A Marriage Carol

by Chris Fabry

  “Jacob?”

  Nothing but the sound of wet snow falling. The car had come to rest in a snowbank, pushed into a clump of thin birch trees growing by the curve, but there was no sign of my husband. I looked for tracks on his side of the car but there were none.

  I pulled my feet inside, closed the door, and felt my head. No significant bumps. I pulled the rearview mirror down to see if I had ruptured a major artery but the mirror came off in my hand. No blood, but the mirror showed lines and wrinkles I hadn’t noticed. Thanks to Clairol, my hair had maintained a deep auburn. Brown eyes that looked tired and empty. No makeup, not even lipstick. If I had worn a head covering I could be on the cover of an Amish tragedy.

  I turned the key and the engine sputtered, coughed, and sneezed, but didn’t start. My breath became a fog when I exhaled, and my hands were quickly turning to ice. I opened the door again and yelled for my husband. Nothing but the echo of my voice and the tick, tick of ice and snow descending.

  I dug into my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I could tell the kids we’d been in an accident and then I’d call 911. There was no reception in the area. No bars on the phone.

  That was where Jacob went, to find a place to call 911. But why would he leave without telling me?

  My teeth chattered, and every time I shoved my hands into the overcoat they felt colder. The cloud cover blocked the sun but gave enough light to see the landscape. Through the intensifying snow were rolling hills and trees, dense wooded areas as well as pasture with several inches of covering and in some places a few feet of snow where the wind had fiercely blown.

  I took the keys and set out on foot, looking around the curve and down the hill for the tractor trailer. The road under the top layer of snow was an ice rink, and I lamented not wearing hiking boots. Maybe Jacob had followed the truck, trying to aid the driver who had no doubt plunged into the abyss. As I rounded the curve below our spinout, I expected to see flashers in the fog, the contents of the trailer spilled on the road or the hillside below, but everything was clear. There were no skid marks, other than ours. No gaping hole in the barbed wire fence. No deceased driver.

  “Jacob!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the wet hillsides and trees. The only thing worse than hearing my husband’s voice was not hearing my husband’s voice.

  My cell phone still had no signal, and the battery was low. Darkness was coming quickly and the cold moved from my fingers and toes inward and upward. The only footprints leading from the car were my own and I followed them back. We had spun a 360 and another 180 into the snowbank against the trees. Other than the deployed airbags and windshield, there didn’t seem to be more damage, but I wasn’t worried about the car at that point.

  Through the trees and snow I spotted a glimmer of light, a faint glow on the hillside. If it was a house, there had to be a road, but a quick look at the winding road that wound upward and away from the house led me to believe the fastest route was on foot across the pasture and up the hillside. Perhaps Jacob had gone there to get help.

  I slung my purse over my shoulder and started down the hill, gaining unintended momentum and stopping myself by grabbing a fence post. I climbed through the barbed wire and a few steps later tripped on something and fell, the contents of my purse spilling into the snow. My face, my hands, my legs were now wet and stinging, the wind biting. I located my wallet, phone, and keys and left the rest. I zipped the coat as far as it would go and set off through the pasture. Snow snuck into my shoes, and my ankles and shins were the next victims. What I wouldn’t give for a fresh pair of Jacob’s unstylish tube socks I berated him for wearing.

  When I hit the hillside, I lost sight of the glow. Dead leaves and dry branches cracked and hissed underneath the layers of snow. An eerie darkness enveloped me, and I wished I had a flashlight. Why hadn’t I stayed on the road? If it wasn’t for the little trees that gave me leverage to pull myself higher, I might have given up.

  “Jacob?”

  An enormous crow landed in a tree above me and cawed, daring me to continue. I was too exhausted to snap off a tree limb and throw it at him and too cold to make a snowball. He cawed again as I grabbed the tree and pulled myself forward and then awkwardly took to his wings and flew across the white meadow, dipping and wobbling until he thumped onto an old stump. That’s when I saw the car on the road, headlights scanning the hillside as they passed the curve, not even slowing at our spinout. If I had stayed I could have flagged them down. I’d be warm. Or maybe in a car with a serial killer.

  Where is your husband when you need him? I never went for the strong, silent type, or the macho male/weekend warrior, but I would have taken a gun-toting, beer-guzzling squirrel hunter right then—to swoop me up and carry me the rest of the way.

  The cold and wetness stung my face, and so did the briars I crashed through near the top of the hill. I wiped something wet away from the scratches and tears filled my eyes. My nose was dripping, my lips were numb, and my hair wet with melting snow that had fallen from the trees. My thighs, not the highlight of my anatomy, burned from the long pull uphill, but were also chilled and frozen. I was glad I didn’t have a mirror right then, because I would have needed counseling to shake the indelible image.

  At the top of the hill I saw the warm glow of the house in the distance. Feet frozen, I moved through a tall drift toward the yellow light. My face was so cold I was afraid my skin would crack if I opened my mouth to call out, so I just put one foot in front of the other. I navigated the backyard slowly, aided only by the light from the back windows. There was a child’s swing set I didn’t see that caused a problem for my forehead and a trestle I navigated around, but I finally made it to the side of the house and around a shoveled but ice-covered walkway.

  A lamp near the driveway gave enough light for me to find the wraparound porch. It was a two-story home, wide and tall, with one light on upstairs. In the front window stood a Christmas tree with sparkling white lights that could have been featured on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. The six-panel front door was painted a deep red, with a door knocker in the shape of an engagement ring—or so it seemed to me. Above the knocker was a beautiful wreath fashioned from evergreens and mistletoe. If I hadn’t been so cold I would have admired it longer, but I reached out a frigid hand to the knocker. As I did, the curtain inside, which covered the small windows beside the door, moved slightly, and a tiny dog pressed its nose to the glass and barked.

  The sound of heavy footsteps on hardwood. The door opened and an older man stood there, reaching to gather me into the warmth of the room. He was tall and heavyset, and looked like some actor who always gets picked for the part of the president or angry police sergeant who’s frustrated with his officers. He carried an afghan and swept it over my shoulders with one quick throw and pulled it tight around me.

  “You’re freezing,” he said, closing the door and getting on one knee before me. “Let’s take those shoes off and get you over by the fire.” He took off my shoes and slipped my dripping wet socks from my feet. I looked down on his bald spot, the gray hair forming a perfect O at the top of his head.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “There was an accident,” I said, teeth chattering. “I can’t find my husband. He didn’t come here, did he?”

  “We haven’t had any visitors with the storm. What type of accident?”

  I explained and he listened intently, putting my shoes and socks over the heating vent. He stood with some effort, his knees cracking, and looked at the scratches on my face.

  “I suspect he went to look for help or a cell signal, like you suggest,” he said. “He’s probably worried about you.”

  If he was so worried, why would he abandon me?

  Water dripped from my hair onto the shiny wood floor. I tried to stay on the welcome mat so as not to leak all over the entry. His face seemed warm and kind.

  “Don’t worry about the snow. It’s just water, after all. Now come on over to the fire. We’ll get you war
m and cozy.”

  I slipped on the wet floor and he took my arm and guided me to the living room. He walked with a noticeable limp and when we reached an overstuffed, leather chair, he turned it toward the fireplace. Three huge logs burned and crackled, and their warmth and aroma gave me a fresh vision of welcome that covered me as well as the afghan.

  He sat me down and pulled a footstool close, then draped a blanket from one of the couches over my legs and feet. “I’ll be right back with something to warm you up on the inside.” He left and the little dog returned, a teacup Yorkshire terrier that sniffed at my shoes and socks, then padded toward the chair, its ears up and eyes searching my face, as if it understood pain.

  “Hey little guy,” I said, reaching out a hand. He was reticent at first, backing up. He licked his nose and yawned, then crept closer as I held out my hand. He sniffed at it and sat again, looking into my soul, into all the hurt and coldness. Something about that dog caused the tears to well up inside me, something I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Jacob said dogs cause too much trouble. Too much mess. He couldn’t stand hair on the furniture and the scratches on the floor and doors.

  “I see you’ve met Rue,” the man said when he returned with a towel. I dried my hair and kept the towel on my shoulders for any stray droplets. He also brought some woolen socks and I slipped them on.

  “He’s gorgeous,” I said. “Such a wonderful color and shine to his coat. And a sweet disposition.”

  He patted my blanket and Rue jumped up on my lap and sat, wiggling his stubby tail and arching his back into me like we had known each other forever. I laughed at the feeling of something so pure and innocent excited to sit with me. He licked at my hands, then settled into a curl on my thighs and put his head toward the fire, content.

  “Do you mind if I use your phone to call my children?” I said.

  He gave a pained look and retrieved a handset from an end table. He clicked it on and listened. “The phone’s been out all afternoon. Probably ice on the lines. And the cell phone reception is almost nonexistent up here.”

  “What about your computer? I could send—”

  He chuckled. “Sorry, ma’am. We don’t have access to that either. Decided a long time ago to cut that from the budget. But I’ll go right out and look for your husband.”

  “His name is Jacob. And I’m Marlee Ebenezer. Thank you for taking me in like this.”

  The teakettle whistled from the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  I stroked the dog’s fur and looked around the room. Other than my leather chair, two other couches and a loveseat were arranged around the fireplace. On the mantel was a simple wreath and below it, a snow globe with a cross inside. Bookshelves flanked the fireplace. It was all I could do not to get up and examine the hundreds of volumes there, but I was too content and too warm with Rue on my lap. There were pictures, as well, of smiling couples standing together, posing for the camera. Most of the pictures were taken in front of the fireplace or in the backyard by the lattice.

  A coffee table held a single candle, a Bible, and a purple book underneath. On the hearth were fireplace utensils—a poker, shovel, tongs, and broom. Beside it was a long-handled pot with two other smaller pots inside with the same size handles. They were gold and looked barely used.

  The fire popped, and Rue gave a head-jerk and then settled again. The screen kept any stray embers from flying.

  The tree made quite an impression at the bay window, but there was something strange about the room, something I couldn’t pinpoint. Then it hit me that it was what wasn’t in the room: a television. There was no sign of one.

  “I have some three-bean chili cooking,” the man said as he returned. “It’ll be ready in a little bit. This should be a good start.”

  He shakily handed me a mug and saucer. The tea bag tag hung over the side and I recognized the familiar colors of my favorite tea.

  “It’s Ginger Lemon with just a drop or two of honey,” the man said.

  “Just the way I like it. Thank you.”

  The mug spread warmth to my whole body, and Rue sniffed at the saucer when I placed it on the arm of the chair.

  “What are those pots?” I said.

  He paused a moment, searching for the words. “Family heirloom. I’ll tell you about them when I get back. Let the tea warm you, and I’ll get your chili after I find your husband.”

  “This is very kind of you. Thank you.”

  He smiled at me as he put on his coat and hat and disappeared into the garage. The smell of the tea brought back memories, ones I didn’t want to dredge up. Fights with Jacob; arguments and outbursts from me and the silence of a man resigned to something other than love. I hated associating those memories with the tea, but some things you can’t control.

  My mind raced through the possibilities of what had happened on the road. Sure, Jacob could have gone off on his own, looking for help, but what if someone wasn’t paying attention while they drove along? What if someone had skidded into him somewhere up the road? Or perhaps the truck driver had taken him for help.

  Something creaked above and Rue’s body tensed, his ears pricked. In a flash he was off my lap and up the stairs, his little legs churning. He disappeared at the top of the stairs and his nails clicked over the hardwood.

  The old man returned and hung his coat and hat on the hall tree. “I found your car, but there’s no sign of Jacob. Checked with the neighbors, too. It’s nasty on the roads. Almost got stuck even though I have four-wheel drive.” He picked up the phone but it was still dead. “Maybe he got a ride down the hill. I left a note on the front seat telling him where you are. Put the emergency flashers on, too, but that battery is pretty weak.”

  “I suppose that’s all we can do now,” I said.

  “Other than pray,” he said.

  I nodded. “I suppose there is that.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a steaming bowl of chili with cornbread that tasted so sweet it melted in my mouth. He headed upstairs with another bowl and Rue met him at the top, wagging his tail and dancing on the hardwood like a trained circus animal.

  I had finished my bowl when he returned and he offered me another, but I was content. He pulled a chair beside me and settled in, cradling his own bowl and warming both hands with it.

  “Who else is here?” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said, ‘we’ when I first arrived. That ‘we’ haven’t had any visitors. And I heard noise while you were gone.”

  “No one is here but my wife and me. She’s resting upstairs.”

  “Is something wrong with her?”

  “Nothing time and life haven’t done.” He paused and there seemed to be a bit of sadness in it. “And what brought you out to these parts?”

  I told him we were on our way to an attorney’s office to sign divorce papers. No sense beating around the bush. I let that sink in and expected some kind of apology for prying, but he didn’t seem shocked.

  “Have you been planning this long?” he said.

  I told him more about us. More than I wanted, but it just seemed to spill out. And he didn’t stop me.

  “That’s a lot of years to be married. What’s the main reason? Has Jacob abused you in some way?”

  “No, there’s no abuse.”

  “Is there another woman?”

  “I don’t think so. His other woman is his work.”

  “Have you tried counseling?”

  I nodded. “A few times. A pastor once. A psychologist. Went to a marriage seminar one weekend a few years ago.”

  He reached toward the coffee table. “Have you tried—”

  “The books? Let me tell you about the books I’ve read. Stacked on my nightstand. I listened to them on CD in the carpool lane. Don’t give me another book. I’ve tried everything. Even called a radio program once asking for advice. Nothing works. We’re just not right for each other.”

  “But you were, at one point?
”

  “In the beginning, sure. Anyone can stay in love at the beginning, I think. But through the years, and with the kids, we just grew apart. He threw himself into his work and hobbies, and my heart turned toward the children.”

  “And here you are twenty years later, strangers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell me about your children. How old are they?”

  As he crumbled his cornbread into his chili, I told him everything. All the way down to what David said in the bathroom while he was sitting, studying the patterns in the tile. The man laughed with me and shook his head like it was his own grandchild.

  “You mentioned a pastor,” he said as he finished his chili and placed the bowl on the coffee table. “What about your spiritual life?”

  I laughed, though it wasn’t funny, and stared at the fire. “I know it’s not true, but it almost feels like I don’t have any right to talk to God.”