Come Together, Fall Apart

by Cristina Henriquez

  THE BOX HOUSE AND THE SNOW

  Their house was a box. It was a perfect house. It was the father’s favorite thing in the world. No one else he knew had a house quite like it and no one, he thought, ever would again. It was the sort of place that should go on the National Register of Best Houses, if such a thing existed. And if it didn’t exist, it should be invented to honor this one house.

  They lived in a valley between two mountains. There were forty-two other houses in their modest valley town. There were once forty-three other houses, but a few years earlier a whipping windstorm had its way with one of them and toppled it into a pile of match-sticks and glass. The man whose house had fallen had built the house himself, a feat he often boasted of at length to everyone in the town. So when it crumbled, though they were nothing but kind and supportive to his face, the people in the town whispered behind the man’s back about how embarrassing it was that the house had collapsed like a bad soufflé, and they laughed with derision and agreed that the man’s pridefulness had been met with just punishment. The father was among those whispering and laughing and agreeing, though it scared him to recognize a bit of himself in the man, since the father, too, was buoyed by pride. But when he confessed this fear to his wife, she assured him that there was a difference between arrogant pride and joyous pride, and that the father possessed the latter, which was the acceptable variety. The father felt better. He even hired a photographer to take a picture of him and his wife and their daughter in front of their perfect house, to commemorate his joyous pride.

  The valley town was huddled in the middle of a tropical country. The people there were used to air that never dropped below eighty degrees, air that was sticky and warm every year of their lives. So they were more than a little surprised when, one April morning, they encountered a curious white substance covering nearly everything they could see. The substance was snow.

  Later, this is the story they would collectively decide upon, the legend they would pass down to their children and their children’s children: The snowstorm came at night while everyone was sleeping. The world was perfectly still. No breeze rustling the trees; no whispers ribboning through the air; no animals yawning; no people turning in their sleep, flinching from their dreams; no soft gurgling in the sewers below the streets. The moon was masked behind thick clouds. The world was black, caked on and opaque. Then, all at once, millions of snowflakes burst from the murky sky and fluttered to the earth. It was a pillow ripping open. It was a silent, exploding firework. It was as if God had been collecting mounds and fistfuls and armfuls of snow for centuries and, finally, could hold the white flakes no more. He tore a seam in the fabric of heaven and sent the snowflakes scampering forth. At first, the snow danced through the air doing cartwheels, doing flip-flops, doing triple full twists and Arabian front tucks. Later, carried by a new wind, it leapt in great tumbling clumps like paratroopers. As the night went on, it shot down in a nosedive, in a fury, as if thrust from the sky against its will, as if spit from the mouths of angels. And later still, in a last heroic push before the sun came up in the morning, the snow grew so dense that it gave the appearance of cascading walls of snow, a world made from snow, solid all the way through. There was so much of it that the entire night sky was blanched, and the earth below it surrendered. The world turned white.

  But before the people in the valley town settled upon this story, they had to deal with the astonishment of that morning. When they first woke their shutters were closed, as they were every night, to block out the blinding morning sun. There was a chill in the air stiffer than usual, but not enough to provoke alarm. It was not until, one by one, the people climbed out of bed and opened their doors that they noticed the snow. People plunged into the waist-high sea of white that flooded into their doorways. They looked out from their houses for their neighbors, for trees, for wire trash cans, for street signs—for anything familiar—but found that only the top half of everything was visible. Against houses and buildings, the snow soared, swept up gently by the wind like a cresting wave frozen in time.

  The phones were quiet.

  The electricity was severed.

  The sewers were frozen.

  Inside their houses, people talked on and on and on among themselves, in complete disbelief, trying to comprehend the world outside their windows.

  In the perfect house, the father was the first one awake. He found himself pressed against his wife when he opened his eyes. He was shivering. For a moment, he believed he was sick. He groped for his watch on the bedside table and held it in front of him but, because of the perfect darkness in the house, he could not see the face. For a moment, he believed he had gone blind. He curled his icy toes around his wife’s ankle. He smoothed the standing hairs on his arms. He stared into pitch-blackness and then became scared. His wife’s ankle was as cold as his toes. For a moment, he believed he was dead.

  When finally he got up, the father pulled three pairs of socks over his feet and padded to the front door, stealing his way through the dark. The iciness of the wrought-iron door handle shocked him but when he opened the door, slowly, pulling it toward him, what he saw shocked him more: a bright white earth that stretched for miles. The snow that had built up against the door gently tumbled into the house. The father tried to nudge it out with his toe and in doing so, made a soft indentation at the bottom of the snow wall. He stared at the glittering snowscape. He took a step back into the house and closed the door.

  The mother felt the cold slink in through her pores and spread like a vapor under her skin. In the night, she thought it was a dream. She pulled a sheet over her body and fought her way into a ball, holding her knees to her chest to stay bunched. She slept restlessly, trembling. She knew something was not right.

  And then the father poked her in the morning. He whispered, Get up.

  It’s the middle of the night, she told him. It’s dark.

  It’s not dark. It’s just that the windows are covered.

  Well then open the shutters. You always open the shutters when you get up.

  The shutters are open.

  What do you mean? the mother asked, sighing.

  You’ll see, the father said. He pulled her out of her ball.

  What’s going on? she asked.

  The father slid socks over her feet as she sat on the bed. She was growing impatient.

  You won’t believe it, he told her. Then he dragged her through the house, guiding her with his hand.

  I can’t see a thing, she said.

  The father opened the door for her. Light streamed into the house. He gave a dramatic bow. See this, he said.

  The snow was big news. Reporters from all over were clamoring to cover it, but the problem was that they couldn’t get into the town because the roads were blocked. The networks that could afford to sent helicopters to hover over the town. The shots were incomparable. The earth smoothed over, soft shimmering dimpled mounds. One network from Chile was so desperate to cover the story—which was being hailed as a miracle on par with tears from the statue of the Virgin Mary—that they diverted their traffic copter to the valley town. The result was sixty-six traffic accidents in Santiago in one day—a sort of anti-miracle.

  The people in the town, eager to be on television, worked hard to clear pathways for the reporters to make their way in. They cleared streets using pots, pans, cookie sheets, watering cans, bowls, plastic bags, shoes, pillowcases, and couch cushions—anything they could find. The work was hard. They weren’t prepared. They safety-pinned towels around their thighs and around their torsos to help keep their bodies warm. They swirled blankets around their shoulders and clutched them at the front to keep them closed. They lit their stoves and took turns warming their reddened hands over the hissing blue flames. They picked up their phones for a dial tone—to call the stations and invite them in—but were greeted by silence on the other end. They pulled at their TV knobs, hoping to see themselves on the news, hoping to see a government emergency alert, but the TVs stayed
asleep. They took photographs of the great white ocean that had swallowed them whole, forcing teeth-chattering smiles for the camera as they stood outside. Two enterprising families trampled on the snow, spelling out HOLA with their footprints, and this image, captured by the swarm of helicopters overhead, became the most famous of the miracle snow.

  The father used a silver platter he and the mother had received for their wedding to push the snow aside, enough so he could walk out the door. The soles of his sandals stamped a pattern of diamonds on the white land as he walked. He stopped at his fence, an iron fence ornate with curlicues and swirls. Snow rested in the spaces of the design. The father poked his finger at the snow. It came loose like a cutout and fell quietly against the powder on the other side. But he had not ventured outside, as others had, for fun or novelty. The father turned and looked at his perfect house, ambushed by snow. He thought of the man whose house had blown down as punishment for his pride. The father told himself that if he could keep his house standing, it would be God’s way of telling him he had a reasonable sort of pride, one for which he did not deserve to be punished. On the other hand, if something happened to the house, it would mean that the father was a sinner, since the wrong sort of pride was a sin. On top of that, there were the news cameras. If the house collapsed, almost everyone in the world would know it. Things were getting serious.

  Inside, the father told the mother to gather dishrags and bath towels. The mother was sitting at the kitchen table with her knees pulled to her chest, trying to stay warm. She had checked on the daughter but let her keep sleeping. At this point, it seemed better than being awake. The mother raised her eyebrows as the father pointed to the wooden wall behind the sink.

  Do you see how dark it is? he asked.

  The mother turned to look. Something black blossomed in a patch above the sink.

  It looks like a stain, she said.

  It’s water, the father said. It’s seeping through.

  But it rains here and the wood gets wet, the mother said.

  The father shook his head. The snow is wrapped around the house like a boa constrictor. It’s not the same as rain.

  The mother was worried now but the father told her not to be. Get the dishrags and towels, he said. He showed her how to hold them up to the walls, how to use them to swab the water away.

  The father woke the daughter next. Are you awake? he yelled. You have to get up! There’s been a snowstorm, he said. He heard the daughter laugh from her room.

  The father opened her bedroom door. It’s true, he said.

  But it doesn’t snow here, the daughter argued.

  I’m almost positive that’s what it is. I’ve seen pictures before.

  The daughter jumped up, giddy. Is it really? She rushed past the father to the front door. When she saw the snow, she shuddered and pulled her arms in through the sleeves of her nightgown. The air smelled like it had been laundered, fresh and wet. A bird sprang lightly into the snow, sinking in and flitting off again.

  It’s amazing, the daughter whispered.

  Yes, okay, the father said, dragging her away from the door. That’s enough of that. We need your help.

  The father took a wooden chair from the kitchen and put it in what he estimated was the center of the house. Already the ceiling had begun to bow. The mother said she couldn’t tell, but the father saw it. The roof was flat and the weight of the snow would collapse it.

  The father told the daughter to put on her best socks and her warmest clothes. The mother, who could see what was coming next, protested. I’ll stand on the chair myself, the mother said.

  I’ve already taught you how to swab the walls, the father argued.

  I’ll teach the girl.

  It will take too long. Someone needs to get on the chair now and that’s the girl.

  The mother bit her tongue.

  The father told the daughter to stand on the chair.

  No way, she said.

  Do it or I’ll bury you in that snow, the father shouted.

  That’s terrible, the mother said. Don’t say that to her.

  The father sighed. You’re right. I’m feeling a little crazy. I’m sorry. Please get up on the chair.

  The daughter put her arms back through her nightgown’s armholes and climbed up wordlessly, her dark hair swimming down her back.

  Reach your arms up, the father said. His expression was grave, his eyes wide and expectant.

  The daughter did as he asked, gazing at the ceiling as her hands neared the wood.

  Can you touch? the father asked.

  The daughter flattened her palms against the ceiling.

  The mother said, Are you okay?

  The daughter said, I guess.

  The father said, Now don’t move.

  Very slowly, small paths began to open up all over the town like arteries, allowing people to get around to most places, allowing life to flow again. The reporters gave round-the-clock updates and when by that evening not a single new snowflake had fallen, most of them packed up and left.

  As far as the father knew, no one else’s house had suffered. They all had sloped roofs so the snow tumbled off. For the first time, the father saw his own house as something less than perfect. It was not invincible. He complained about this to the mother.

  But the mother said, This only proves it’s more perfect than the rest. Because with this house comes a challenge. And surviving the challenge will only make you stronger. Do other people have houses that will make them stronger?

  No, the father admitted, pleased by this logic. The father was also inspired by this logic. He went out and found one of the few news teams left in town and told them he had a knockout story for them. He promised them the greatest house in the world. The news team was about to leave the scene. There was only so much they could say about snow and only so much they could speculate about how it got there and what might happen next. But at the offer to see the greatest house in the world, they thought, Why not?

  The news team arrived as the mother was squeezing rags over the sink. She was exhausted but the clay between the wood was softening so she had to work quickly. More than once, the mother had slumped in the corner and covered her face with one of the rags. She said a prayer, moving her lips against the terry cloth. She asked God to lift the snow, to suck it back into the sky. She imagined streamers of snow running up into the clouds. The dry earth would return to itself layer by layer.

  The daughter stood, perched on the wooden kitchen chair in the middle of the floor, her arms spread and raised overhead, palms flat and pressed into the wet wood, fingers splayed. She watched her mother huddle in the corner. She heard whispering but could not make out the words. The daughter itched one ankle with the toes of her other foot. She wore red woolen knee-high socks that her mother had bought once to make into stockings for Christmas but never had. Then the daughter heard the commotion outside. Who’s here? she said.

  Who’s where? the mother asked.

  The daughter nodded her head toward the door.

  The mother peered out and then shrieked.

  At the sound of the shriek, the father looked up and strode to the house. Isn’t it magnificent? he said, motioning toward the news team. Now everyone will know about our house. The whole world will be able to see it.

  I’m not wearing any makeup, the mother said, and skittered to the bathroom.

  The father peered outside at the crew and then looked to the daughter. Whatever you do, do not move, he said. Even after the snow melts, the wood will get heavy with water. You have to hold it up. The whole world will be watching.

  The daughter sighed.

  Don’t sigh, the father scolded.

  I don’t think it will fall, the daughter said.

  Do you really want to find out? the father asked.

  Although the father had not foreseen it, the story ended up being not so much about the house as about the daughter standing inside the house, literally holding it together with her own two hands. Th
e news team requested interviews with the daughter, but the father insisted that she not be bothered. She needed to focus. Sometimes, though, the daughter yelled out requests for food or pleas that someone trade places with her because she was growing tired, even though the father pinched her legs when she did because he didn’t want her to make him seem like a cruel father in front of the whole world, as he kept saying.

  Failing the opportunity to interview the daughter, the news anchor at least wanted to interview the father. The father welcomed the attention.

  How much longer will the girl have to hold up the ceiling? the news anchor asked. She wore a pink suit. She was a gumdrop in the snow.

  The snow has almost melted, the father replied.

  Why can’t we talk to her?

  I already told you.

  Tell me again.

  If you start talking to her, she will be distracted. It’s important for her to focus. She’s holding up the most perfect house in the world.

  Would a perfect house be capable of collapsing?

  It won’t collapse. You’ll see.

  Then the father flashed a huge smile at the camera, showing his gums.

  Cut, the news anchor said.

  Did you get a shot of the house? the father asked.

  Sure, the news anchor replied.

  When it was time for bed, the father told the daughter to stay on the chair.

  All night? the daughter said. You have to be kidding.