannot credit what he is seeing. “I just never thought . . . Virginia, this is Robert Dillon. We used to work together in the city.”

Virginia steps forward and shakes my father’s hand. His hand is rough and callused, and I know it smells of turpentine.

“This is my daughter, Nicky,” my father says.

“We’ve met,” Steve says, smiling in my direction. “She showed us in.”

There’s another moment of silence.

“Well,” Steve says. “Your work is beautiful. Just beautiful. Isn’t it, Virginia?”

“Yes,” Virginia says. “Very beautiful. The man at the antiques store was right. It bears a strong resemblance to Shaker.”

I glance at my father, and his face makes my stomach feel hollow.

“Listen,” Steve says, putting his hand to his forehead. “I just wanted to say . . . I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was. About . . . you know.”

My father gives a quick shake of his head.

“You remember,” Steve says to his girlfriend or his wife. “I told you about the man whose wife and baby . . . ?”

“Oh! Oh, yes!” Virginia says in a gush of comprehension. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she adds. “It must have been so hard.”

My father is silent. Virginia clutches her pocketbook to her chest. Steve clears his throat and looks around the room.

“Are you still with Porter?” my father asks.

“No, I’m on my own now,” Steve says with apparent relief at the change of subject. “I bought two condos in a building on Fifty-seventh Street a year ago.” He pauses. “Worth twice what I paid for them already. We live in one, and I use the other for an office. I’ve got three guys working for me.”

“Phillip still at the old place?” my father asks.

“Phillip,” Steve says, shaking his head, as if he can’t just now remember who Phillip is. “Oh, Phillip,” he says. “No, Phillip’s moved on. To San Francisco.”

“Well,” my father says.

“Well,” Steve says.

The silence that follows is a white noise inside my head.

“Are you up here for a vacation?” my father asks after a time.

“Yes,” Steve says, once again looking relieved. “We’re skiing different mountains. We went up to Loon and to Sunday River. Over to Killington. Where else did we go, Virginia? We’re headed home on Friday. Taking advantage of the early snow this year, you know, before the Christmas crowds.” Next to my father, Steve looks polished to a high sheen. “How about you? You do any skiing?”

“Used to,” my father says.

“I do,” I say simultaneously.

“We mostly snowshoe now,” my father says. “In the woods.”

Steve glances toward the window, as if searching for the woods. “Snowshoeing,” he says, considering. “Like to try that sometime.”

“Yes,” Virginia says. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”

“Must be quite a workout,” Steve says.

“It can be,” my father says.

“So,” Steve says, glancing around the room again. “We’ve been looking for a cocktail table. And I think, Virginia, we just might have found what we’re looking for.” He moves to my father’s table and runs his hand along the finish. I’m wondering if Steve and Virginia would be at all interested in the table if it weren’t my father’s, if my father hadn’t lost his wife and baby, if my father didn’t look as though he was on his last dime.

“What kind of wood is this?” Steve asks.

“Cherry,” my father says.

“So it’s this color naturally,” Steve says. “Not a stain.”

“No, it’s natural. It’ll darken up over time.”

“Really. What kind of finish is this?”

“Wax over polyurethane,” my father says.

“What grade are you in?” Virginia asks, taking a ChapStick out of her pocketbook and running it across her lips.

“I’m in seventh grade,” I say.

She smacks her lips together. “So you’re . . .”

“Twelve.”

“That’s a good age,” she says, dropping the ChapStick in her purse. “What are you going to do over Christmas vacation?”

I think a minute. “My grandmother is coming,” I say.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Virginia says, slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “My grandmother used to make pfeffernusse at Christmastime. Do you know what that is?”

I shake my head.

“So what’s the damage?” Steve asks my father.

“They’re heavenly,” Virginia says. “They’re rolled cookies made with honey and spices and then dusted with confectioners’ sugar.”

My father clears his throat. He hates discussing money under the best of circumstances. “Two-fifty,” he says quickly.

I glance sharply up at him. I know the table has been priced at $400. I’ve studied the price list, tucked inside each of the two hundred brochures he had printed up on Sweetser’s advice. My father hasn’t given away more than twenty of them. Sweetser argued with him about the pricing, insisting that my father was quoting figures that were too low.

“These are good,” Sweetser said. “How many hours did you put into that table?”

“That’s irrelevant,” my father said.

“Not irrelevant if you want what’s coming to you.”

My father won the argument, and he thinks his prices fair now, even modest. My father is living on the money from the sale of the house in New York as well as my parents’ savings. Still, though, selling the table for $250 is like giving it away.

“Sold,” Steve says.

There is movement then, and tasks, and a discussion about the logistics of fitting the table in the couple’s car versus having it sent. In the end it’s agreed that my father will have the table shipped collect. Discreetly, Virginia writes a check and lays it on an end table.

We all walk to the back hallway. The couple zip up their parkas and shake my father’s hand. “Good seeing you,” Steve says.

“Good meeting you,” Virginia says to my father and me.

“You know, maybe we could get together,” Steve says. “Go out for dinner or have a drink. We’re staying at the Woodstock Inn until Friday. How about I give you a call?”

My father nods slowly. “Sure,” he says.

“You got something to write on?” Steve asks. “I’ll take your number.”

My father disappears into the kitchen.

This ought to be good,
I am thinking.

“Would you like to see my mural of ski mountains?” I ask on a sudden impulse. Almost no one except my father and grandmother and Jo has seen it.

“Oh, yes, we’d love to,” Virginia says. “Where is it?”

“In my bedroom,” I say.

I turn and walk, trusting they will follow me. They do, peppering me with questions. Do I like living in Shepherd? Do I miss New York? Do I play any sports at school? I begin to regret the invitation when I notice the package of toilet paper rolls wedged between the railings on the stairs. I’ve left a wet towel on the landing, and I can see that the bathroom is a mess, with tissues on the lip of the sink and another towel draped over the toilet. My father and I clean the house on Saturday mornings; by Tuesday it’s a mess. I wait for Virginia and Steve to climb the stairs. As we pass my father’s room, I have the presence of mind to shut his door, preventing the couple from seeing the unmade bed and the laundry basket on the floor. By the time we reach my bedroom, I deeply regret my stupid idea. I haven’t made my bed, my flannel pajamas are on the floor, and there’s an empty Ring Ding package on my bedside table. Worse, a pair of underpants is hooked over a chair post.

“Oh, it’s fabulous,” Virginia says.

“You’re quite an artist,” Steve says.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Virginia says.

“What kind of paint did you use?” Steve asks.

I see the mural then for what it is: a poorly executed and primitive panorama of the three northern New England states, Canada glowing pinkly near the ceiling,
Massachusetts
spelled wrong and ineptly corrected with black paint, the peaks lime-colored where they’ve been overpainted white to signal that I’ve skied the mountain.

“You must be quite a skier,” Steve says.

“Maybe you and your dad will come skiing with us,” Virginia says in a voice I wouldn’t use on a three-year-old.

I pocket the underpants.

“Is that a chalet?” Steve asks.

“Oh, look, Steve—Attitash!” Virginia says.

I move toward the doorway.

“You’ve got your father’s talent,” Steve says. “Maybe you’ll be an architect like he was.”

“I’m going down,” I say.

“It’s a shame he had to give it up.” Steve pauses. “Not that the furniture isn’t terrific, too.”

“Was my dad good at it?” I ask.

“The best,” Steve says. “He was a beautiful draftsman. Not all architects are.”

“Oh,” I say.

“It’s probably why his furniture has such a nice line,” he adds.

“Beads!” Virginia exclaims. “You make necklaces!”

We meet my father in the back hallway. Steve takes the piece of paper from him and waves it in the air. “I’ll give you a call,” he says.

I watch the couple walk to their car through the thickening snow. I notice that they don’t speak to each other while Steve makes a three-point turn, a dead giveaway they’re waiting until they’re out of sight. They both smile on cue as they take off down the driveway.