For a Winter's Night
for ronnie
It's like a vigil. Every night once the boy's tucked safe in bed, she takes a jumper and a packet of matches and heads upstairs. The stairs need oiling or polishing or something to stop them creaking, but it won't likely happen with her husband away – she doesn't like the manly jobs, too dirty on the hands and pressure on the knees of a job for her. Much better at painting the walls and stoking the fires with one of those half-as-long-again pokers, so's she doesn't get her nice jeans covered in ash. There's a lot of ash in the fireplace upstairs. It's been nearly a year since it was cleaned, smokes something dreadful and her brother-in-law'd have a fit if he knew.
It's a shame, she's a good mother, just not good when she's been left alone so long. The house is a fair size and a fair ways back from the road. No one comes to see the paint flaking piece by piece from the window panes. The boy's all the company she gets round there, seeing it's winter and the snow's powdered everything with light. Look hard enough at the ground you'll see the stars staring back at you. Helps if there's a lake nearby – there's always a lake on the outskirts of these parts – and even though the trees are bare and covered with white, the water still flows. It laps at a shore of gravel stones and ice and if some fool sits there long enough to get frostbite he'll see the ice melting and freezing with each lap of the tide. It's what she sees out the window upstairs, sitting by her cherrywood table, sipping on the brandy she's poured from the bottle. Always keeps it full, it wouldn't do to run out of courage halfway through the night.
She's waiting. Has been for the last seven months. Thought she might have been expecting too, at least that's what she wrote to him a full three months back; he'd come home, just for one night. But no, no dragging out the cedar wood crib from its home in the cupboard by the stairs. And no reply neither.
*
No reply.
Three months, twenty-seven days, and half an hour. You kissed my lips and our Riain's forehead before you left, guitar over your shoulder and the bags in your hand. None of your friends were willing to help, all too busy throwing snow at each other; it looked like they'd ripped the down from my mother's best quilt. Mama's alright, the doctor called, said once the fluid drains from her lungs she'll be fine. Have you seen your Mama yet? You said you'd try, but then your friends didn't want to go as far south as Albury. Cooma they said. Cooma.
How long have you been in Cooma? How long ago did you leave? Did you break a string there, insist everyone stay while you fixed it? Did you catch a bus to Albury? Did you catch a bus home?
I bought your favourite brandy two days after you left; I see why you like it. When you walk inside I can bring it down to you, for some reason it keeps better upstairs, and we can all watch TV or listen to the radio. Sleep baby. You're tired, you've been pushing too hard. Let me put Riain to bed, it's past his bedtime, he can see his Daddy in the morning. Come upstairs love, let me help you rest.
The lights upstairs haven't worked for a month. I borrowed a lamp from your brother. He said he'd fix them for us, said it was probably just a fuse or a wire, but he mustn't have time. The piano needs tuning as well, your brother said he'd find someone. They'll be here before the week's out, and then you can play whenever you like. 'The City in the Fall' can fill in the afternoons and make your son smile. He looks like you. The same tiny fletch in your eyebrow; a dimple in your cheek; I saw the little lines over his nose the last time he sneezed. He's a quiet sleeper.
I love you.
Out the window the trees have lost their leaves, except the eucalypts around the lake. Riain and I collect gumnuts from the snow, he makes faces for you. They're presents he says, for you when you get home and bring him back something. You always do. The little jumper from Kosciusko, he won't let me wash it, and the way his face lights up when he talks about you. He'll be two next week. You said you'd be here for his birthday. I'll set three plates for dinner, it'll be good to have you home, sleeping in your own bed. Happy birthday Riain, look what Daddy got you, it's a guitar like the one he plays. If you're good he'll teach you how to play and then you can go out in the van and play for all the people Daddy plays for. You'll make Mama really proud of you.
I'm so proud of you.
The lamp's burning a little low, can you bring some oil home with you?
*
It's an old house. The floorboards are creaking every which way you step, it's hard to stay quiet and let the boy sleep. But she does it every night. There's one board cracked a full foot and a half along, but it's silent as the air. She's trying to be silent as the air. A half of the time nobody'd know she was there. But sometimes there's a slip, a toe out of place and a whine from the floor. You've got to watch your step, like a frozen pond, and she's wondering if any of them'll give way, send her crashing down outside her son's bedroom door. A little game she plays with her shadow. Heads or tails? Melt or freeze? In or out?
The water beads on her window, if it's not too cold.
Her cherrywood table used to stand over by the armchair, covered with a paisley sheet. The white sheets are kept for her bed, they go better with the zigzag quilt, a gift from her mother. To keep the bed warm. There's the brandy glass from the downstairs cupboard, and the bottle from the liquor cabinet. It goes well with the smoke that doesn't find the chimney. Scents of eucalypts and sweeter alcohol hang around the room and stronger in the shadows with all the boxes she hasn't opened in who knows how long. Lots of memories inside the cardboard; all her photos smell of smoke and long nights listening to the snow. The glass is almost empty.
She's pushed the desk to the window, easier to see out into the storm. It's always winter on the outskirts of these parts. Has to shift the lamp or all she'll see are eyes staring back at her, and the wind shifting its colours.
Three months, twenty-seven days, and three-quarters of an hour.
She's still waiting for her brother-in-law to fix the lights. She's been waiting a long time.
*
The fire's crackling a little, you always liked to watch it burn. A few more sticks of kindling to turn black, then white, then disappear altogether. Like snow you said. You'd watch the snow for miles around, watch it cover the ground and the trees, you didn't move until the storms passed. Is it snowing in Cooma? Are you watching flakes fall on the dam? Nothing can freeze the dams; you'd close your eyes and pretend it's smooth, frozen three feet deep. Stand by the window, tracing your name on the glass. You'll catch your death, come back by the fire love, I'll try to keep your hands warm. Your shoulders are tense, you should be in bed. Baby you work yourself too hard. Close your eyes, let me help you rest.
Your son's awake downstairs, washing his hands. I can hear it in the pipes: water trying to flow around the build up of ice. We've had to start melting snow. Your brother shovels a bucket for me whenever he comes to call. His kids are fine, busy with their school work and staying inside to keep dry and out of the cold. Your nephews get sick easily. Riain likes to play in the snow with his little boots and the jumper from Kosciusko, and he's always asking about his Daddy. I love my Daddy. One day when I grow big I'm gonna be just like him and go out in the van to play guitar to lots of people. My Daddy says I'll make my Mama really really proud.
Mama's always proud.
There's a little gap between Riain's front teeth, the doctor said it'll close in time. I saw it the first time he smiled, something more your son has from you. The hair curls just a little at the nape of his neck, his little fingernails are more round than square. He drew a picture, and asked me to send it to you. Asked if the postman would know which van was yours. I told him the motel you're staying at would know for sure.
I sent a copy to them all.
*
“Hey Scotty!”
“What now?” the guitarist looked up from the A minor 7 on his battered Gibson; his fingers, blistered under the calluses, stayed where they'd been pressed. He didn't think they could move if he wanted them to. The room was that cold.
“Looks like another fan's found out where we're staying.” The drummer had wrapped his hands in bandages – an old pair of socks he'd cut up with a pocket knife, when his gloves had finally fallen to shreds. In between his fingers, the drummer held an envelope.
“How the fuck'd they find out?”
“Don't look at me. Maybe Jon's sideburns reached out and screamed in some girl's ear?”
Their bassist had grown a beard to keep out the cold. They'd been in Cooma nearly four months: it had grown pretty long.
“What is it anyway?”
“Dunno Scotty. Probably just wants to have your kids or something.”
“Great. Tell her to take a fucking number.”
The drummer smiled. He didn't smile very often, and the guitarist was always suspicious when he did.
“Shawn you didn't let it slip did you?”
“Would you believe me if I said I don't know?”
“Too fucking pissed to remember?”
The drummer smiled again. “Yeah, something like that.”
The guitarist felt like shaking his head, sympathy, tolerance, yeah, something like that. But he couldn't remember the girl he'd fucked in last night's bathroom either.
“You gonna give me the letter or what?”
“If you give me your share of the gas money.”
“It's my fucking van!”
“That you're too hammered to drive, so I'm the one paying at the pumps,” said completely without irony. The drummer made statements: he was a witness. He left jury duty to the small group of fans that followed them everywhere. The guitarist wondered if these girls had anything better to do with their lives, and where all their money came from. Most of the band's takings went on this room; one bed, no heating, not even a fireplace, but the price left them enough cash for alcohol, and sometimes food.
His last broken string had been a D. The drummer had talked to the kid behind the counter, he'd slipped six new strings in his bag. Music was their bread and water, and they'd had a show that night.
“I don't have the cash on me.”
“Then go flog some of your weed Scotty.” It always came back to the weed.
“Go flog it yourself, it's in the case, just give me the fucking letter would you?”
“Okay, okay, take it.”
Gibson to one side, letter in hand, the guitarist still watched his drummer riffling through his stash. The guy wouldn't rip him off, but they were all pretty hungry.
“That's enough.”
“You still owe me twenty bucks from last week.”
“That's enough Shawn.”
Another smile. The guitarist felt like wiping it off with his fist.
“This should cover the fuel anyway.”
“Just take it and get out.” Wrong thing to say, he knew it the second it slipped off his tongue.
“What's up with your fan mail that I have to leave?” The drummer was interested now.
“It's not fucking fan mail,” he'd seen the return address. “Now would you get the fuck out?”
“You swear too much Scotty.”
“And you drink too much. Get out.”
“No.”
Tussles they'd had before; you couldn't live with someone for four months and not want to beat them senseless occasionally. They'd copped bruises from each other before. This time they drew blood. It finished only when the guitarist lingered a second over a finger poked in his eye; his drummer had the letter torn open.
“ 'Dearest Scott,
“The fire's crackling a little, you always liked to watch it burn. A few more sticks of kindling to turn black, then white, then disappear altogether—' ”
“Shawn fucking give it back!”
“ '—like snow you said. You'd watch the snow for miles around, watch it cover the ground and the trees, you didn't move until the storms passed. Is it snowing in Cooma? . . .' ” the drummer's eyes clouded a little in confusion, “ '. . . Riain likes to play in the snow with his little boots and the jumper from Kosciusko, and he's always asking about his Daddy. I love my Daddy. One day when I grow big I'm gonna be just like him and go out in the van to play guitar to lots of people. My Daddy says I'll make my Mama really really proud' . . . Scotty what the fuck?”
The guitarist cradled his head in his hands.
“You've got a kid?”
“No Shawn, I don't.”
“Then what the fuck's all this about?”
“Is it too fucking hard to believe some fans are psycho?”
“You've got some mental case after you?”
“Yeah.”
The drummer didn't believe him, but wouldn't push; he wasn't the type. The guitarist didn't care one way or the other. He wanted to be alone.
“I . . . I'm gonna start loading the van. They want us to start at eight.”
“I'm not gonna forget Shawn.”
The drummer closed the door behind him, the guitarist's fingers found their way back to the Gibson and A minor 7. Letter and envelope had been left on the side table.
He stared at them until it felt like the wind outside was her head on his shoulder, her breath in his ear, and all he could see was a tiny stone cross in a forest of eucalypts.
He had no son.
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