The Wintering

by Joan Williams

  No, Almoner said, he had not known they were coming to Delton. He had been away on a fishing trip and entered the house as the phone was ringing.

  Standing in a public telephone booth, Amy became increasingly aware that it had been used for more than telephoning. Yet, across the way, in a park resident above the river, was a small building with doors marked Men and Women. Did people choose to do what was forbidden because life was so dull the act of urinating in a phone booth gave it impetus? Phoning Almoner made her own heart beat excitedly, though she knew his wife was not at home.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through this on my account,” he said.

  “I didn’t mind,” she said. “It’s funny. I liked her.”

  “She can be very charming,” he said.

  Amy told of Leigh’s visit and of Inga’s suggestion they come to the Fish-o-rama. “I’m glad you and my wife have become such good friends,” he said, without humor.

  “It’s a way to see you,” Amy said, a note of apology in her voice. “I don’t think I can before then.”

  “No,” he said. “You’ll be busy with your plans.”

  Must he sound wistful or petulant or whichever he was sounding? Despite his saying it often, he did not seem to sense her right to a life with friends her own age, and she did not like feeling possessed. When she felt him intruding on her other life, she began to guard it jealously. Talking, she watched a young girl, in the park opposite, swaggering back and forth before a man who lonesomely fed squirrels and paid her no attention. Some look of desperation about them both brought Amy’s own to her mind. When the girl had gone, the man sank forward, his hands to his face. But there were leaves, casting lovely dancing patterns of shade on the hot walkways, and between delicate paws, a squirrel was nibbling an acorn. With what astonishing facility it dashed up a tree.

  Look! Amy wanted to call, look at the day!

  Almoner had been telling her inconsequential things about his trip, and she had stared from the booth, answering with remarks that did not matter either. They wanted connection, to hear one another’s voice, and were aware of that. After she had stopped running, Amy, standing, had thought, What am I to do? and had longed immediately for Almoner, who made her loneliness bearable. Now, she pressed the moist receiver closer to her ear. Beyond the park she could barely glimpse the river, which seemed utterly still, though flowing with its strong deep current. The voice in the receiver lowered affectionately. Hearing it, she knew never again would he come first to her mind as Almoner. From now on, always, he would be Jeff.

  When the train was late, Amy could not help feeling annoyed. She felt, even, like blaming Jeff, though of course it was not his fault; sensibly, she knew that. Roaming the station, she reminded herself it had been her idea, as much as his, to meet as soon as Leigh left. She ought to be able to control her moods better. Driven off the station’s only empty seat by the stench of the man next to her, she felt more disgruntled. The station was dank when it was a glorious blue September day outside. Today was the opening football game of the season. With friends, she ought to have been there, though she did not care an iota about football. Only, it was customary to attend the first game of the season.

  The train announced, Amy forced away her irritated look and hoped Jeff would not be overly apologetic. She tried to head off an obvious apology saying, “Don’t worry. I haven’t been here too long.”

  “Always, I’m inconveniencing you,” he said, coming through the gate.

  “It’s not your fault if a train’s late,” she said.

  “It cuts down on our time so badly though,” he said. “Already, it’s short.”

  She must control her moods. Again, she felt grumpy that she and Jeff had nothing to do. The newspaper vendor seemed to be staring as they went past. Could he realize, remembering her, that since she was meeting this older man again, he was probably not her father? And why let what some stranger thought matter? Forever was she to be hampered by both background and moods?

  “I’m sure you had a better way to spend Saturday afternoon than standing around this station,” Almoner said, holding open the door.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “But where shall we go?” The bland streets reflected nothing of the excitement and gorgeousness of fall.

  He said, “I’ll have to take the next train. As I wrote you, she has been truly sick this time.”

  “I was sorry to hear it. And it was pneumonia? It was too bad it rained that day of the Fish-o-rama. If that’s not the most fantastic name!” They had reached the bottom step and stood, laughing. Then, staring in either direction, she said, “Well, where are we going?”

  “You choose,” he said.

  Her mouth set. She started off and barely slowed for him to catch up a moment later. “You were impressive that day, winning all those awards,” she said. He had seemed to come doggedly, which was irritating, but she determined to be kind. And that he seemed breathless worried her.

  “Thank you, Miss Howard,” he said, attempting a light manner, though sensing her changing moods. “You were impressively pretty. But that’s not unusual.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Do you feel like walking? I don’t know anything else to do. There’s no time to go to the river.”

  “Exercise is always good. And, I’m afraid I went on a little tear after that day.”

  “Because of it?” Immediately, she knew she had had some part in it. Once she had written in her diary that leaves, dying and sighing, seemed to ask where she would be in a year? That thought came back, while she stared ahead at the dingy street.

  Almoner longed to say it had not been only the weather that had made the day of the Fish-o-rama ghastly. If only someday she would look at him as he had seen her glance once at Leigh.

  He said, “Because of repercussions from the day. What I thought had died down started again. I’m an old goat.” He smiled. “Inga’s opinion, not my own.”

  “I’m sorry.” Here, as they went past little stores, which seemed empty, proprietors glanced eagerly at shadows falling across their dusty windows, and Amy stared back at them. “Still, I think it’s best you accepted her invitation.” Jeff took Amy’s arm as they stepped from the curb and drew her closer. “This is the first chance I’ve had to tell you how much I like what you call a slip, I guess. The one you wore that day. It made you seem so like a little girl. A white ruffle showed.”

  “My slip showed! Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, almost blushing now.

  He thought that even he forgot sometimes the enormity of her sensitivities. “Only a bit when you sat on the bank,” he said, no longer teasing. “No reason to mention it. Like so much about you, you don’t understand, it was charming, Amy.”

  “But did it show even when I stood up?” she said. “And all day?”

  “It did not. Only once when I looked up at you, there on the bank.”

  She kept a little worried frown, leading him on. They reached unexpectedly a small patch of rehabilitated land made into a park, containing only a small pond with several sluggish goldfish. A bored young mother trailed a toddler, who threw pebbles into the water. Amy watched enviously the smooth glittering retreat of the fish, to hide beneath rocks. As smoothly had Leigh retreated. She thought perhaps she had treated him as expectantly as Edith and that had been her mistake. The quick, slick glimmer of the goldfishes’ backs transferred in her mind’s eye, becoming her party, the ceiling transformed into a night sky shiny with tinsel stars. Only, when the lights had come on fully and the last guest had gone, there had appeared instead a somewhat droopy dark blue canvas. By then, too, the hopeful look Edith had worn all during Leigh’s visit had disappeared. When he was eventually waving from the departing plane’s window, she had said, “Why did he come here? What did he want?”

  “To see the South,” Amy had said, realizing the truth.

  “For God’s sake then, why didn’t you let him take a Cook’s Tour!” Edith had cried. Now, Leigh had gone off to Yale to grad
uate school.

  The young mother kept trailing the toddler, while enviously examining Amy and her clothes. Amy looked back also with an envious expression. She and Jeff kept heading this way and that around the pond. Then Amy stood still and announced abruptly, “I’ve quit my job.” She stuck the tip of her shoe dangerously near the water. “Nothing is ever going to happen to me here. I’ve got to go away.”

  Almoner thoughtfully watched smoke drift away, having taken several rapid puffs from a cigar. He said finally, “I think I’m sorry you quit. People need stupidity in their lives, particularly artists.”

  “I’m not an artist,” she said angrily. “And people don’t need having nothing in their lives but stupidity. That’s all my life is, except for you.” She looked at him grateful for that, and her face then set sadly again.

  “Maybe we could manage to go away together for a few days.”

  “I’m not talking about a few days, Jeff.”

  “I wish I were enough. I don’t think another place is the answer. Amy, don’t leave your own people. Give yourself more time.”

  Bending, she had picked up pebbles and now tossed them into the water, her aim not much surer than the child’s. He, having been forbidden by his mother to bother the fish, looked at her mystified. She led him away. He turned once to look back at Amy, who watched him similarly, with longing and wonder.

  “Maybe we ought not meet in the city,” Amy said. “There’s just nothing to do here. I guess it would be cold in the woods, though. And our butterfly would be dead, wouldn’t it?”

  “I am sorry for both of you,” he said.

  But not wanting to be felt sorry for, she could not keep an angry edge from her voice. “It’s time to go.” She felt as she had at the edge of the pond, her foot extended toward the water, teetering.

  He looked stolidly at the goldfish beneath the water; they seemed mesmerized there, not a tail swished. And when he looked up, Amy had begun to walk away. He ground out with his heel his cigar after a moment, then followed.

  She reached the sidewalk and stood with a reluctant air, her bottom lip slightly protruded and her hands stuck boyishly and childishly into her pockets. Her head was cocked slightly and as if attentively toward a voice no one else heard, inner perhaps. The patient way in which he followed her made Amy feel guilty and put an obligation on her she felt unable to meet: her tendency then was to run away. But she forced herself to walk more slowly, convenient for him. Forcing an even tone, she said, “Should we try the woods?” and indentations when she tried to smile made her face seem instead lined, as if she were tired and old.

  “If you will,” he said. “Next week?”

  “The one after that,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

  “The first of November then,” he said. The conductor, as Almoner went through the gate, nodded, recognizing them by now.

  Amy held onto the iron bars of the closed gate, watching him disappear. And imagining herself again a prisoner, she thought that she was her own jailer, too.

  He decided to risk waiting at the bus stop, the square being deserted. However, he made no move toward Amy when she stepped off the bus. He said only, “I’m glad to see you.”

  “I’m glad to see you, Jeff,” she said.

  They glanced around in all directions, heading toward his car. Winter light gave the storefronts a greyish cast, as if they were dusty. Apparent only were the red caps worn by hunters, grouped now around a stove in the hardware store, but the men paid no attention to passers-by. The stone tables around the Court House had a relentless cold look, empty on a winter’s day, cleared of course of checker boards. Places rubbed free of grass, beneath the benches, showed where the feet of the old men continually had rested and seemed all evidence of their existence. With trees bare, houses were exposed and appeared to have been set forward closer to the street since summer, making Almoner and Amy feel more in evidence. An old woman, coming onto her porch, shooed away a dog digging at bone meal around her bulbs and stared as they passed. Amy wanted to stare back, curious too. Here were the boundaries of the woman’s life, her house and her yard; that showed in the intense squint she gave the strangers.

  “Something’s on our side, at least,” Amy said, settling onto the car’s front seat. “It’s warm for November. And you were certainly brave, kind Mr. Almoner, to be standing on the square.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t mind, pretty Miss Howard,” he said. “I was afraid you would. But then you’re looking thinner. Perhaps you’re losing your baby fat. It was a little test. I confess now to giving them to you sometimes.”

  “And I passed?”

  “Today, so far, you have gotten an A in growing up.”

  They drove from the square, and she resisted making a face at the old woman, still squinting. “Is not caring what other people think growing up?” Amy said. “I was glad you were waiting for me.”

  “You’ve tried to please everyone,” he said. “And that’s impossible. Growing up is being able to decide who and what you care about and sticking to your decision. Sometimes, it may be necessary to hurt other people.”

  “As little as possible.”

  “As little as possible, of course,” he said. “Growing up is also accepting that it is not your prerogative to try to change other people. They are what they are. You will have to accept hurt from others, too, you know.”

  She had glanced toward the back seat and said, “I see there’s a basket. Jessie fixed enough lunch for two?”

  He nodded. Then realizing that Amy still gazed toward the back, said, “I brought that blanket because I think wherever we choose to sit, we may be cold.”

  She turned saying nothing, tucked a foot beneath her, and gazed out at the familiar landscape, so different with fields brown and cleaned. Tags of cotton left on browned stalks seemed markers to guide them along some unknown way. Distant trees had a fire-gutted blackened look. The sun’s winter sheen gave everything a white-gold cast; still here was the same reddish maze of roads. “Let’s find some place we’ve never been before,” Amy said.

  “Something new then,” he said. Yet when he drove past places they had been Amy recounted them lovingly, her feeling painful as longing. There was the spot in the road where the man with the cabbage had stood, and there was the abandoned house that in some ways seemed their own. It was empty still, and someday they must go back there, she said, turning to look back. The house’s door stood open into emptiness and silence. In the day’s white cast, Amy saw not only on the porch the ghosts of the house’s occupants, but hers and Jeff’s. She was bound to these places now, for they were part of her past. She reached out and touched his arm, which he acknowledged by a certain silence, that he understood. Life was painful to her, but she could not change hers for one without unordinary experiences.

  There, she said, was the pond! It was more easily glimpsed in the unleaved distance. Afterward, they passed a fire tower whose name they liked. Wind Borne, Amy repeated.

  Slowing the car, Almoner asked, “Is this place worthy of those others?”

  They glanced up from the road at a slope of eroding ground, once a driveway, leading to an abandoned Negro schoolhouse. He turned the car that way when Amy nodded. Though it was only midday, the sun had the pale look of late afternoon. With its edges diffusing, it seemed to be helplessly swallowed by the widening winter sky. Everything was whitening, and Amy felt that at any moment the world about her might give way, to be blotted out entirely. Lengthily, off the tin roof’s ragged edges, like rain, the pale winter glow fell. Touching their faces, highlighting their cheeks, it turned their noses redder in the November air. They went about the dry deadened yard gathering twigs and branches to fill what remained of a pot-bellied stove. The vine-trailing outhouse yielded a plank, easily broken into firewood. Inside, the fire was eventually fed paper and scraps from Jessie’s lunch. They sat like schoolchildren themselves, the blanket drawn over their knees, whispering in conspiring tones. Supposedly, he had left home to inspect r
oads into a deer camp and wore rough clothes and had brought whiskey. They passed the bottle between them, as if it might warm their hands; wind stole in through glassless windowpanes and cracks in the walls. Without more fuel, the fire grew steadily weaker. Shivering and returning the bottle again, Amy said, “I’m glad you brought that instead of beer.” Momentarily warmed by the whiskey, growing both sleepy and melancholy, she put her head on her knees.

  “Blue Monday?” he asked, turning from staring into the deadened fire.

  “Just thinking about going away,” she said, lifting her head. “I just can’t stay here, Jeff.” She had drunk more than she had realized. The iron feet of the bloated stove seemed to lift and fall when she moved her head. They seemed the forepaws of some great animal. At Jeff’s look, she thought things had been different for him back in his day, or he would understand her situation more clearly. Today, two girls had invited her to the movies, and that was the kind of thing people she knew did with their afternoons. Her nose sank down with a little abrupt bump against her knees, while she snickered to think where she was instead and how surprised those girls would be.

  Jeff stretched out on his back, his hands behind his head. Wasn’t he cold? Amy drew the blanket he had abandoned back over his knees and stretched out alongside him. The ceiling, as she lay down, receded and then came slowly down into place, which seemed funny. In their winter coats, she thought them like two cumbersome bears settled side by side for their winter’s sleep. Against the stove’s warm sides, the soles of her feet had begun to burn uncomfortably, though the floor beneath her was hard and cold. The two inconveniences loomed large in her mind, and Jeff’s hand touching her was bothersome. He seemed trembly and shaky, like an old man. This time: she repeated that to herself over and over. But the room was all the barish-brown Sunday-school rooms she had ever sat in with her mind skittering away from the lessons in large-printed, colorful Biblical pamphlets. Must she blame herself that when she tried to return his kiss, she felt nothing at all? Reserve, part of her, tightened her like a rein. Coldly, she removed his hand from her leg. She said all the things she always said: she was sorry but she couldn’t and she just didn’t feel that way. Her longing, however, was for abandonment.