Within a few minutes I was within sight of the house. It looked like a palace made of drifted snow-very white, probably stucco, or adobe, or whatever it is they use to build in these unforested mountains. Spires and turrets spun out of the main building like icicles, and through the glass patio doors I could see soft blue lights illuminating the interior. I still didn’t see any guards around, so I ran from one thicket to another until I reached the side of the house. I edged close to the glass doors and looked inside.
The great room beyond the doors was vast, empty, and icily white. In the center of the room stood a blue-lit ornamental pool that was frozen-the Snow Queen’s signature, I supposed. But I had little time to notice any more of the details of that vast cold room, because by then I had caught sight of Kay, paper thin and blue with cold. He was sitting in shadow at the edge of the frozen pool, hunched on the floor, concentrating intently on some small pieces of ice. He was moving the broken shapes into one position and then another, as if he were trying to put together a pictureless puzzle. He was so absorbed in the complexity of his task that he did not even look up when I slid open the glass door and eased into the room.
As I came closer, I could hear Kay muttering, “I have to spell eternity. She said she’d give me whatever I wanted if I could spell it out with ice.” His hand was shaking as he pushed more ice shards together. I could not make out any shapes at all in the design, but he seemed to think he was making a sensible pattern. This is what the Snow Queen’s powder has done to his mind, I thought, and suddenly I felt so tired, and so sad that it had to end this way, that I began to cry. I thought that nothing could make this shell of a man recover his health and spirits.
I knelt down and put my arms around him. “I’ve found you, Kay!” I said, holding my wet cheek against his cold face. He felt like a sack of bones wrapped in parchment when I hugged him. “It’s going to be all right. I’ve come to take you home.”
He looked up at me then, and at first his stare was cold and emotionless, as if he had trouble remembering who I was, but I got him up and made him walk around, and gradually his eyes cleared a little, and he began to mumble responses to my questions, and before long we were both crying. “Gerda,” he whispered. “Where have you been all this time? And-where have I been?”
He was like somebody waking up from a long nightmare. At one point he looked around the room, and said, “This place is cold and empty. Let’s get out of here!”
“The sooner the better.” The Snow Queen could come back any time now, and, since I wasn’t armed, I wanted to be gone before she returned.
We had a long way to go to get back home, and Kay had an even longer way to go to get the craving for the Snow Queen’s powder out of his system, but we took it slowly. First, out the garden and down the mountain, where Rudy met us and helped us back to the highway. Then back to the city, and finally the long journey home to Denmark, where Kay could get long-term medical care for his condition.
It is spring again now. More than a year has passed since Kay took off on the wild ride with the Snow Queen, but he is almost his old self again. He grows stronger every day, and he’s talking about getting out of therapy soon, and looking for work. Maybe he’ll become a gardener in the country. He’s growing roses again.
I looked at him, tanned and fit in the warm sunshine, with roses in his cheeks as pink as the ones on the tree, and I whispered, “Peace, O Lord.” This time I wasn’t swearing.
AN AUTUMN MIGRATION
THE GHOST OF my father-in-law arrived today, smiling vaguely as he always does-or did, taking no notice of me. He acted for all the world as if I were the ghost instead of he. Not even a nod of greeting or a funny remark about the weather, which was about all the conversation we’d ever managed when he was alive. I’m not very good at conversing with people. Stephen says that I have no small talk. I listened a lot, though.
With my father-in-law, I became an audience of one to his endless supply of anecdotes, and I think he enjoyed having someone pay attention to him. He used to tell funny stories about his days in the Big One, by which he meant World War II, and he could always find a way to laugh at a rained-out ball game or a broken washing machine. This did not seem to endear him to his energetic wife and son, especially since his inability to hold a job made ball games and washing machines hard to come by, but his affability had made him a comforting in-law for the nervous and awkward bride that I had been. We were never really close, but we enjoyed each other’s company.
Later I sometimes shared Stephen’s exasperation with the smiling, tipsy ne’er-do-well who could never seem to hold on to a paycheck or a driver’s license, but in truth I would have forgiven him a great deal more than poverty and drunkenness for giving me a few moments of ease in those early days when I had felt on trial before Stephen and his exacting mother, for whom nothing was ever clean enough.
I didn’t hear the front door open and close-or perhaps it didn’t.
When he arrived, I was alone, of course, in that long emptiness of the suburban afternoon. I told myself that I was waiting for Stephen to come home, but I was careful not to ask myself why. Certainly I was not expecting any visitors that day-or any other day-and my father-in-law was as far from my thoughts as he had ever been in life.
I had been dusting the coffee table, a favorite pastime of mine, because you can make your hand do lazy arcs across a smooth wooden surface while thinking of absolutely nothing, and if you happen to be holding a damp polishing rag in your hand at the time, it counts as actual work. When I looked up from my shining circles, I saw my father-in-law clumping soundlessly up the stairs in his baggy brown suit and his old scuffed wingtips. He was probably wearing a worn silk tie loosened at his throat. He looked just as I remembered him: a portly old gentleman with sparse gray hair and a ruddy face. I even fancied that I caught the scent of Jack Daniel’s and stale tobacco as he sailed past. He was carrying the battered leather suitcase that used to sit in the hall closet at his house. I wondered where he was going, and why he needed luggage to get there.
He did not even glance around to see if anyone was watching him before he went upstairs. Perhaps he was looking for Stephen, but Stephen is never home at this hour of the day. For most of the year I scarcely see him in daylight. He works very hard, unlike his dad-or perhaps because of him-and he doesn’t talk to me much these days. He is impatient with my depression, although he always asks if I am taking my medicine, and he is careful to remind me of doctors’ appointments. But I know that secretly he thinks that I could snap out of it if I wanted to. An aerobics class or a new hairdo would do wonders for me, he suggests now and then, trying to sound casual about it. He thinks that depression is a luxury reserved for housewives whose husbands have adequate incomes.
Perhaps he is right. Perhaps those who are forced to go out and face the world with such a mental shroud about them throw themselves in front of trains or run their cars into trees rather than endure the tedium of another dark day. I have thought of such things myself, but it would take too much effort to leave the house.
I always promise to cheer up, as Stephen puts it, and that ends the discussion. Then when he leaves for the office, I crawl back into bed and sleep as long as I can. Sometimes I play endless games of solitaire on Stephen’s home computer, watching the electronic cards flash by, and scarcely caring if the suits fit together or not. I do not watch much television. Seeing those noisy strangers on the screen making such a fuss over a new car or a better detergent always makes me feel sadder and even more out of step with the world. I would rather sleep.