by Karen Welch
The room had cleared considerably now, and Stani caught sight of Betsy. Standing next to Mark, she was talking in a huddle with several other people near the door. He watched them closely, afraid they might be preparing to leave, until, the conversation apparently ended, Betsy came rushing toward him, gesturing for him to come her way. They met halfway, and she grabbed his arm.
“Come on, we're leaving now.” She was already towing him toward the door, where Mark waited impatiently.
“What's the rush? It's the middle of the night.” Stani was willing; he just wanted to know what she was leading him into now.
“Mark needs to get out of here so I'm taking him back to New York. We'll drop you off on the way.”
He stopped her far enough away that Mark wouldn't hear them. “Betsy, are you sure you want to do this? Mark Stevenson's trouble, you know that.”
She turned back to him, her expression mutinous. “Don't believe everything you read, Stani. But he will be in trouble if we don't leave.”
“What kind of trouble?”
In a flash, her frown turned to a winning smile. “Look, he had nothing to do with it. He was with me the whole time.”
“To do with what?!” he demanded.
“Some idiots took down the torches outside. They set somebody's car on fire. They got it put out, but the police are coming.” As if addressing a small and not particularly bright child, she went on, “Stani, there are drugs all over this place. If Mark gets caught here, he'll go to jail!”
In the end Stani followed her, defeated by her obvious determination. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he'd get back to DC early. As he walked behind them down the hill, beneath the swirling cloud of greasy smoke, he was aware that Mark seemed oblivious to his presence. He thought again that Betsy was setting herself up to be hurt. Stevenson was using her, nothing more. And Betsy seemed more than anxious to be used.
With Mark behind the wheel, and Betsy snuggled close beside him, Stani settled in the corner of the back seat, bracing for a rough ride. To his surprise, Mark drove the sedan slowly down the winding drive, apparently on the lookout for something. Just after they had turned onto the road leading back to the main highway, Stani saw the reason for Mark's cautious descent. A pair of police cars, lights flashing, sirens screaming, came from the opposite direction. Speeding past, they turned into the drive and proceeded toward the lodge.
Betsy pressed her head against Mark's shoulder. “I knew we'd be all right. No one could be suspicious of this old wreck,” she told him sweetly. The car accelerated sharply and Stani closed his eyes. He might as well relax on the way back. Betsy clearly had everything under control.
Tuning out the conversation in the front seat, he turned his thoughts ahead to the rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. Robert would drive him to the church where he was scheduled to play for midnight mass, immediately following the radio broadcast on Christmas Eve. The evening would be hectic, he knew, but he never turned down the opportunity to perform in a church. He had played in cathedrals and synagogues, churches and chapels. The same sense of intimacy, no matter the size of the building, lent a unique depth to his performance, which he had never been able to attain in a concert hall.
Stani especially looked forward to this event. From that first Christmas Eve mass at St. Patrick's, just after they'd moved to New York, he'd had a fascination with that particular celebration. Jana had taken him, her one venture back to her childhood religion. The pungent-sweet smell of cedar, and the glow of hundreds of candles, along with the glorious music, had made a profound impression upon him. He'd become curious for the first time as to what motivated so many people to come, year after year, to sing the same hymns and whisper the same prayers. He hadn't pursued religion; it didn't fit into his already over-scheduled young life. But he’d discovered that performing in churches evoked the same emotions he'd experienced that night. He found himself looking forward to the prospect of spending another Christmas Eve among people who came to greet a child they believed had forever altered the nature of man. It would be a welcome change from the faceless crowds in dim, smoke-filled rooms, crowds that seemed to be drawing him farther and farther from his own humanity.
Stani dozed fitfully for a time, aware of the road speeding beneath the less than well-sprung car. When he opened his eyes again, Betsy was kneeling on the seat, facing the rear of the car, illuminated by the glow from the dashboard. She was gazing down at Mark, her expression one of tender passion. Stani tried to look away, embarrassed, but found he couldn't take his eyes from her. Caressing Mark's face, her slender, manicured hand traveled lightly over his temple, curving around his ear and brushing softly up through his hair. The front of the jumpsuit had been unzipped to reveal a glowing V of white skin. Never taking her gaze from his face, she gently pried Mark's right hand from the steering wheel and lifted it to rest over her heart.
In the midst of his fascination, it occurred to Stani that Betsy was making love to Mark as he drove the car eighty miles an hour down a darkened highway. For a moment, he considered offering to take the wheel himself, in the interest of self-preservation. But then she would know he'd been watching. It seemed wiser to close his eyes and pretend to sleep. For a time he tried but could not ignore the sound of escalating passion just inches away. He had almost summoned the courage to suggest they pull over when the car abruptly slowed and bounced onto a graveled surface. Slamming the car into gear and turning off the engine, Mark pushed Betsy roughly down onto the seat, arching his body above her.
Stani grabbed for the door handle and flung himself out of the car, instantly regretting his hasty action. Surrounded by profound darkness, he was struck full force by a bitterly cold wind. He stood still, trying to get his bearings. They had stopped in some sort of roadside picnic area. He could make out a table and benches nearby, nestled beneath the trees. Fighting to pull his overcoat closer around him, he made his way carefully over the rough expanse of rock to one of the benches. He pressed his back into the edge of the table, bracing against the wind that tore at his hair and caused his eyes to fill with tears.
He was angry, most of all at himself. If he had only said no to Betsy's impetuous invitation, he'd be sleeping peacefully in a warm hotel room, instead of freezing on some dark hillside in the middle of the night. While Betsy and Mark expressed their ill-begotten passion on the front seat of a car, like teenagers at a lover's leap, he was probably contracting pneumonia. How would he explain that to Milo, when he collapsed with fever and missed his concert dates?
Not that he hadn't engaged in the same sort of frenzied, spontaneous sex himself. It seemed to be what was expected by the girls who approached him at parties, who dressed themselves in the provocative uniform of the current sexual revolution. They were warriors indeed, preferring aggression to seduction. Stani would have preferred a gentler, more sensual form of lovemaking to that which always seemed to include the tearing of clothes and the biting of flesh. His first sexual experience had been with a much older woman, who had taught him well the more considered methods that led to mutual pleasure, rather than frantic, uninspired coupling in dark corners with a perfect stranger. He found himself avoiding the inevitable pairing off. How had Lil described it? Disgusting? Whisky helped there, too. He had discovered that if he drank enough early on, by the time the offer came, he was in no condition to accept.
Stani knew that deep down, he found casual sex offensive. How could anything so intensely personal be considered casual? Although he had never been in love, he felt sure such an intimate act must be most satisfying when the man and woman involved actually knew and respected one another. Surely, through coming to know a partner's mind, their passions and aspirations, the act of lovemaking would become something shared, not merely performed, something spiritual, even sacred. He had yet to experience anything remotely like his ideal. He doubted he would ever find it if he persisted in following people like Betsy and Mark to smoke-filled lodges, or drinking until he couldn't remember what
he'd done the night before. Once again, he thought of the girl at the party. She had been a flash of conscience, showing him his world through her eyes. He would do better, he promised himself. Exercise a little discipline, grow up. Just as soon as this unholy night was over, once he was back in DC doing what he'd come to do, he would try harder to be the Stani Moss that Lil Salvatore would expect him to be.
Betsy opened the window and waved to him to return to the car. He got in silently, grateful to be out of the blistering cold. As Mark steered back onto the roadway, Betsy turned to Stani and smiled sweetly. “Thanks,” she whispered. He hoped again that she wouldn't be too badly hurt by this man she believed she was saving.
In the warmth of the car's interior, Stani quickly fell asleep. The music from the radio, soft jazz, blurred the sound of voices in the front seat. When he woke again, Mark had stopped the car close to the entrance of an all-night truck stop. They were near the junction with the interstate highway that would carry them back to DC. Betsy ran inside, he supposed to use the restroom, and for the first time since they'd left the lodge, Mark acknowledged Stani's presence in the car. Meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror, he asked if Stani had known Betsy long.
“Since high school,” he replied, implying a long relationship. For some reason, he felt Mark should know that Betsy had friends who cared what happened to her.
“You're some kind of musician. Piano?”
“Violin.”
“Bet that gets you lots. Chicks go for that kind of thing. Romance. You ever done Betsy?”
By this time, Stani knew he was developing an intense dislike for this man. He wished Betsy would hurry, so this conversation could end. “No,” he said sternly, “we're friends, that's all.”
Mark had lowered the volume on the radio. Now he turned the dial as the music was interrupted by a weather bulletin. They listened as the announcer read a winter weather advisory, urging holiday travelers to use caution or postpone travel until the storm had passed. Mark muttered an oath. “Just what I need, a snowstorm.”
Betsy returned, crawling across the seat to snuggle at Mark's side. He shrugged her away angrily. “What took you so long? I've got to get back to New York before the snow hits. The last thing I need is to get stuck here. I'm supposed to do the whole family thing on Christmas Eve. How’d I explain to my father why I'm down here in the first place?” He was rapidly working himself up to a tantrum.
Betsy tried to calm him, stroking his shoulder, pointing out that they should be in DC in an hour or so. They would be miles away from the storm before it started. He pulled out of the truck stop with a squeal of tires, bringing the car up to highway speed so rapidly that Stani had to brace himself against the door.
He was exhausted now. He hated any kind of discord, and he felt sorry for Betsy. There would be rough going ahead if she tried to continue a relationship with Mark Stevenson. He was spoiled and vulgar, and would always find someone to blame for his own mistakes. Not, he suspected, that anyone would ever convince her of that.
Stretching his legs across the seat, Stani leaned back on the door and tried to fall asleep. He could hear Betsy carrying on a one-sided conversation, her voice artificially bright. They should be nearing the outskirts of Washington, but through the window opposite, he saw nothing but the blackest of night skies. He heard Mark curse again, and saw the spatter of rain on the glass.
He must have drifted off. He woke with a start to Mark shouting, “You let me go the wrong way!”
“Just find a place to turn around. We haven't gone far out of our way.” The sound of the wipers scraping the windshield drowned out Mark's reply. Opening his eyes, Stani could see that streaks of ice had formed on the glass. Up ahead, the road glistened ominously. Without warning, Mark slammed on the brakes, turning the wheel sharply to the right. Thrown headlong across the seat, Stani struck his forehead hard on the window. He reached blindly for something to stop himself as he was pulled back again. The car seemed to be rocking wildly, side to side. Once again, he hit his head, this time on the frame of the door behind him. Bright points of light sprang before his eyes. Somewhere beyond the roaring in his ears, he thought he heard Mark's voice, swearing in terror now rather than anger. Betsy screamed his own name in warning. At the front of the car, something exploded, sending yellow fragments flying past the window.
A fierce blast of wind seemed to rush in from all sides, lifting him and tossing him about. Frantically, he grasped for some anchor, his head striking first one and then another unyielding object, his hair snagging on some sharpened edge. Just when he thought he’d found a hand hold, the wind tore him free with a vicious twist, hurtling him into blackness.
He lost consciousness then. Later, he remembered, or perhaps he merely dreamed, that he had fallen, drifting slowly through darkness, at last coming to rest in a nest of soft, sweet-smelling branches. Engulfed by purest white, earth and sky, a distant light seemed to beckon him and for a time he floated toward its ever-shifting beacon. Somewhere nearby, a soft voice spoke to him, pleading, calling his name over and over. He tried to answer, but found he was too tired to force the words from his lips. Gliding in and out of cold and warmth, he was content to let the dream carry him, until finally he sank into a place of complete darkness, not in the least frightening, but utterly peaceful.
Chapter Five
At five Emily woke to the soft hiss of sleet striking the window panes. Bundling into her robe, she padded through the house for more firewood. It was still dark outside, but in the light from the back porch a layer of white pellets shimmered on the grass.
When the fire was crackling with fresh fuel, she snuggled back under the quilts, hoping to sleep a while longer. But she only managed to doze, keeping her ears open to the sounds of the storm. When the hissing stopped, the wind began to rise. Gradually, the whistling became a howl and the house shuddered and groaned beneath the assault. Outside, snow swirled so thickly that, as she drank her tea at the kitchen window, she could barely make out the shadow of the barn across the yard. The storm was living up to its forecast.
After a breakfast of toast and jam, she dressed in jeans and her favorite dark blue turtleneck sweater. Brushing her hair, she tied it into a smooth ponytail, adding a trailing bow of red ribbon. If she was going to decorate the house for Christmas, she intended to make it a festive occasion. Locating the recording of the Nutcracker Ballet, she set it spinning on the turntable, turning the volume high enough to send the melodies ringing throughout the house.
After some digging in the closet beneath the stairs, she retrieved the ornaments, garland and lights that had each year decorated a fresh evergreen. At last she found the crèche, tucked in its own box, each china figurine wrapped in tissue paper. She recalled packing it away, that first painful Christmas, when she and Pop had pretended not to notice the vast empty space where her mother should have been. By the next year, they had given up pretending and barely allowed the holiday into the house.
Setting out on her mission to bring Christmas to the room, she eyed the mantel wall first. The fireplace, flanked by glass-front cabinets and two high windows, would substitute for a tree, she decided. Humming along with the music, adding a waltzing step every now and then as she worked, she spread silver garland and glowing colored lights across the mantel and the tops of the cabinets. She added carefully spaced clusters of glass ornaments, shining spheres of red, green and gold, along with blown glass figurines of angels, stars and Father Christmas, all well-remembered from her childhood. When she had achieved just the desired effect, she hung the delicate gold star that had always topped the tree, in the center of the chimney.
Going to the other end of the room, she spread a shawl of fringed red velvet on the piano, just as her mother had done every year, and placed an open book of carols on the music rack. Finally, she took her father's violin from its case and gently nestled it in the folds of the shawl, laying the bow carefully across the strings. Stepping back, she let out a sigh of satisfaction. She had
paid tribute to the past, mindful of the obvious changes; but she had also taken a step toward future Christmases.
Finally, she positioned the figurines facing the fireplace where the little wooden shed waited, well out of harm's way, on the hearth. Mary and Joseph with the donkey near the front door, the shepherds and their flock of three sheep on the piano bench, and the wise men with their camel on the table next to Pop's chair. The solitary ox rested in the stable, next to the tiny cross-legged manger filled with paper straw. The figure of the newborn baby with his outstretched arms she tucked on the mantel near the heralding angel, hidden from sight for now. Gazing back at the travelers journeying toward her, she laughed softly. She was truly home for Christmas, as she had never expected to be again.
Outside, the storm showed no sign of letting up. Snow covered the ground now, and clung to the bare tree branches. Already the line between lawn and driveway had disappeared. The dull gray daylight barely penetrated the frosted panes of the back porch windows. She switched on the light as she went for more firewood, welcoming the warm yellow glow in the coldness. Through the swirling curtain of snow, not a shadow of the surrounding valley could be seen. The house seemed to float in a cloud of white, disconnected from the fields and the woods. She imagined she might be the only creature stirring for miles, and shivered with pleasure at the sense of solitude.
Her reverie was interrupted when the lights blinked off, then quickly on again. Any time, she knew, she could find herself without the warmth of the furnace, or the comfort of lamplight. After depositing her load near the hearth, she headed back to the kitchen, determined to have a hot meal while she still could. Craving a thick, juicy hamburger, she settled for a sandwich of fried ham and melted cheese, promising herself that ham would be off the menu for the next month, at least.