Sarah St.Vincent - Ways to Hide in Winter

“No, it’s—well. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“He does other things. It’s hard to explain.”

“What kinds of things?”

I shook my head. My feet hurt, and I stretched them in front of me, looking down at them.

The priest peered at me, his head seeming to bob slightly. The skin of his neck hung in folds over his Adam’s apple, as if it, too, were tired. He steepled his fingers in front of him.

“You’re Howard’s granddaughter,” he said.

I looked up, unsure if this was a question. “Howard and Lydia. Yes.”

“I see.”

I didn’t see, but I stayed quiet, watching him watch his fingertips.

“Is your husband happy?” he asked finally.

“No. Yes. Sometimes.” I toyed with the box of Band-Aids. “He lost his job.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he’d discovered something. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

“But I don’t think that’s it,” I hastened to add. “Not really.”

“Men are at their weakest at times like that. Most prone to err.” He nodded, as if he were agreeing with me.

“Well—yes. But even before—”

“He must be very unhappy,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Very unhappy indeed. You know, as Christians, it’s our duty to love those who are suffering, and help them see the right path.”

He paused.

“Um,” I said.

“Just think of Christ on the cross,” he continued. “The pain he bore in order to redeem us. He’s an example to us all. There are times when we all have to endure certain things in order to remain true to God’s will. That’s what love means.”

I found myself watching his face, something within me slowly seeming to break off and fall away, a cliff sliding into the ocean.

“Be patient,” he continued, his tone growing easier. “Many marriages go through difficult periods. But with time, and love, we can all grow and change.” He coughed into his palm and shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter. “Just be patient and have faith. God united you with your husband, and if you obey him”—I blinked, unsure whether he meant Amos or God—“if you obey him, you’ll find that you grow and learn together. I’ve seen it happen with many couples in my time. Go home, forgive your husband, and ask for his forgiveness. That’s the only thing to do.”

The lamp made a pool of light on the floor. I looked at him, his face that was half in shadow, my mind searching for words and finding none. It was warm in the room, and I suddenly realized a smell hung over the place, something artificially floral, sickening and heavy.

There was a sound outside, the unmistakable crunch of tires in a driveway, someone pulling in and hitting the brakes hard. My head jerked up, and I shot a stunned look at him, the shriveled old man in the chair across from me, my eyes asking a question he didn’t answer.

“Everyone is capable of change,” he said. “Everyone can be redeemed. That’s the very premise of our faith, isn’t it? What can we believe, if we can’t believe that?”

There was a second crunching, the sound of motors, car doors. I pushed myself to my feet, staring down at him, terrified.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me stay. Don’t send me back. I’ll go tomorrow, I’ll—”

There was a knock on the door, knuckles against the glass, loud and sharp.

“That must be your father,” the priest said, pushing himself to his feet. “I called him while you were resting. I do hope I haven’t—”

The door opened, and Amos strode in, enormous, seeming to fill the hallway. His head lowered, he looked at me from under his brows. His breathing was uneven, as if he were trying to keep himself from shouting, or weeping.

“Let’s go,” he said to me, not acknowledging Father MacIntyre.

Paralyzed, I glanced from him to the old man, gripping the arm of the chair. The priest was standing uncertainly, looking from one of us to the other.

Amos grasped my wrist, turned, and marched out. I followed him, my steps stuttering, emerging into the night air behind his broad back.

Outside the house, as if in a dream, my parents were sitting in their truck, staring at Amos, at me. They looked confused, frightened. They got out, their mouths open, but they seemed to have lost their voices.

Amos passed by them, not turning his head, dragging me after him as his fingers dug into my arm. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw them standing there like statues, my mother’s hair fluttering in the night breeze, both of them pressed back against their truck as if pinned there.

They let me go.

Amos’s pickup rumbled down the mountain, bearing us back, back to the house where the rag I’d dropped still lay in the yard. Later, all I would remember about the ride would be the sharp smell that seemed to rise from my own body, a mingling of sweat and fear.

“I’m sorry,” I said as he turned off the engine. He nodded and opened his door, getting out with the solid sound of steel-toed boots against asphalt. I looked quietly through the windshield as he made his way to my side. The door next to me opened with a creak.

He helped me down. I looked up at him, but he turned away and walked into the house.

In the kitchen, there was a cup of coffee on the table, cold, next to the cordless phone. The creamer had formed a skin on top. The chair in front of the cup was pushed back, and I pictured Amos sitting there, hunched over, staring at the phone, waiting for it to light up.

He sat down heavily and unlaced his boots. I stood by the sink, waiting without being sure what I was waiting for. A dim, grayish glow was beginning to appear on the horizon. The grass outside was wet with dew.

Finally, with a sigh, he stood, pressing his knuckles into the table. Rubbing his face with his hands, he moved toward me, seeming to look past me, through the window. Then, with a gentleness that surprised me, he took my elbow, turning me and steering me back toward the door. We walked into the garage, the empty, oil-stained space where the truck was usually parked. As my eyes adjusted to the dark—taking in the same rows of shelves and boxes as usual, the saws and wrenches hanging on the wall, a bag of nails on the workbench—he released my elbow. I felt him look down at me. Then he walked back into the house, closing the door behind him.

I stood still for a moment, bewildered. There didn’t seem to be anything I needed to clean up, any boxes to pack or unpack. In my confusion, I almost forgot my exhaustion, my throbbing feet.

Glancing around, still finding nothing unusual, I approached the door and turned the knob.

It was locked.

“Amos?” I whispered.

There was no answer.

Outside, far away, I heard a rooster crow on one of the Mennonite farms, its sound in the distance a thin wail.

I rattled the knob again, harder this time. Gathering my courage, I called more loudly. “Amos?”

I heard his footsteps as he left the kitchen and mounted the stairs.

Just then, I looked up at where the automatic garage door opener should have been. Instead, I saw only a splaying set of wires, jutting into space.

Fear rising in my throat, I stepped backward, lifting the doormat, looking for the house key, feeling for it in the dark.

It was gone.

I stood there alone, disbelieving, miles from anyone.

Locked in.

My assault on the disorder of the storage room continued. I tracked the mud of midwinter in and out, swabbing it away every evening, restoring it with stamping boots every morning. With a sponge and a ladder, I washed the walls, ignoring the possibility of slipping. I let my humming fill the cavern-like space until I was making enough sound for two people, sometimes drumming my hands against the metal safe that stood in one corner as I passed.