Theory VIII

Sara’s hands were full of tea things so she ignored him. The room had cooled somewhat as the day had begun to cloud over, withdrawing into the inevitability of the season. There seemed to be no heat source in the room, just as she had remembered it, the air currents ran with the time of day and were just as unpredictable.

She lifted the biscuit up again and after licking the chocolate from her finger, repeated,
“These are good.”
Nate snorted.
“You don’t have to sound quite so incredulous.”
“It’s just….”
He stood up again, restless.
He thumped over to the drum set and eased himself onto the stool. It squeaked but admirably held.
Her tea had grown cold and she put the cup down. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.
“Mabel!!”
He let loose with a blood-curdling, banshee cry, picked up a pair of drumsticks and crashed them onto the nearest drum, then hit the cymbal over and over. The sound was deafening. It was then she realized he had an iPod and was listening to something.
“Well!” she said with disgust and got up, leaving the tea cup perched precariously on the lounge arm.

As she neared the door she turned to reprimand him (even though his back was to her and she knew he couldn’t hear anything) and before she could speak he lifted his hand with a dismissive wave before launching into a frenzied solo.

He could play the drums too. It was all lies, she thought with grim satisfaction and made sure to bang the door behind her.

**************************************8***********************************

That night she decided to cook. It had been a long time and it took a half-hour searching before she found her mother’s Joy of Cooking, splattered over and yellowed with age. Perhaps some pork chops from the freezer would do. Her mother had loved pork chops and surely there were some left over.

The freezer was in the basement. Sara hadn’t been down there in a long time. She stood at the top of the stairs trying to make out the dark shapes below. Her parents never had bothered to put in a light switch. Only a string hanging from the ceiling light, lost somewhere in the depths. She kept one foot on the landing and leaned backwards to keep close to the warmth of the stove. Beside her the windows overlooking the garden were dark reflections, revealing nothing of the world outside. They had begun to frost over, silver patterns obscuring all else.

Not your fault.
Oh yes, oh yes.

Geordie was six days old. She’d seen him from their stoop, crying and crying.

And there were other times.
Oh yes, oh yes.

The girl skating on the river.

She was so full. Fullsome. A lovely girl. There wasn’t room for anything else. The patterns of things were so clear to her, why hadn’t they been to anyone else?
Outside the air crackled and popped, burst onto the glass as a visible testament to the forces of nature.
So predictable.

The darkness was too much. She shut the door and eased away from the swollen, tired frame, covered with so many grimy prints it was hard to tell when and from where they’d come.

The water on the stove began to boil.
And boil.

That night she lay in bed and thought about Bud. Bud the beautiful. Bud the crazy. Bud the provider. Nate had crashed his drumsticks and beaten his feet on the floor but Bud could not be banished. He was for dreaming. She turned on her side and watched a spider hang gracefully from the top of the window frame. She folded into herself. Took out a flashlight and read her book under the covers.

Bud stayed outside, like a ghost.