The deprivation, it still surprises him, long past the time he should be surprised by anything (by what a man will do to a child, given his druthers, given a justifiable end). Inside her there’s a black, gaping pit of need - smaller than it used to be, but still there, never to be completely filled by pancakes and sugary cereals; soap operas and thirteen-year old nerd boys; not even by the awkward, fearful, desperate love of a second father (who is absolutely nothing like the first one.)
He recognizes the darkness. It echoes the one inside him. And not booze and pills and work; not a shared cigarette, a pull from the same flask, accidentally on purpose bumping hips with his high school ex; not even having someone – a child, a girl - to take care of drive it away for good.
But this, their nighttime ritual - well, their once every ten days ritual (he gets distracted, she gets temperamental.) It helps.
“Last one for tonight. Your pick.”
“Peter. And the snow.”
It comes out before he can push it down: an eye-roll, an impatient expelling of breath. He opens his mouth: to complain that she had no right to go through Sara’s books; point out that someone who runs away to Chicago and has time for a makeover before she waltzes home in the nick of time to slaughter a passel of demon dogs and close an inter-dimensional portal is too damn old for a bedtime story; threaten that this is the absolute last time he’ll read it to her.
But she looks at him with those hollow, unblinking eyes, and the words fade away.
“When he woke up his dream was gone. The snow was still everywhere. New snow was falling! After breakfast he called to his friend from across the hall, and they went out together into the deep, deep snow.”
He’s rewarded with the hint of a smile, a muted sigh of content. She snuggles deeper into the mouse nest of faded quilts she insists on sleeping under.
“Does the snow ever get so high here?"
“Nah, excepting big blizzards of course. It doesn’t snow so much over there, either. It’s just that with the plows, the narrow streets, it looks higher."
“Enough for a snowman, though."
“There, yes. Here, too."
“And he likes the bath?”
“Of course. It gets cold out in the snow. Feels good to warm up in a nice, friendly tub.”
She pooches her lips out, unconvinced.
“When you came to the house, you were cold, right?”
“Yes. My toes hurt.”
“And the shower warmed you up? You felt better while you were taking one, afterwards too? Liked how you felt toasty from the inside out, not just on the surface?”
“Yes.”
“With the tub, it's the same thing. Better, even. You can add bubbles."
She nods, skeptical, but slightly less so than the last time they had this conversation.
He prepares himself for her next sortie, reminds himself not to lose his temper.
“You’ll let me go outside? To make one? Next time it snows?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d be careful. To not be stupid.”
“It couldn’t sit around. You’d have to destroy it, right after you built it. You’d have to make it in the dark, when everyone is sleeping, so no one will see you.”
“Halfway happy, right?”
“You’re getting it, now.”
And for a while, it’s a little lighter.
[Hopefully the book reference isn't too vague. It's Ezra Jack Keats' The Snowy Day.]
no subject
He recognizes the darkness. It echoes the one inside him. And not booze and pills and work; not a shared cigarette, a pull from the same flask, accidentally on purpose bumping hips with his high school ex; not even having someone – a child, a girl - to take care of drive it away for good.
But this, their nighttime ritual - well, their once every ten days ritual (he gets distracted, she gets temperamental.) It helps.
“Last one for tonight. Your pick.”
“Peter. And the snow.”
It comes out before he can push it down: an eye-roll, an impatient expelling of breath. He opens his mouth: to complain that she had no right to go through Sara’s books; point out that someone who runs away to Chicago and has time for a makeover before she waltzes home in the nick of time to slaughter a passel of demon dogs and close an inter-dimensional portal is too damn old for a bedtime story; threaten that this is the absolute last time he’ll read it to her.
But she looks at him with those hollow, unblinking eyes, and the words fade away.
“When he woke up his dream was gone. The snow was still everywhere. New snow was falling! After breakfast he called to his friend from across the hall, and they went out together into the deep, deep snow.”
He’s rewarded with the hint of a smile, a muted sigh of content. She snuggles deeper into the mouse nest of faded quilts she insists on sleeping under.
“Does the snow ever get so high here?"
“Nah, excepting big blizzards of course. It doesn’t snow so much over there, either. It’s just that with the plows, the narrow streets, it looks higher."
“Enough for a snowman, though."
“There, yes. Here, too."
“And he likes the bath?”
“Of course. It gets cold out in the snow. Feels good to warm up in a nice, friendly tub.”
She pooches her lips out, unconvinced.
“When you came to the house, you were cold, right?”
“Yes. My toes hurt.”
“And the shower warmed you up? You felt better while you were taking one, afterwards too? Liked how you felt toasty from the inside out, not just on the surface?”
“Yes.”
“With the tub, it's the same thing. Better, even. You can add bubbles."
She nods, skeptical, but slightly less so than the last time they had this conversation.
He prepares himself for her next sortie, reminds himself not to lose his temper.
“You’ll let me go outside? To make one? Next time it snows?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d be careful. To not be stupid.”
“It couldn’t sit around. You’d have to destroy it, right after you built it. You’d have to make it in the dark, when everyone is sleeping, so no one will see you.”
“Halfway happy, right?”
“You’re getting it, now.”
And for a while, it’s a little lighter.
[Hopefully the book reference isn't too vague. It's Ezra Jack Keats' The Snowy Day.]