Roger said, “Have you seen my sled? I left it against the tree. It’s gone.”
“Oh, look!” said Catherine. She was stunned. “Was that a rabbit?” A little animal had gone hobbling across the dark upper yard.
“A cat, I think,” someone said.
“A rat,” someone else said.
“A skirt to go sledding in. Nylons; the whole bit. She kills me. She’s probably wearing heels. I suppose she thinks it’s the spring dance.”
“Well,” said Brad, “at least she didn’t come in a bathing suit.”
“Don’t bet on it. She gives me a swift pain I hate to say where. She ought to wear a sign on her chest: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.”
“It didn’t look like a cat,” said Catherine. “Unless cats hop. Cats don’t, do they?”
“They might,” said Roger, “in the snow. They might have to. Someone stole my sled. This isn’t a bad party. At least they let you smoke.”
“You sound like my father,” said Catherine. “This party is not unwonderful.”
“This party,” said Roger, “is very unbad.”
Sonia Holmes had come to the sledding party wearing nylons. Catherine imagined her long, sleek legs glittering in the moonlight as she sledded down the path, under the dark, rich-blue sky. It seemed festive. Why not?
“Maybe she isn’t planning to go sledding,” said Brad. “I hope she is, though. It might be worth watching — especially if she falls off.”
“I bet she came to the wrong party,” said Bev. “Whoops, ’scuse me, folks. I just stopped by to use your convenience. Can someone point the way to the powder room? Cath, what on earth are you doing?”
“I was looking at the moon. My eyes were closed because I was trying to see if I could tell whether the moon was out even if my eyes were closed. Parties make me feel a little insane. Listen, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll call Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, a dreadful accident has occurred. Mr. Holmes, I regret to inform you that your daughter has lost her pants. She’s hiding in the cellar, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, I know we can trust you to be discreet.”
“Well, could you?” said Roger.
“What are you talking about?”
“The moon. You said you were trying to tell if the moon — welcome, stranger.”
“Ride down with me, Cath?” It was Peter Schiller, holding a sled.
“Sure. But let me steer, all right? Listen, do you know what Bev said? She said Sonia ought to wear a sign around her chest: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.”
“Ozymandias,” said Peter.
Catherine looked away in sharp irritation.
“She came in a skirt and stockings,” he said.
“We know.”
“But you don’t know what she said. When she came into the room Helen said to her, ‘Are you going sledding like that?’ She gave Helen one of her Sonia looks and said, ‘I didn’t think you had to go.’ That was how she said it: ‘I didn’t think you had to go.’” Peter laughed. “Well, come on. Have you done it with two before?”
“Not exactly.”
He put down the sled. “Well, it’s a little tricky.” He bent over the sled, pushed it lightly to the start of the path, and lay down. He looked over his shoulder. “Just think of me as a sled. Try not to get off center. I can’t steer much with my hands on the inside, but I can help a little. It’s better to get a running start, but we’ll ask Brad to push us off this time. O.K.?”
“I’ll just think of you as a sled, Peter.” As she said it, laughing, Catherine was startled at the cruel and mocking sound of her words, but no one seemed to notice. Peter lay on the sled in his heavy coat and tucked-in scarf. She lay down on top of him, shifted about, and grasped the outside of the steering bar. She felt awfully high up. Her boots kept sliding off his legs. “Put your feet on the sled, Cath, it’s safer. O.K., Brad. Give us a push. Easy.” Brad bent over them and eased them forward along the flat start of the path. He gave a light push and released them.
Catherine steered clumsily around the curve and felt herself slipping to one side, but she managed to stay on as they swung onto the downward path. The runners rushed over the glazed snow, and she felt herself still slipping to one side as they took the second curve and came to the fork. She turned sharply to the left, rocking the sled and feeling a boot drag against the snowbank. She jerked to the right, and suddenly they were rushing at the right bank; Catherine braced herself, but somehow they were back on the path. Half on and half off, they rushed past the wild cherry and came to an abrupt stop in the high snow. Catherine fell off. “Damn.” She burst into laughter, lying on her back in the snow. The sky was dark, radiant blue. The moon was so bright that it seemed lit from within. It reminded her of the eye of a great cat. The night was a dark blue cat with a mad moon eye. Snow burned on her cheeks and a soft powder of snow stirred in the air about her. She could feel a coil of hair on her snow-wet cheek. She stretched out her arms and began moving them back and forth in the snow, as if she were giving semaphore signals. Peter stared down at her. “You’d better get up, Cath. What are you doing?” “Snow-angels. Didn’t you ever do that as a kid?” He stared down at her and she burst out laughing. “Oh, Peter, you look so bewildered!” She stood up, dusting off snow.
They trudged uphill, Peter’s buckled boots jangling.
The second time it went much better: Catherine took the first curve smoothly, swung effortlessly onto the left fork, steered past the wild cherry, and never once felt herself slipping. She drove into their tracks beside the blurred snow-angel, and brought them to a stop five feet beyond their first mark.
She was exhilarated as they walked uphill. “Isn’t there something festive about snow? Festive and solemn. I can’t explain it. Oh, I can. It’s festive because it turns everything into odd shapes, and solemn because it’s white, like nurses, and hushed, and very smooth and formal, like a linen tablecloth.”
Peter laughed. “That’s wild. Have you got your scores back yet?”
“Not yet. Brad got 787 in Math.”
“Well, he can always join the Army.”
“He had to break the news gently to his mother. I hear Sonia got an 800 in posture.”
Peter burst into loud, nervous laughter.
The third time, it was Peter’s turn. Catherine lay on the sled and grasped the inside of the steering bar. “Watch out for that tree, Peter. Remember old Ethan Frome.” He pushed the sled, running behind as he bent over it, then threw himself lightly and easily on top of her as he took the outside of the steering bar. She could feel his chin pressing into her thick fur collar. They went much faster, took the curves well, rushed into the left fork, and flew past the wild cherry. At the bottom they came to a halt a few feet past their second mark — a record every time. She felt Peter moving her hair and kerchief away from her ear, and she heard him say “Love you” or “I love you.” She stayed very still. Nothing happened. All at once the weight left her body; she heard the jangle of boot buckles and a sharp crunch of snow.