Something Like Winter (3 page)

“
Too bad we can’t move
there,” he said. “Couldn’t Dad commute to work from Mexico
City?”

Ella’s eyes lit up with the
idea, and she laughed. Then the driver’s side door opened, and her
head turned back to her husband. His parents haggled over the
choice of fast-food restaurants, Tim forgotten until it came time
to order. He wanted his burger without pickles or onions, and when
they got to the window, they were told to pull forward to wait
while their order was prepared. His father’s eyes met his again in
the rearview mirror, seeming to blame him for the inconvenience,
until Ella filled the silence.

“
We have to pray before we
keep travelling.”

“
We did before we left.”
Tim complained.

“
And it got us this far
safely.”

Ella closed her eyes and
bowed her head, her husband doing the same as she launched into her
favorite Spanish prayer. Tim watched her. She wasn’t pushy about
religion. Her devotion was so strong that she assumed everyone
shared her belief. No one needed to be converted to Catholicism
because in her mind, everyone already belonged to God, one way or
another.

Even when Tim refused to go
to church anymore, she simply said she would pray for them
both—that God was always with him no matter where Tim did or didn’t
go. To his mom, even the interior of an SUV could become a church,
the beige leather seats transformed into pews, the dashboard an
altar.

What the hell. Just for
her, Tim closed his eyes and bowed his head.

* * * * *

The rhythm of the tires
changed, Tim jarring awake in response. He smacked his mouth and
pulled his head away from the puddle of drool. Not the best
treatment for leather seats, but oh well. The car stopped, the turn
signal clicking. With any luck, they had finally arrived. His
mother kept murmuring how beautiful it all was. Tim remained
reclined until his head cleared and his hard-on subsided. Then he
sat up and took in his new home town.

The Woodlands. The name
sounded like a country club, not a city. What sort of place started
with “The”? Inspiration for the name was obvious: trees, trees, and
more trees. Aside from the occasional shopping center sign, they
could have been in the middle of a forest.

“
Doesn’t look like much is
here,” Tim said loud enough to be heard in the front
seat.

“
There’s plenty,” his
father responded. “It’s all behind the trees. I couldn’t find a
thing the first time I visited. The offices are just through
there.”

The street split off to the
right, and for a moment they could glimpse a parking lot and a
generic office building before the camouflage of trees returned. As
they drove farther into town, they saw some areas that were more
exposed. Man-made lakes, for instance, nestled up against parks and
housing developments.

One thing was for sure—and
Tim hoped this was the last time the damned saying would spring to
mind—he wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Everything here was flat, the
horizon hidden. The sensation was almost claustrophobic, but he
soon took to the idea. He had wanted to flee his former life. What
better place to hide than a city that couldn’t be seen?

The neighborhood they
pulled into fit the anonymous theme, its houses soullessly new.
Some didn’t appear lived-in yet, a handful still under
construction.

“
¡Muy
hermosa!
”
his
mother said in approval as they pulled into a driveway. The
three-car garage meant room for both cars—once Ella’s was
transported down—and his father’s boat. To the left, entryway
windows stretched up to the second story, a huge iron lamp hanging
over the front porch. For one
Twilight
Zone
moment, the house looked so similar to
their previous home in Kansas that Tim thought they had retuned
there. He knew this one didn’t have a pool, which sucked, but he
hoped his room and the studio space in the basement were
decent.

He helped his dad get the
luggage out of the back and followed him to the garage entrance.
Tim expected the inside of the house to be hollow like the one they
had left behind. Instead he found a half-furnished home. A dining
room table without chairs was already decorated with fabric
placemats and a floral centerpiece, even though no one could sit
there.

The other rooms were in a
similar state. The living room had curtains and a couch, but
nothing else. Toward the back of the house, down a hallway and past
the guest bathroom was another room with a leather sofa that
smelled new. A big-screen TV dominated one wall. To the side, a
built-in mini bar was just begging for someone to mix a
cocktail.

“
Please tell me this is my
room,” Tim said as his mother entered.

“
Uh-uh. This is your
father’s den, as he calls it.” She snorted. “Like he’s a
bear.”

“
So where’s my
den?”

“
Upstairs, first on the
left.” Ella considered the walls and tsked impatiently. “The
decorators didn’t hang a single thing!”

He left his mother to fuss
over some frames leaning in one corner. Returning to the front of
the house, Tim grabbed his suitcase and sprinted up the stairs.
Everything had that brand-new feel only found in model homes.
Nothing had been used yet, like all of this was part of some weird
museum exhibit, forever preserving what life was like in nineteen
ninety-six.

Tim checked the other rooms
first. The largest was obviously the master bedroom, another had a
stylish writing desk in it, and one was completely empty. Finally,
Tim went to his room, feeling more excited about the move as he
opened the door. Inside was a bed, already fully made, and an
entertainment center/dresser combo where his TV should fit. One
long window provided a view of the backyard, and best of all, he
had direct access to his own bathroom. No more darting through the
hall in a towel every morning.

Tim sat on the bed. For the
first time in his life, he had a blank slate. He could reinvent
himself, become something more. His life was the canvas now, empty
and begging for lines and color, direction and depth. This room, a
simple space and four walls, would be the center of his new world,
beyond it a city and people unknown to him. No more familiar
streets burdened with names of old friends and tired memories. Just
fresh potential for him to breathe in and revitalize himself with.
Tim was on the verge of something exciting and new. Life would be
better, more than it had been before.
He
would be better.

Tim sprang off the bed and
swung his suitcase onto the mattress. He dialed in the combination,
the locks clicked open, and the suitcase opened to a whiff of air
from another state. Hello, Kansas. Goodbye, Kansas. Opening a
dresser drawer, he started shoveling in his clothes, taking extra
care when he got to the T-shirt with the porn magazines wrapped
inside. Not wanting the movers to discover them, Tim had packed
them himself, but now he felt seedy unloading smut from his
suitcase, like a desperate travelling salesman. Something about a
long drive always made him horny, probably the constant vibration
of the road. In fact, he wouldn’t mind a quick—

The door to his room
opened. In one smooth motion, Tim tossed the contraband-stuffed
shirt into the drawer and shut it. His mom strolled in none the
wiser and gave a cursory inspection.

“
I told them the cranberry
comforter, not brown. Why in the world would the decorators choose
brown? Cranberry would have looked so nice next to your dark hair.”
Ella’s gaze swiveled between Tim and the comforter, trying to
decide if they matched or not. Depending on how expensive the
comforter was, Tim wasn’t sure if it would go or he
would.

“
Hey, where’s the basement
door?” he asked. “I want to check out my studio space.”

His mother shook her head
distractedly. “There aren’t any basements down here.”

“
What? Why wouldn’t they
have basements?”

Ella looked puzzled.
“Because there aren’t as many tornados, I guess. No tornados, no
need to hide in the basement like rats.”

“
Well, where am I going to
paint?” Tim huffed.

“
We’ll find you a
space,
Gordito,
don’t worry.”

“
What about the empty room
up here?”

“
Don’t be silly. That’s the
guest room. Your old bed is going in there.”

Tim stared at her. When did
they ever have guests? His parents didn’t have friends, aside from
his father’s business associates and their spouses. None of them
would stay over for some sort of grown-up slumber party. He tried
picturing his father having a pillow fight with some other old guy
in a business suit and couldn’t.

“
If they think that’s
cranberry, they’re color blind,” his mother said, her attention
back on the bed.

Tim spotted his jogging
clothes in the suitcase and grabbed them. If he wasn’t going to
find release sexually, this was the next best thing. He went
downstairs to the guest bathroom, which was completely bare and
should be safe from his mother’s inspections, and stripped off his
clothes. After flexing his muscles in the mirror to satisfy his
inner narcissist, he pulled on the navy shorts and gray Kansas
University tank top. He made a note to toss the shirt in the trash
later, rather than the laundry hamper. Then he sat on the toilet
and slipped on his blue running shoes. Half a minute later, Tim was
outside pounding pavement.

This. Oh god, this! There
was nothing that made him feel so centered, so calm, as running
did. Not at first, of course, but as he warmed up and his breath
found the right rhythm, all his worries melted away. He’d heard
people talk about endorphins, and maybe that was part of it, but
there had to be more. Jogging was like meditation on the go. How
monks could meditate while sitting on their butts, Tim had no clue.
He needed to move, his body completely occupied, skin covered with
sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. Only then could silence fill
his soul.

He slowed to a trot, almost
unwillingly, and stopped. Between two houses was a paved trail a
bit wider than the average sidewalk. In the summer dusk, he
couldn’t see much except the path leading into the shadow of trees
ahead. Fences lined either side, meaning it couldn’t belong to the
neighboring homes. Still panting, Tim ran toward the darkness to
see what he would find.

* * * * *

What Tim discovered over
the next month is that the trees of The Woodlands hid more than
just buildings. Winding throughout the city like a miniature
network of roads were bike paths—as the natives called them—that
snaked through neighborhoods, connecting everything from shopping
centers to public parks.

Tim explored them with
caution. The only downside to the bike paths going everywhere was
that if he wasn’t careful, he could end up anywhere. Those nearest
his home led to a small park—not much more than a playground and a
small lake. Tim always began by jogging around this body of water,
returning the same way. Each time he would run a little farther,
explore the paths a bit more before retracing his steps. If he
tired of a route, he would choose a different fork and begin
again.

With his things unpacked,
his room set up, and summer drawing to a close, Tim found himself
glad that school was starting soon, if only for the chance to
socialize. Exploring his new surroundings was becoming dull, and
with both his parents working, Tim longed for something
more.

Of course, he still
couldn’t paint. A week before his birthday, Tim decided he’d had
enough. He set up an easel in the guest room and grabbed a canvas
he had made a rough sketch on. No one had been in this room since
his mother finished decorating it. His hands shook with excitement
as he squeezed paint on to the palette, but grew steady again when
he dipped in his brush. Sometimes he worked cautiously, every
stroke bringing his vision into reality. That had been his
intention today, but as soon as the brush touched canvas, his joy
was too great.

Like fevered sex after a
long period of abstinence, Tim gave into instinct, letting passion
dictate his every move. He started with greens, browns, and whites,
thinking of the trees he’d been running past and the way light
filtered through their leaves. Then he went for purple, just for
the sheer hell of it, dragging it through this world of branches
over and over again and creating segments, each separated by dark
borders like stained glass. A forest of stained glass… stained
wood. He liked that.

“
Tim.”

He spun around. Usually his
mom was the first one home, but not today. His father eyed the
surroundings, the mess Tim had made, everything but the painting
itself. “Your mother is going to be furious.”

And that was that. Thomas
left the room, not needing to say more. Tim looked around, noticing
paint splatters on the carpet. He should have put down newspaper
first.

“
It’s not like anyone ever
comes in here!” Tim shouted after him, but there was no
reply.

He considered the painting
once more. For a first try, it wasn’t bad. He’d have to go over the
purple with midnight blue to pull in the theme of sky, but it had
potential… if he ever found a place to finish it.