The Ice Age

by Kirsten Reed

  I nearly jogged to Leo’s mom’s grave. I stood there for what I thought seemed a polite allotment of time to stand graveside. Then I basically ran back.

  Leo was panting and sweating up a storm, and said, ‘Sheesh, you’re fit.’

  I heard Gunther’s car. I caught up with him halfway down the driveway, banged on the passenger side door. There wasn’t any sharp-toothed grinning. He looked very flustered to see me. I leaned in the window.

  ‘Gunther, Leo says this trip to Emily’s is gonna be a total fuckfest.’

  Gunther looked exasperated.

  I added hopefully, ‘I figure he’s just messing with my head…’

  He said, ‘Look, I can’t talk about this now, and I really just want to get on the road.’

  I said, ‘OK,’ but must have looked extremely unimpressed. He was giving me the sort of lame brush-off I could accept from the Neils of the world; from Gunther, it was a little harder to take.

  He softened, but not enough to resemble the Gunther I knew, and launched into a lengthy ramble about how he hates to hurt people. Last week he had been fancy free, he said. He had this encounter with Emily on the horizon, which was cleanly devoid of consequences. No one stood to get hurt. (She just wanted a quick bang or two, by the sounds, which he was only too happy to provide.) He said he was powerless to refuse women at their most vulnerable. Hated to romantically crush them. Gunther said he might be the only free-spirited rogue this chick knew. (Since when was he a rogue? I thought he was a pseudo-celibate vampire, saving himself for a love like mine. That blew me out a bit.) Now he had her, who he cared for, and me, who he cared for, each a potential victim of his manly ability to draw pain. Hence his policy of minimal involvement.

  Then he made a bumpy segue onto the subject of our age difference. He talked about an old pervert or two he’d witnessed over time and said, ‘I don’t want to be that guy.’

  I actually figured he’d feel sort of that way. Even I was slightly funny with it, but in my eyes our perfect love dwarfed all petty concerns and social mores.

  I wanted him to calm down a bit. I said, ‘Yeah, I guess I can see why you might feel that way. It’s not like that didn’t occur to me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He did seem calmer. ‘Well, I better go. I’ll see you when I get back. Sunday at the latest.’

  I said, ‘OK.’

  Well, that certainly turned my world upside down. I stayed calm until Leo came up and patted my shoulder, asking what was wrong. I ran to my room and cried a lot. Then I cleaned myself up for dinner. I wondered if Gunther was coming back, or if he was going to do another disappearing act. It was clear I’d spooked him.

  He’s been gone almost a week. During this time I’ve done enough meditating, from enough different angles, to have possibly achieved nirvana. There was the initial feeling of betrayal, offset by the sheer cruelty of the timing: I had only just entered a blissful state, only just gotten up the nerve and made the decision to bag Gunther. There was the shame of being made to look like a young hussy who’d thrown myself at him. There was the realization that I must feel more for him than he does for me. But I knew that couldn’t be entirely true because of all the magic between us, and cursed him for being a coward. For running from the genuine to the trivial. For staring down our love in all its purity, and giving it the finger. Surely it must be over now. I’d make the announcement upon his return.

  It was during this extended train of thought that Leo and I really began to bond. Let’s face it; I was rebounding. We spent a few nights in my room, kissing and hugging. Then he’d go back to his, to avoid getting caught out by Stan.

  It was nice to have a channel for my desire for closeness, which has risen exponentially since first touching Gunther. On the third night I let him go all the way with me. It was all right. But he just wasn’t Gunther. And I was still thinking.

  It occurred to me that if I really love Gunther the way I think I do, that I have to love him. And this is him. This silly jerk dashing off to possibly fuck this other chick. Otherwise I was just kidding myself; I didn’t love him at all. I thought of all the times I’d disappointed people, all the people who wanted me to be something I wasn’t, who took their love away.

  Then I thought of all the people who I didn’t want much to do with, like the farm boy, for example. What if he’d wanted to get all serious together. I wouldn’t be into that. Then there was the type who robotically projects their own desires onto someone else. I don’t want to be that person, the same way Gunther doesn’t want to be the ageing pervert. The confused old fool; he’s only trying to be true to himself. We are supposed to be free spirits. There isn’t much free-spiritedness in trying to ensnare someone. Maybe we can still be on this crazy adventure together after all, we just need to sort a few things out.

  By the time he got home, after exactly one week, I was ready for him. As luck would have it, Stan and Leopold were out on an overnight fishing trip. I’d stayed home with a ‘headache’. Gunther came home and sat on my bed. I didn’t ask him about Emily. I didn’t want to know, couldn’t speak her name. It was done now, and here we were. He rolled us some joints and we smoked them.

  After about a joint and a half he asked if I was angry about him visiting her. I said no, I wasn’t angry about that. I was angry that he acted like it was his moral duty to fuck her, and if he didn’t he was a bad friend, which was somehow my fault.

  He said, ‘I don’t know about moral duty.’

  I still didn’t want to know. We smoked some more. We decided to go downstairs and watch some TV. Eventually we wound up leaning together, just brushing. His touch was still his touch. We found each other’s hands. Before I knew it I was kissing him again. There was still the element of safety, of slow, lingering, celebratory closeness. I had feared that would be lost. There was a little less of it this time, more of an edge, possibly the knowledge that this glitch hadn’t killed us. This thing between us seemed to have a force of its own. Could it be stopped at all? I pulled him in closer and closer. I sucked his bottom lip into my mouth; I felt I could swallow him, drag him in even deeper; meld. He got his fangs onto my lip and held them there and nipped me, until I was forced to laughingly relinquish my grasp.

  He asked me if I wanted to go to bed. I said yes, I did.

  We curled up facing each other. It was such a relief, the most natural feeling in the world to be encased in that closeness again, with him.

  I said, ‘You didn’t think it was such a bad thing when you had that older woman.’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘So what difference does it make if it’s the girl who’s the youngest?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Are you a sexist, Gunther?’

  And by the heavens, I got a glinty-toothed grin. ‘No, I am not a sexist.’

  I got on top for the first time ever. He had to ask me to slow down. Then he told me I could speed up again. Then he laughed.

  We had ourselves respectable again by the time Leo and Stanley came home. Gunther was frying up some bacon, and I was in the living room reading a home decorating magazine. They all had some bacon. I’m pseudo vegetarian. I find it hard to eat any animal I’ve actually bonded with. I know I’m a softy. And it’s an odd position for someone who would consider sucking the blood of humans as a future lifestyle option. But, you know, you’ve got to follow your calling…

  We left that afternoon. Leo tried to stop me, grabbed my sleeve in the hallway. We nearly had a tug of war with my bag. His face contorted into a ridiculous exaggerated grimace. He looked like one of those tribal masks. He seemed at a loss for words, and only grunted.

  Finally he managed: ‘Stupid old jerk.’

  Bearing in mind I don’t have a poker face, at all, I must have shot him a very filthy look. He changed his tack.

  ‘I love you!’

  Now that is something Gunther and I have never said to each other. Doesn’t seem to be much point. It’s so damn obvious; love is everywhere, surging around us, sweeping u
s up in its awe-inspiring near-religious fervor. What the hell is the point of chattering? It sounded so trivial coming from Leo I was almost insulted.

  ‘Look, just give it up, OK?’ I wrenched my sleeve from his grasp so abruptly I nearly fell backwards.

  His face was contorting even more, as if that was possible. Jeez, it’s not like he doesn’t know Gunther and I are made for each other. I told him all that stuff, before we ever started fumbling around. Leo seemed to be operating under the assumption he had more action coming his way from me, and making a damn scene about it.

  ‘Don’t be a jerk,’ were my parting words.

  ‘Bitch,’ was his.

  Then he burst into tears. Proper baby sobs.

  As Gunther bounced the car down their rocky driveway I asked, ‘How can someone say they love you and then call you a bitch?’

  He raised his eyebrows. He appeared to be forming an answer. Then he stopped and looked about to laugh. He finished off distant and brooding. That was more expressions than he usually makes in a day. He never did answer. And I didn’t press him. I had a hunch I had asked something stupid.

  We drove a little ways in silence. I thought about Leo from a clinical distance—far greater than the few miles we’d covered since his house…So now I can say I made a boy cry. I wonder if that is like being a vampire. Dipping into the world of the living, taking a nibble, ripping off a piece, no bigger than you need. Making someone bleed, then retreating to the solace of your own kind, your own darkness. Leo was so tiny, shrinking into the background. And Gunther and I, growing, enormous. I turned to face the driver’s side. There was a puffy cloud-filled blue sky filling all the car windows. And Gunther, framed in all that brightness, calmly glaring down the road in front of us. That’s Gunther, larger than life.

  It was a relief to have him to myself again. I’d been looking forward to the smoking session in our room. Back to normal. Plus there was all the other stuff we did now. But now here he’d left me alone in the room with the precious typewriter, babysitter. He rolled a joint and walked outside onto the landing with it. I was reading some existentialist crap, and looked up around the time he should’ve handed the joint over to me. Seems he’d wandered off.

  I waited a while and then went downstairs to see if I could find him. As I passed the front desk the manager said, ‘Miss? Message for you.’

  He handed me an envelope. It was fairly thick and chunky. It had the room number scrawled on it in Gunther script. I was filling with dread.

  I walked back across the parking lot toward the room, opening it as I went. It was filled with money, a lot of money by my standards. I couldn’t tell how much, a few hundred maybe. My eyes were filling with tears.

  I couldn’t believe Gunther’d left all that cash lying around with the greasy manager. He had a filthy undershirt and a wet comb-over. Some people seem to think hot weather justifies the absence of any and all fashion sense. That was an affront to common decency, which I’m sure Gunther must have observed. He clearly wasn’t thinking straight. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I got back to the room and had a hasty but thorough look around. He’d left all of his stuff. What a complete asshole he’s being. He’ll have to come back for it. I’ll just wait. In hindsight I can’t believe I didn’t hear the old clunker revving up and pulling out of the lot. Gunther’s car definitely has a major presence. But then, a close personal friend spontaneously bailing on you in the middle of a joint is not customarily something you listen out for. Bastard.

  I sat around in the room some more, up on the huge double bed. I watched a game show. But I wasn’t really watching, of course, I was thinking.

  Gunther is clearly confused, I thought. And he hasn’t really pretended otherwise. He hadn’t pinned any notes to my chest, or left any otherwise conspicuously placed, so he must not have formulated an explanation for this departure. His stuff was here, so it must be temporary. Either that, or he was in that much of a hurry to get away from me. Because, why leave the money if he was coming right back? But I guess leaving the money shows that he does care about me; cares what happens to me, how I get by. I know he probably thinks he’s bad for me, being so much older and all.

  When I thought about it, I’d always put all the moves on him. Sometimes we’d sort of wind up brushing against each other, as I’ve mentioned before. But it was always me who sealed the deal. I would pull him toward me, or slide in closer, or take his hand, his arm, a leg. Sometimes I just had to kiss him. It couldn’t be helped. That must have made it hard for him to exercise his Gunther restraint and distance. Guys just can’t resist the advances of us young chicks, I’m told.

  That must be why he once said, ‘I clearly find you very, very attractive,’ with such a frown on his face.

  He thinks I’m better off on my own, I thought. What an ass. But he is trying to do the right thing, leaving the money for me to make it on my own, and all. I watched some more TV and waited some more.

  As luck would have it, I wound up watching some old Clint Eastwood movie where he plays someone macho in the extreme. This lady’s really hung up on him. He ends up screwing her and flying outta there, leaving a bundle of bills on her nightstand as he goes. Now that changed my perspective on the whole ‘leaving me some cash to get by’ thing. I was in no state to be confronted with a dose of Clint-sized chauvinism. Plus, the feeling I was conducting a stakeout was starting to wear thin. And I was hungry.

  I left a note of my own, on the bed. It was kind of scrawly, too. Normally I have pretty good penmanship, but I was mad:

  Dear Gunther,

  Thanks for the wad of cash. Thanks for making me feel like a fucking whore.

  I was too frustrated and hungry to formulate any further sentiments. And I thought that sufficed. (I don’t have a problem with prostitutes per se, or most people who are judged harshly just for the sake of it, and Gunther knows that. But I think I demonstrated my point.) I went downstairs to the diner and ordered a tuna melt. I ordered a coffee, but then canceled it. It made me feel even more like I was on a stakeout. I got a chocolate milkshake instead. With my new windfall of cash.

  Eating made me feel a little better. I even felt vaguely OK with my potential new-found independence. Although that was a tricky one, because I’d always thought choosing to drift around with Gunther was a matter of independent choice. My first choice; my premium existence. However, being by myself and feeling I could call the shots was slightly comforting.

  The waitress was nice enough. She had long, straight, mousy hair, and had on jeans and a red sweater: pleasant looking. She had that comfortable attractiveness of people who don’t try too hard, aren’t trying to outshine you, but keep themselves up OK. The lack of uniform was disappointing, though. As tacky as they sometimes are, I like uniforms. I like how they make our roles more clearly defined. They make waitresses seem that much more like nurses. I like the feeling I’m being looked after. But uniform or no, she was very attentive, given I was so young and dining alone. But I didn’t want her worrying and thinking I was too young. That sort of thing draws unwanted attention. I was liking my freedom. I left her a good tip and called her ‘doll’ on my way out.

  By now it was completely dark out. I walked past the vending machine and thought about my vending-machine romances. They were little specks of nothing. I wish I could still be called upon to feel something for such basic things. Why can’t I be moved anymore? Sometimes loving Gunther makes everything I see seem so happy and almost funny, like the whole world is a big sunny cartoon. When we’re driving and I’m looking out at fields, horses, cows and crops, farmers, townspeople, other people in cars, I’m filled with the brightness of it all. Then there are times I can’t give a damn for anything that isn’t Gunther. It may as well be gray lumpy cold porridge. I don’t care if it’s people, or places, or time even.

  The room was exactly as I left it, only darker. The thank-you note was there on the bed. Gunther’s things were just as I left them. This was no real surprise. I caught my
self in the mirror. I looked small and scared. And sad. I looked like a little rabbit in headlights. I switched on the TV. I watched something funny and didn’t laugh. I rolled a joint. (Had he even packed spare underpants?) It occurred to me Gunther might be in trouble. It was weird how everything was still here. Except him. Something was wrong.

  He’s always been a weirdo, though. He moves in mysterious ways. And it’s hard for me to judge these situations objectively, because, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I find his absence very wrong, full stop.

  I smoked my joint and channel surfed. I felt a little better. I’m not one of those people who wigs out on pot if they’re feeling iffy. I guess I must associate it with the comforting rituals of Gunther and me. I was getting hazy and thought I could almost feel him again, out there, OK.

  I watched a documentary on climate change. They’d assembled a group of experts who maintained that global warming was actually going to bring on an instant ice age. In our lifetime, probably. They bored down into the bottom of the ocean and brought up mud samples in chronological layers, like rings on a tree trunk. They could tell from the samples every time the Gulf Stream stopped flowing. Apparently when that happens there’s an ice age, because the warm waters can’t move warmth around the world. So places get cold and stay cold. And the Gulf Stream stops when there’s not enough salt to sink down and force its current. As the earth warms up, the icebergs melt, filling the oceans with enough fresh water to thin out the salt until there’s not enough of it to sink down and make the Gulf Stream flow.

  I pictured Gunther and me sitting in a little shack, with a fire blazing around us. That didn’t seem so bad. I wondered if it would still be worth his turning me into a vampire and living together indefinitely in those harsh conditions. That seemed all right, still. Independence lost any and all of its positive qualities. There’s no pride in spending an ice age by yourself. That was for Gunther and me. Huddling for warmth with Gunther. That’s the only way to go. I think I pretty much do that anyway. I need him near when this ice age hits. Need to know where to find him.