“Not too shabby,” said Christian, immediately appalled at his choice of words. Edgar was going to think that he was a fool. Not too shabby. He had never in his life used that phrase, and vowed never to use it again. Something about Edgar made him nervous, like the older kid on the block that everybody wanted to impress.
“I like it on the open road. Every day is a new chapter, ya’ know? Keeps the blood flowing I reckon. Keeps the brain fresh.”
“I reckon it does.”
Stop it, thought Christian as he parroted back a phrase Edgar had used several times, or you’re going to insult him! He could hear Annie saying this in the back of his head, as though she was right beside him. If she was here, he wondered, would she approve of Edgar? He wasn’t sure. It was a litmus test that he often used when pondering these types of situations, one that he suspected most married men referenced from time to time: What would my wife say if I did this, or said that?
“He’s a good boy,” Edgar said, gesturing with his mug of water towards the sleeping child. When he said this, a plume of frosty breath came from his mouth, lingering in the air for a long moment.
“He’s great, too. I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Wouldn’t trade him for anything. You have any kids yourself, Edgar?”
“Nope. But I’d like some, one of these days. My last lady friend called me a hopeless man-child, can you believe that?” He started to laugh, sipping on his water. “She said I was too interested in wandering to be dragged down. So I cut her head off and thumbed my way across the Midwest.”
Christian felt himself shudder inside, glancing quickly at Paulie, then at the warm poker still clutched in his hand. He turned towards Edgar to find a hearty grin painted across the man’s typically stoic face.
He was kidding with him again.
Edgar launched into a coughing fit of chuckles, complete with the half-hearted knee slap.
“You got me again, didn’t you?” asked Christian, not finding the violent wisecrack to be the least bit amusing, especially with his son in the room, whether he was sleeping or not. If Paulie heard that statement, it would have prompted a whole string of uncomfortable questions: Daddy, why would Edgar cut somebody’s head off? Do you think they can put it back on? What happens if my head falls off?
“Come on now, Chris,” Edgar said. Nobody ever called him Chris, not even Annie. Not even his mother. Something about that irked him a bit, but he didn’t say anything. “If you can’t enjoy a little joke every now and then, then the apocalypse wins.”
That word.
That word triggered something in Christian and he suddenly wanted Annie by his side. He reached down by the fireplace, touching his son’s hair. He looked back to Edgar, who was still roaring with unhinged laughter, and Christian asked, “Do you really think this is the apocalypse?”
Edgar got quiet, pondering this for a moment. His eyes moved around as if he was weighing out the options carefully. “No, sir. I don’t reckon it is. But on a serious note—it might take some lives before it’s done. This storm’s the nastiest I’ve ever seen. Nastiest anybody has ever seen, for that matter,” said Edgar, his facing stretching into a saddened grin. The man looked like he was about to cry. Christian felt a sudden regret that he had thought ill of the man only a moment earlier.
Edgar was just as frightened as he was. We all have different mechanisms in a time of fright, thought Christian, and Edgar’s was joking, laughing, and making merry. Nothing wrong with that.
“I don’t know,” Christian said, “something tells me things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. We’ve got plenty of food, and enough of these logs to last us a few months, but that doesn’t mean anything if we freeze to death. I’m starting to feel I might go crazy long before I freeze or starve.” He paused, staring into the undulating flame of the fireplace. “Know what I mean?”
“I do. I’ve been feeling a little off my rocker sometimes too, ever since this dang snow started. It gets to you, and that’s only human. It wears away at you. Like cabin fever, but way more intense.”
Another silence filled the room. Only the occasional faux-crackle of the faux-log could be heard, accompanied by Paulie’s gentle snooze and the whistling howl of the wind outside. Christian stared at the window on the east side of the house, wondering if his neighbor was doing okay. Every couple of days, he and Marianne would chat through the windows, checking in with each other as the snow intensified, though it was almost impossible to have the window open for even a minute or two, not without feeling like death was pulling at your coat tails. Four days earlier, they had switched over to the upstairs windows, because the downstairs ones were buried and they could no longer see each other. Earlier in the morning, and the afternoon before, he had thrown snowballs (gathered from the windowsill) at her window, to which she always responded. But she wasn’t responding anymore. If she didn’t show any sign by tomorrow, he’d propose to Edgar that they go investigate his neighbor.
“So, let me ask you a really important question,” said Edgar, leaning in closer, almost too close for comfort, just a few feet away from Christian. A grin sliced across the man’s face. “How is your booze supply lookin’?”
Christian smiled so hard that his cheeks hurt.
Edgar returned that smile with one of his own.
Time to feel like men again, thought Christian.
Chapter Four
“You ever hear about all those bodies on Mount Everest?” asked Edgar.
Paulie would be waking up any minute now. He’d been asleep for more than two hours. Christian couldn’t remember the last time that Paulie had slept more than that. Of course, they were fully burnt out by the day’s, hell, the week’s, activities.
Christian needed to sober up a bit, but so did Edgar, judging by the cock-eyed sway that he gave when he spoke. He still clutched the bottle, handing it off to Christian every few swigs. The man was letting loose, but it was a little too loose for comfort. “Maybe you should take a little nap. It would do you some good after all you’ve been through.”
Edgar looked right through Christian, as if he was transparent and speaking a foreign language. “I asked a question, my friend. You ever heard about all them bodies on Everest?”
“Sure,” Christian replied, giving in a bit more than he would have liked. In the spring, there was a feature on National Public Radio about the camps around the base of Mount Everest. Quite often, those of a privileged background would show up, buying up sherpas and equipment, but once they got a bit higher than Camp Two, they’d disintegrate into madness. Some would retreat, but once in a while, they would press on, convinced that they were omnipotent. One famous corpse went by the name of “Greenboots” and was considered a living landmark, not to mention a reminder of how nasty the mountain can be in the dead of winter. Funny, thought Christian, that the entire world felt like it had turned to Everest now. It used to be that thrill hunters would go scouting for such dangers, and now those dangers were kicking in Middle Class America’s back door, asking for a hug and a kiss.