Having walked all this way in the cold, the Giant is now hypnotized by the heat in this house. If he lets his eyes close he will fall where he stands. Two cats surprise him and rub their arched backs against his legs. They follow the Giant to the kitchen doorway. He can see the Christmas tree, and the opened presents beneath it. The cats pace back and forth in front of him. When the Giant reaches down and strokes the white cat’s back, she turns up her face to him and mews. He cannot be as stupid as this, and yet he doesn’t want to leave and begin that cruel, dark walk back home. He knows he is breaking the law, knows people wake early on Christmas morning. But he doesn’t move, even when he hears a thud above him, then footsteps. Jody is coming downstairs, a wool cardigan over her nightgown. She sees him and stops on the landing, rubbing her eyes. She tells herself she won’t be scared unless he makes a move toward her. Then she will turn, run upstairs, and lock herself in the bathroom. But the Giant is the one who turns and runs. Panicked, he forgets to duck and hits his head on the top of the kitchen doorway. The crash is so loud his pain is audible. The Giant reels backward, stunned. Jody holds on to the staircase banister. In the center of the Giant’s forehead is a deep gash.
“I don’t want to scare you,” the Giant says.
“Okay,” Jody says. “Good. Don’t scare me.”
The cats won’t leave the Giant alone. They troop around in front of him before darting into the kitchen, in the direction of their food bowl.
“I wanted to bring you a present,” the Giant says helplessly.
“Why?” Jody says.
The staircase is curved and short; Jody leans her head under a low beam and puts one hand on a rafter to steady herself.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” the Giant tells her.
“Be quiet,” Jody says. “My grandmother’s asleep in the parlor.”
The Giant is embarrassed. He thought he was whispering.
“What’s your present?” Jody says, narrowing her eyes. “You?”
The Giant looks at the floor. He is a fool.
“No,” he says, and he does whisper this time.
Jody realizes that she’s shivering. She wraps her cardigan tightly around herself.
“You can’t just walk into people’s houses,” Jody says, more gently.
“You’re right,” the Giant says.
The Giant is afraid to look at her, and Jody can tell he has no idea how beautiful he is. She feels as though she has trapped a firefly in a mason jar, and she does not want to take the top off the jar.
“Well?” Jody says.
“Well?” the Giant says, puzzled.
“Are you coming upstairs or not?” Jody says.
The Giant draws back. A blue rope of veins stands out along his neck. Jody knows she is feeling all the wrong things. She should be scared, at the very least feel as if she’s courting danger. She wonders if the power of his wanting her has made her temporarily insane. She leans forward, stepping on the hem of her nightgown.
“Hurry,” she tells him.
The Giant follows her up the stairs. He is afraid to ask questions. He has lost the ability to speak. The cats run after them, until Jody shoos them away. He sees her bed and is paralyzed. He stays in the center of the room, the only place where he can stand up straight, until Jody tells him it’s all right for him to sit on her bed. It is just before dawn and yellow lines cut through the sky, but the bedroom is dark. Jody takes off her sweater and sits on a wooden chair. She pulls her nightgown over her head. For a second she’s afraid that making love with him may be impossible, he may be too big. But she goes and sits down next to him. She can feel the Giant shivering and she expects him to be too shy to look at her, but when she turns to him he’s staring at her.
“What’s your name?” Jody says.
The Giant laughs.
“What’s so funny?” Jody asks, vaguely hurt by his laughter.
“It’s a strange time to ask me my name,” the Giant says.
Just to make certain that he’s real, Jody touches his cheek, then moves her fingers down his neck until she reaches the first button of his shirt.
“Eddie,” the Giant says.
His name suddenly sounds like the oddest word in the world; it’s as though he’s never heard it before. He cannot believe he has the nerve to touch her; he holds her so that his hands fit over her ribs. Jody unbuttons his shirt and presses her breasts against him. The Giant makes a noise that he has never heard come from inside himself before. Once he starts to kiss her, he doesn’t know if he can stop. Jody lies back and the Giant leans next to her. He is thinking too much and not at all. He is afraid to put his workboots on her clean sheets. He is afraid he will hurt her. He has never been with a woman before and he knows she’ll be able to tell.
The Giant moves away from Jody. He sits up in the dark.
“What?” Jody whispers. She sounds frightened and out of breath. She props herself up on her elbows.
The Giant takes off his sweater and his shirt, then bends down and unlaces his boots. He pulls his boots off, then stands and finishes undressing. When he folds his clothes and puts them on the chair his hands are shaking. He lies down next to Jody and pulls her close. At least, he thinks, she cannot see him in the dark.
When Jody comes downstairs, Elizabeth Renny is in the kitchen making coffee. The painted egg is still in the saucer on the table, and Jody picks it up and holds it in the palm of her hand. Elizabeth Renny squints, but to her the egg looks like a blue globe, just another Christmas ornament. Jody returns the egg to the saucer, and as Elizabeth Renny gets herself a cup of coffee, she notices that Jody smells like soap and straw.
Upstairs, the Giant opens the bedroom window, climbs out on the ledge, then drops to the ground soundlessly. There is ice on the telephone wires. Ice is coating all the trees. It is still early enough so that no one notices a giant running down the road, grinning like a madman, absolutely unaware that this is the coldest Christmas in fifty years.
When you call your mother in Delray Beach on a snowy Wednesday morning the first thing she tells you is that it’s eighty-five degrees and that her husband is out picking oranges from their tree at this very moment. You have waited to call until your son and husband are out of the house because you are certain this will be a difficult conversation. “Mom,” you say when you can get a word in, “there’s something wrong with me.”
There is silence on the other end of the wire. You can practically feel the Florida heat.
“I’m having real problems going out of the house,” you will tell her.
Your mother will laugh so hard that at first you will think she is choking. “My God,” she will finally say. “I thought you were going to tell me you had cancer. You can’t go out of the house? Honey, in Florida people don’t go out of the house the entire summer long, and nobody thinks anything of it. It’s so hot the sun would fry you like an egg.”
You could get out of it now and talk about the weather but you have come this far. You tell her the rest. You can’t drive, you can’t be alone, you have strange physical symptoms: sweating hands, a racing heart, a knot in your stomach that feels like a tumor. The idea of a plane ride makes you physically ill. You cannot go to a supermarket or a movie theater without your husband, and even then you have to sit in an aisle seat in case you cannot control the urge to escape. You have avoided your friends so often, making up lame excuses, that they no longer phone you. You can tell by a smacking sound that your mother is pursing her lips. “When did all this come on?” she will say. If you tell her right after your last visit with your father, she will launch into a tirade about how he tried with all his might to ruin her life. “After I was on an airplane,” you tell her. “Maybe I’m crazy,” you’ll say, expecting her to insist that you’re not. She will murmur “Hmm,” thinking it over. You will tell her that you are terrified your son will discover there’s something wrong with you. When your mother asks if you’re hiding it from him, you’ll admit that you are. “Then he�
��ll never know,” your mother will say. “You never did.”
You will sit down then. You will consider hanging up the phone.
“What?” you will say, and your mother will say. “You heard me.” Now she will tell you that after her divorce she didn’t go out of the house for two months. For nearly a year afterward she ordered deliveries from the market over the phone, and your best friend’s parents drove you anyplace you had to go. At the time you had assumed your mother was busy, but now that you think of it, you’re not sure doing what. Your mother tells you that her terror of leaving the house lasted almost three years, and then one day she got into her car, drove to the corner, and just kept going.
“Don’t ask me how it started or how it stopped,” your mother will say. If she intends for this to be comforting, it isn’t. This is awful news, an illness that may be hereditary, and more than ever you fear you’ll contaminate your own child. Your mother surprises you by asking if you want her to fly up and visit. You tell her that you have to get over this by yourself, meaning not with her. You begin to wonder what else she has hidden from you and if as a child you in fact knew more than you do now. Before you get off the phone your mother will tell you that you are definitely not going insane. “Yeah, sure,” you will say, in that same sullen voice you used with her when you were a teenager. Your mother will tell you that she has recently watched a TV talk show about your disorder. “What you’ve got is panic attacks,” she will say, quietly, so you know that her husband has come into the kitchen with his just-picked oranges. Your mother will not let you hang up until you promise to call a hospital or a clinic, and you promise, but it will be a week before you actually make the call.
They will refer you to their expert, who will not understand a word you’re saying at first because your voice will break. As soon as you tell him you can’t leave your house alone he will begin a litany of your symptoms. He will know everything about you and you have said less than four sentences to him. Sweaty palms, he will say. Rubbery legs, a racing heart, a barrier you can’t cross. He insists that this is not mental illness. When he tells you that you have agoraphobia you will be elated to find a name for what’s wrong with you. Of course you didn’t believe your mother, but now a total stranger has told you you’re not insane. Since you are too far away to join the therapist’s treatment program, he will refer you to a mail-order course and a reading list. He will tell you that you can modify your behavior, that you can fight this and win. When he asks if you have a safe person, you don’t understand, and your son immediately comes to mind. You think of him asleep in bed, how safe he must feel, surrounded by stuffed animals, content to know you and your husband are right down the hall. When the therapist explains that a safe person is someone you can rely on, someone in whose presence you can manage things you can’t do alone or with anyone else, you realize that your safe person is your husband. This realization jolts you. No matter what you think of him, in your heart of hearts you trust him more than anyone else on earth.
Later, when your husband comes home, you will wrap your arms around him so tightly he will be momentarily afraid that some tragedy has happened while he was gone. You will tell him there is a cure for what you have, you will plan all the things you can’t do now but will as soon as you’re cured. You will want him all that evening, and when your son goes to bed, you will make love to your husband and weep when it is through. All that week you will wait for the postman’s truck. You will sit by the window. You will watch the snow, alternately feeling terror and hope. When the postman’s truck appears you realize that you will have to wait until your husband gets home for him to bring in the box that is addressed to you.
Sitting in the shed with the kerosene heater turned on high, Andre is supposed to be working on a Ducati, a bike he wanted so much he met its inflated price. Instead, he’s reading one of the books on Vonny’s reading list that he picked up for her at the library. It’s a book about panic attacks, and the truth is, he’s feeling vaguely panicked himself. They have already gone over several of the chapters in Vonny’s behavior modification program and it’s clear there is no magic prescription. Vonny has to practice, setting up a series of small goals for herself, using techniques such as focusing and relaxation, something Andre doesn’t even believe in. He’s got the urge for a beer, but he doesn’t want to go into the house just yet. He can tell this phobia program is going to be a pain in the ass. It would be easier just to go to the market or pick Simon up at school than to go through all this modifying with Vonny. He’s been reading everything he can get his hands on and he still doesn’t understand why Vonny can’t just climb behind the wheel and drive somewhere. And, when he allows himself to admit this, he’s not a hundred percent certain he wants her to.
Since her panic attacks began, Vonny has been entirely dependent on him. Andre understands this much: he is her only safe person. Once a phobic can go places with a new safe person, the cycle of dependency will begin to break down. Andre feels a weird hot jealousy when he tries to imagine who that other safe person might be. He feels betrayed already. He switches off the heater, zips his jacket, and carries the books to the house. As he lights the stove to heat some coffee, he can hear Vonny’s relaxation tape droning in the living room. Andre opens the cabinet looking for sugar and can’t find the sugar bowl. He pours a cup of hot coffee, tosses the grounds in the trash, then tears open the refrigerator. There is no milk. He slams the door shut, then drinks his coffee standing up, at the counter. Vonny turns off her tape recorder and comes into the kitchen. Andre isn’t certain if he’s imagining things, or if she looks scared right here in her own kitchen. They’re supposed to drop Simon off at a school friend’s house, then go out so Vonny can practice her driving. Her goal is the parking lot before the cliffs at Gay Head. Andre would rather stay home, take a shower, and watch TV.
“Ready?” Andre says to Vonny.
“I guess,” Vonny says. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Which means, Andre knows, that she’s terrified. After two weeks of practice, Vonny can once again go to the supermarket, as long as Andre is waiting outside the door. Twice she has dropped off boxes of pottery, but her heart was pounding so hard afterward she has refused to go back to Edgartown. Now, while other people are fixing their dinners, they will be driving back and forth, measuring Vonny’s symptoms each time to see if they’re lessening.
“Simon,” Vonny calls as she gets her coat and his jacket from hooks near the door. Her face is flushed, with excitement or fear Andre can’t tell, Simon is to have dinner at his friend Tara’s and Vonny has made turkey sandwiches that she and Andre will eat in the truck during a break. Vonny goes to the foot of the stairs. “Simon!” she calls.
Up in his room, Simon is reading a book he knows by heart to Dora, the rabbit. He has recently asked Andre to make a sign for his room on which is printed DO NOT DISTURB.
“All right!” Simon calls to his mother.
He continues to read to the rabbit.
Vonny wonders if everyone is conspiring against her to keep her from driving. She goes into the kitchen but doesn’t sit down for fear she won’t get up again. She is, she knows, well practiced at avoidance.
“Can’t you do something?” Vonny asks Andre.
Andre goes to the kitchen doorway and yells, “I’m going to count to three.”
Simon slams his book shut, gives his rabbit an apologetic look, then storms downstairs.
“I just wanted to be alone,” Simon says as he takes the jacket and backpack Vonny hands him.
It amazes Vonny that her five-year-old wants exactly what she is most afraid of. If there was ever a time when she wanted to be alone, she can no longer remember it. She imagines that she does not exist without another person there to perceive her. She imagines her skin is dust, her bones a puzzle that needs expert hands to piece together.
“Look, we don’t have to go,” Vonny says.
“Will you guys make up your minds?” Simon says, clearly disgusted.
And
re puts a hand on Simon’s back and guides him to the door.
“Is Mom coming or not?” Simon asks him.
Vonny grabs the bag of sandwiches, then goes to the door and puts an arm around Simon. He is surprisingly solid when she pulls him close. As they walk outside, Simon forgets himself and holds her hand. They listen to the radio on the way to Tara’s. Vonny kisses Simon good-bye, then watches as Andre walks him up to a yellow house with green shutters. When the door opens, Tara’s mother waves at Vonny, but Simon goes inside without looking back. Vonny knows that children have to declare their independence. She watches him run into the house, and the last she sees of him is his blue nylon backpack. It’s cold in the truck, and Vonny feels a chill. Andre gets back in and slams the door shut. Vonny clears her throat.
“I’m supposed to drive,” she tells him.
“Right,” Andre says.
He gets out and Vonny slides over behind the wheel. Andre is not at all comfortable at the prospect of having someone who panics drive him around. He fumbles with the radio, looking for a good station. Vonny puts the truck in gear and steps on the gas. She has not driven for almost five months and she doesn’t remember the clutch being so stiff, the steering so loose. Tonight, with Andre beside her, the force field shouldn’t be activated, but Vonny can feel a wave of anticipatory panic just beneath her chest. She knows she’s supposed to breathe deeply, even put her hand on her belly to make certain it rises as she inhales. She does this at a stop sign and feels somewhat better.
After Chilmark center the road is uphill. To the right there are marshes flooded with water, and beyond, the harbor at Menemsha. Tall reeds make it impossible to tell where you could walk and where you would sink like a stone.
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