David Vann - Aquarium

We clutched at each other and tried to be silent and invisible, shivering in snow that reached almost to our shoulders. A numbness in my legs, the cold a kind of weight that took over flesh. Like a spider’s web, this hollow, and the cold a poison, slow, the snowmen reaching with fingers you could never feel, only some dull recognition that all was already given over. The blood in us cooling, and it would stop soon, and we’d have only our eyes left moving without a heartbeat, to see when they came for us.

Caitlin! I heard, and I could tell it was not my mother’s voice, not real. It was only the voice I wanted, worried about me, wanting to keep me safe, desperate with love. A voice to lure, but I kept silent. I knew it wasn’t possible.

Caitlin! As if I were all that mattered, and this is what the snow offers, a numbing and fading of the rest of the world until you’re all that’s left.

My grandfather’s voice too, high now and strained, not like him at all, sounding almost like a woman, old, or the high scree of sticks when they rub together in wind. The trees in collusion with the snowmen. Shalini and I pressed in close to the tree, rough bark, sharing our last warmth, but these bare lower branches around us curved in to form a thin cage. Sticks brittle but so many of them.

And then we heard footfalls, coming fast, the snowmen grown legs like wolves to travel faster, half element, half beast, water and air fused to blood, leaping at us from every direction, and we shrank down until our faces were in the snow, and we were almost fully hidden, and this was our only hope, that they wouldn’t see us, but then it was Steve, panting hard, and he collapsed to his knees. They’re here! he yelled. I found them!

He lay down on the snow and edged close enough for us to reach his hand. Caitlin, he said. Grab my hand. And hurry. Your mother can’t see this. She’ll kill me.

Shalini first, I said.

Okay. Shalini then.

I could feel Shalini shaking from cold and fear, and I let her go as Steve pulled her free, one of her boots missing. I ducked down to find it, lost inside the snow, hard grains against my cheeks.

I could hear Steve saying something but muffled, and then I found the boot and stood and could breathe and hear clearly again.

Take my hand, he said, and he pulled me sliding free. We all stood then, and he put Shalini’s boot back on, and took us by the hands and we ran away from anything my mother might see. Over here! he was yelling.

The forest not yet returned to anything normal. Like a dream you can’t wake from, and I think fairy tale is always waiting for us, that we can slip at any moment into forests and wolves and voices luring and believe in the shadow world. All that we fear embodied, all pattern and shape that hides somewhere within set loose.

My mother crushing me in a hug, her breath fast and hard. Have you lost your mind? You can’t do that. You can’t just run away into the snow.

I couldn’t see her face, and she could have been anyone. How do we know to trust any form?

Steve was just being an idiot, sweet pea. There are no snowmen. Come here, Shalini, she said, and then Shalini was mashed into the hug, the three of us standing in the snow while Steve and my grandfather waited at the edges, both probably in fear.

I’m sorry, Steve said. I just thought it would be funny. I didn’t know you could believe it. Frosty as some kind of evil clown. He’s just Frosty the Snowman.

Stop, my mother said.

He’s got a button nose, I think, not even a stick one.

I could see snowmen again, their stick noses and some with eyes not of stone but of buttons, larger and black and shiny.

Jesus, my mother said. Shut the fuck up about Frosty.

I’m just trying to say he’s not scary. He’s got his stick hands poking out saying hi. Steve laughed then. Okay, I’m sorry. That was too much. I just can’t stop, though. You have to admit it’s funny they ran from the snowmen.

Wow, my mother said, letting go of us. It’s really still funny for you.

Sorry, Steve said, but he had a grin. Sometimes a Frosty will have two heads and one can come off and roll around on its own.

I didn’t think to follow their tracks, my mother said. That’s how panicked I was. I just ran anywhere. And after doing that, running in circles, where are the tracks then? I could have lost them.

But we didn’t.

Yeah, my daughter and her little friend haven’t died, so it’s all okay.

Sheri. That’s a bit extreme. They’re okay, and they’ll laugh about this later.

Ha ha, my mother said. We’re going home.

Just let me get a tree.

They’re shivering. Hurry up.

Steve looked into the trees, all too large, an old forest. Let’s try along the road, he said. There are smaller ones there, I think, and I’ll just top one.

My mother held our hands as we walked back to the road. I was still looking around, and now not only for full bodies but for heads on their own, large snowballs that would roll to the side and reveal a face.

My grandfather walking just ahead in an old wool army coat, pea green, and a hat with earflaps. A heavy form through the snow, clearing the way, like some guardian, making everything safer.

I had snow down both boots, icy and hard against my shins. This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home, I said. Ever.

No, Shalini said.

It’s true. I’ve never gone anywhere. This is the farthest.

That’s embarrassing, my mother said. For me. Don’t ever tell anyone that again. And we’ll go places now.

You’ve really never been anywhere? Shalini asked.

No.

You have so much to see. We have relatives in Geneva and Nairobi and Connecticut and Sydney. Every place is so different. My mother speaks five languages.

Well you’re with a bunch of hicks now, my mother said. Welcome to America, where we speak American and that’s it. Sorry to disappoint. I can promise you I know nothing at all about the larger world. I’ve worked and I’ve stayed here. My plans have never been more than a week in advance.

I hope you’ll see Europe, my grandfather said, taking a quick glance over his shoulder. And I should have gone back, in peacetime. I know it’s changed, but I’d like to go back.

Well, my mother said.

What happened when she died? my grandfather asked. What happened right after? How old were you and where did you stay? I know I have no right, but I’ve worried about this, over and over. If you were still under eighteen, how did you survive, and what happened to her? Was there a funeral? Was there any money for a funeral?

My grandfather had stopped and turned around, facing my mother, standing there in the snow with his arms hanging. My mother stopped also.

You don’t get to ask about that time.

You said earlier today you wanted to be asked. All the way driving here I was thinking it was over, that you’d never forgive me. But then I realized you were just saying you wanted to be asked. You wanted me to show some interest. And Sheri, you’ll always be the person I love most in this world. I failed, I abandoned you, but I still loved you and thought of you every day. And I need to know how bad it got. I need to know how bad I was. I need to know the end of that or I’ll always imagine it worse.

It was worse. It was worse than you imagine.

Tell me then. I need to hear.

I don’t owe you that.

I know, but tell me anyway. Give us a chance. How can we get along if the most important part isn’t known?

My mother looked over to where Steve was climbing a tree with his saw. Not too big a tree, maybe twenty-five feet, and all of it pulsing each time he pulled upward. Branches moving in unison like a sea anemone in current.