Peter Geye - Wintering

“Why?” he said.

“Your family’s been here the longest. You teach history at the high school. Everyone respects you.” This was Sarah talking, though I could’ve said the exact same things.

“And,” I pointed out, “Signe wants you to. She asked about it a long time ago.”

“He’ll do it,” Sarah said. “He likes to play hard to get but he will.”

Gus threw his hands up.

I finished the last of my coffee. “Good,” I said. “Everyone will be pleased. Now, Mr. Eide, walk an old lady home?”

He jumped to his feet. “Of course.”

Sarah stood as well. “Let’s do this again,” she said, hugging me and kissing my cheek.

“That dinner was about the best I ever had,” I said. “It’s a lucky man who gets fed like that.”

Gus was already putting on his coat, but he spoke from across the room. “Lucky in every way,” he said.

Sarah walked me to the door and helped me into my coat and hugged me again. “You’ll be okay to walk home with the snow? Gus could drive you.”

“My evening constitutional,” I said. “Thank you. Again. A lovely evening.”

“It was. Thank you.” She turned to Gus. “Be careful in the snow.”

—

We walked home under the vaulted light of the stars. Hardly a word passed between us, which was strange, given our many conversations that winter. Not that either of us minded. I certainly didn’t. All around us I could hear the snow melting. Through the trees above I counted my favorite constellations, stars taught to me by Rebekah Grimm of all people, who had learned of them herself from Hosea Grimm. Here the Pleiades were cupped together. There Canis Minor. It’s strange to say, but those stars never seemed so close as they did that night. Maybe it was because of the snow melting and dripping from the trees. Maybe, and perhaps more likely, it was simply that there was order in the sky, and order is always comforting.

When we reached my house we stood for a moment on the deck. Gus looked up at the eaves trough and put his hand on the window frame beside the door. He knocked on the rough-sawn cedar siding and nodded. I could see he was thinking of his father. I was, too.

“How was it he came to you, Berit? My father, I mean.”

“My goodness,” I said.

“We told our story, eh?” He put his hands in his pockets. “I’m curious is all. Don’t feel you have to say.”

“It wasn’t until your parents divorced. Or nearly divorced.” I had to think back. “After he built this house.”

Gus smiled. “I didn’t ask when, Berit. I asked how. I know you’re no home wrecker.”

I looked up through the trees again, still thinking. The mere act of calling Harry’s young face to mind quickened my beating heart. I’d felt so close to him the entire night without ever allowing myself to picture him plainly that to do so standing on the porch was almost more than I could bear. Gus must have sensed it. Or seen it in my face. In any case, he said, “Save that one for another time, eh?”

“No,” I said, “it’s okay.” I looked down from the sky into Gus’s eyes, which held stars themselves. “He brought me flowers,” I said, “in a manner of speaking. Brought me butterworts he’d picked right outside the old fish house.”

There came across Gus’s face an expression so expectant and curious that it caused us both to look away. I stepped to the railing and continued. “These weren’t the sort of flowers meant to last in a vase. I knew that much, was in fact a sort of expert on butterworts. But that’s another story.” I closed my eyes against the nighttime, and when I opened them Gus was standing beside me, his hand on mine. I continued without shifting toward him. “I was never so happy in my life. Never. Even without knowing what the flowers meant. Without knowing what his standing there — here, right here, I mean — without knowing what any of it meant.”

“He brought you flowers. Beginning and end of story,” Gus said, as much to himself as to me. Certainly no question was hidden there.

“It was summertime. Early evening. He was still in his work clothes.” I shut my eyes again but what I saw behind them this time was Harry lying in bed all these years later. I opened my eyes quickly and looked up at Gus. “It was the only thing I ever wanted in my life, Gus. The only thing. And there it was. There he was. We were together from that day on.”

“That’s the best story I’ve heard in a long time, Berit.” He took a step back. “I know it wasn’t easy for you, coming to dinner tonight. I said so to Sarah but she insisted. It’s her way, you know.”

“I was happy to come.”

“We were happy to have you.” He took another step. “I’ll see you this week.”

“Very good. Have a good night.”

“Good night.” He smiled and started down the deck steps.

“Gus,” I said.

He stopped and turned back.

“Will you really say a few words at the opening?”

The starlight caught his smile. “Of course. Anything for you.”

Then he walked up the driveway under the same light that lit his smile. His stride was long and easy over the new snow. His hands were deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers.

AFTER GUS turned down the road, I walked around my deck and stood at the railing listening to the purling river. If I studied the distance hard enough I could make out snow terraces alongshore. Under the light of the night sky everything looked to be keeping secrets.

I wondered, standing there, why I had become so intent on lives of no relation to me. I tried to picture myself standing there in the night but could not. The next morning or the one after, if I passed myself on the Lighthouse Road, would I recognize myself then? Or was I only this now: an old lady alone in the middle of the woods with nothing but starlight and the quiet river? Who would I call if I had to? Who would hold my hand if I needed to be consoled? Those letters stacked on Gus’s counter? Had anyone ever written one to me? Had I ever sent one?

I closed my eyes against the night. There was Rebekah sitting in her rocker. Gus’s grandmother. My charge. All that time with her and I had what to show for it beyond some modest financial security? Hardly even any memories of my own. And of those I did have, how many were tethered to the Eides? Did any of them belong to me alone? Even this long winter now, all the hours spent with Gus and his reckoning, how much of it had truly been mine? Though it’s true I wanted to hear his story — for a thousand different reasons — it was also true I was listening to his stories rather than recalling any of my own.

Motherless. Fatherless. Husbandless. Childless. I was all of these things. If I hadn’t chosen my fate, I’d at least — over the years — made peace with it. But to live a life without so much as a story of my own? My God, it seemed nigh impossible. I had my years with Harry, yes, true. And they were good years, to be sure. And happy. Very. But even that epoch of my life closed without a proper ending. Love just vanished into the woods. All the nights I’d stood at this same railing since, shivering against the bitter cold, I’d wept for his absence by myself. Alone. I’d never told another living soul of my sadness. I could hardly admit it to myself. Someday — likely someday soon — when I went the way of Harry and before him Rebekah and before her Odd Eide, who would weep at my passing? Who would listen to stories about me? Who would tell one?

I opened my eyes. Clouds had scuttled in and the river was now gone to darkness. Gone but for its murmuring. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Was it warmer even than it had been on the walk home? Was this winter finally breaking?