The temperature is dropping, and the wind picking up. A little tongue of it finds its way through the window-frame in the up-to-date, modernized and renovated office building at 17th and K, and rattles the blinds. It creeps across the floor and wraps itself around the ankles of the man sleeping with his head on the desk. He shivers and shifts a little, uncomfortably. A small gust shakes the blinds more loudly, and his eyelids flutter, his breathing turning suddenly jagged and irregular.
Short, sharp noises, rattling, cracking. Like dry wood snapping and cracking, like—
Don't go there, don't go there, don't go there. Even asleep, the mind has its defenses.
Like ice. Like ice skimmed over a frozen river, cracking and settling as the sun sets and the skaters head for home.
oooooo
"Darling, it's so good to see you."
"You too, Mom. I've missed you a lot."
"You're more beautiful than ever, sweetheart."
"You too, Daddy! I've missed you both."
"Come on, darling. We're going to have such a good time. Aunt Margie and Uncle George are coming—"
"And Saranda and Jim—"
"And Ted and Jillian and Frank and Sally—"
"And Zeke and Little Sally and the twins, of course. Oh, and your cousins are driving in tomorrow—"
"All of them?"
"All of them. In three cars. Well, except Robbie, of course, but he said he'd call."
"I can't wait to see everyone."
"They can't wait to see you, darling. We've all missed you so."
oooooo
Breathe. In, and out. In, and out. Steady, steady. You can do it. Long breaths, deep breaths. It doesn't hurt anymore; you just think it does. The mind's funny that way. You've got to relax; that's what this is all about, remember? Find an image—something physical. Like what? What do you like to do? No, not that; you're a real comedian, aren't you? We're going for calming here, and besides, I'm not that kind of therapist, I'd probably get my license revoked. Running? Too fast, too jerky. Walking's too slow. What about rollerblading? Never done it? Okay, skating then, ice skating—you ever try that? Connecticut, of course you have. Often? Yeah? Keep it up? No, of course, you don't have time now, and we don't get good ice down here too often, do we? Okay, put your mind back, picture yourself on skates again. The push, the long glide, then the other foot. Get a rhythm going: push, glide, push, glide. Now breathe like that—long breaths, deep breaths, smooth, strong. In, out, in, out. Steady, steady—you can do it. You can do it. You can do it. . . .
In, and out. In, and out. Quiet, thought drifting, like snow. Home again, if that's what this place is; he's been here before, a few times, but never for very long, so it still feels new and strange. Quiet, and empty—too quiet and too empty. Funny, everyone at school so crazy to get home for the holidays, and he'd rather be back there, really—it's a grind, and the uniforms are stupid and he doesn't like his roommate much, but at least there's something else to think about, not all this time and empty quiet and nothing to do.
Ten more days to get through. Can't get through ten more minutes, not in here, not with Dad still at the office and Mom . . . . Call someone? Nah, the last time he tried that it had just been weird. Dave and Jon with their new friends now he's gone all the time, the funny looks they kept giving him, the awkwardness, the stuff nobody wanted to think about much less say out loud, but nobody could forget, either. He'll go out by himself, take his skates and go; he doesn't have to be with anyone, he's okay alone. Too bad he isn't old enough to drive yet—God, that's a long ways off—but it's not that far to walk, and he's pretty sure he can find the way from here. Turn right at the bottom of the drive, then right again, then . . . Left? Right? . . . . Shit, who cares if he gets lost, just go. Got to get out of the house. Go. Get out of the house. Just go. Just . . . .
oooooo
"Did you make the sweet potato casserole?"
"You know I did. And apple pie and pumpkin pie, and Aunt Margie's bringing strawberry-rhubarb, and Saranda said she'd do that wonderful ginger-pear thing you love, and—"
"Mom! I'll never be able to eat all that."
"Take small slices, dear. I don't suppose you'll get anything else anyway, with your brothers and cousins around."
"And your old man. Gotta watch out for me, you know, Donna."
"I should grab my share first, shouldn't I, Dad?"
"You know you should, sweetheart. You know you should."
oooooo
The ice is white on the river, thick and hard. It's pretty smooth, too; there couldn't have been any snow in a while, though the town council always keeps this spot by the landing downtown swept clear. He tightens his laces and pushes off into the crowd of happy-looking skaters. There are a lot of people there. His muscles feel stiff; he hasn't done this in a while. Left, right. In, out. Damn, he's breathing hard already; he's out of shape for this, in spite of all the sports at school. He glances at the people around him, looking for someone he knows. Where the hell are they all? Aspen, probably, the Caribbean, but someone should still be around, surely.
Then he notices a gaggle of girls, a few years older and taller than he is, all with bright scarves and pompoms on their hats, making eyes at the big boys and giggling. Their faces look familiar. His heart jumps up for a second and he starts to skate more quickly, trying to catch up with them. Yes, that's Katie Alcott, her best friend, and Karen McPherson, and Andi somebody-or-other, so she must be there with them, in that crowd of other girls somewhere, though he can't see her. There's a flash of red hat and long, dark hair and his heart races; that must be her. He pushes to skate faster, but the wind is in his face and he can't seem to make any headway against it, though the girls are just gliding right through it. He shouts her name, but no one turns around. He shouts it again, louder. They sweep away from him, farther and faster, talking and laughing, until they disappear in the distance. He shouts her name again; his voice echoes back to him from emptiness.
His heart sinks as he looks around then and realizes the other skaters are gone. He isn't on the cleared ice in the village center anymore but somewhere else, where trees press in on him from the riverbanks, and all he can hear is the wind in their bare branches and the blood in his ears and his skates rasping over the ice and the ice itself, creaking and groaning. The sun is starting to slip behind the trees; the light is fading. The wind finds a gap between his collar and his neck, sending icy shivers down his spine. The air smells of smoke; his stomach turns. He doesn't know which way to go, where home is anymore. The ice creaks and cracks and groans all around him. He's alone.
He wakes with a start, and looks at the clock: 5:37 a.m. He rubs his hands over his face, stumbles out of his chair in search of coffee, and flops down in front of his desk again twenty minutes later, ready to get back to work.
oooooo