Tidings. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ in a theater. It has nothing to do with the music or the play. I’m feeling sorry for the musicians, the actors, all those for whom that public performance of private fantasy is a way of life.

      The temptation is strong to comment, congratulate, thank Ben for his participation on these, the last moments of his fifteenth birthday. But I don’t, it would be a violation. Not doing those things is most of what I’m trying to learn. I seem to lack a certain sensitivity, respect, for the inner needs of others; Lor always seems to know just what to do. It might be a part of what makes me a piss-poor philosopher and her an outstanding first-grade teacher. She almost always seems to do the right thing without trying.

      We continue through the carols, very low-key, whispering, and I’m surprised how many of the words Ben knows, as he begins to sing with us; convinced it isn’t a competition or a command performance, but a mutual expression of good will. The tree stands mute, deep, dark green, mysterious; our representative from the great outdoors; an unwilling martyr to our desire for expression of oneness with the world, with all living things.

      I feel calm inside. I resolve to hold tight the promise I made Loretta and keep my mouth shut when our daughters start working their thing off. Both our girls are heavily committed to the emancipation of womankind. Brothers and fathers are automatically guilty and are expected to absorb the brunt of the assault. Assault I can usually handle but directed insult triggers me if I’m not careful. The problem is, after twenty-five years of philosophical nit-picking, I’m a veritable demon at dispute, and it’s frustrating for the girls, especially Nicole.

      This is what happened two Christmases ago in California. Loretta walked away and went to bed, she refuses to let herself get involved in nonproductive, noncommunicative conflict situations. I wish I could be so smart, I think it’s the contentious Irish in me. Nicole gets especially hostile after she’s had too much white wine. She’s so much like Nora, Loretta’s late sister, it can be frightening.

      That Christmas, Nicole started insisting we’d ‘fucked up’ her life. I guess all parents are shocked, concerned when one of their children comes to feel this. But having evolved from difficult backgrounds ourselves, Lor and I’d convinced each other we’d honestly tried not to do just that. It’s so hard to show love, especially when you really love, respect and admire the loved one. It’s almost as if they want you to violate them, force them to behave by some standard of your own not related to their desires. Maybe they want a chance to manifest their love for you by submission. I don’t know. It’s beyond me.

      So, there, in the pleasant dark, I reaffirm my determination to listen, not to be provoked, to make the most of this which, I’m convinced, will be our last Christmas together. I feel a pang again because Mike won’t make it, but then again, we can’t have everything.

      Before going to bed, I heat some water and scrub myself thoroughly in the washbowl. I stink from nervous perspiration and it’d be no fun for Lor sleeping beside someone who smells like an escapee from a metro or a zoo. I even shave. Ben sets up his bed before the fire, then when everybody’s settled in, I blow out the candles and crawl into bed.

      As I’m going off to sleep, wrapped close to Loretta’s back, I think again what a big mistake our species made when we started building houses with sleeping, eating, cooking, washing, all separated into different compartments. Virtually everybody in this village lives as we do, in one room. It’s surprising how comforting this can be. I won’t try to defend that one with the girls. There’s no reason to.

      I wake at about seven thirty for a pressing morning piss. I don’t usually take a diuretic before sleeping, but last night I did, along with my usual Valium. I could feel signs of elevated blood pressure, a slight tightness under my left arm, a throbbing in the temples.

      Two good things came of my medicating. One, I got up twice during the night and each time threw a good-sized log on the fire to keep it going, so now it’s burning merrily. Starting a new fire in the ashes on a freezing morning with cold, damp wood is not my idea of a great way to begin a winter day.

      I let my eyes drift around the room, enjoying peace and the coming dawn.

      The second good thing is the blood pressure is down and I’m feeling very content, undisturbed inside, in tune with the world. I run through again what has to be done, as I see it, and my only concern is for Lor. But it’s a concern, not an anxiety.

      For me, Christmas Eve day is even more important, more exciting, than Christmas Day itself. The sense of anticipation, of expectant readiness, is magic. I hear, feel, Lor breathing beside me. Ben is stretched out, overlapping his cot by the fire, arms hanging over the sides. He sleeps deeply, calmly, no tossing, no teeth grinding, no startled nightmares, no thumb or finger sucking. We like to think it’s because we never let him cry himself to sleep, never left him alone in the dark when he wanted to be with us. Until he was seven, he spent at least half of each night in our bed, usually cuddling with me. I didn’t mind, I liked it; I don’t think sleeping alone is natural. With our first three we were young and foolish enough, vulnerable to rigid conditioning theories then prevalent, to insist they stay in their own beds, so now each is an erratic sleeper. I myself only became capable of deep, full, refreshing sleep when I was about forty. I can’t always manage it, now, even with meditation or Valium, but then things have been hard lately.

      The skylights in the ceiling are beginning to lighten. It almost looks like blue sky, clear, behind tree branches hanging over our roof. The room is starting to quicken with light.

      I ease myself out of bed, slide my feet into cool slippers, adjust for the failing clasp on my pajamas, turn the butane heater up to high, fill the tea kettle with water. I love filling this kettle through the spout, might even be a sexual thing, some compensation for my failure as a lover to my loved one.

      I light the stove and put on water for washing. I sneak past Ben, turn over the log burning in the fire and jam another log next to it. I check the inside temperature, fourteen Celsius, we should have that back up to twenty within the next hour. I go to the door and pull back my thick red drapes so I can look at the outside thermometer.

      I’m startled by a white, just lightening sky over the frosted trees, blending to a fragile, transparent white-blue overhead. I’m transfixed in wonder.

      I break my eyes away enough to look at the outside thermometer through the frosted window. Twenty-two degrees below freezing. The sun still hasn’t risen. I’m torn between waking Lor and Ben or enjoying this special moment to myself. They’ll be up late tonight with the Reveillon at Madame Calvet’s, plus all the excitement of the girls arriving; they need their sleep, so I take the selfish decision.

      I dress quietly, turn off the stove under the hot water, slip on boots, jacket, gloves, wool knit cap. I carefully open the door, let myself out, then pull firmly so it latches behind me.

      I look left and there is magnificent ice sculpture from the falls. Every splash, every flowing current is frozen in twisting glossy forms like transparent, clear toy candy. The ivy growing along the sides of the sluice gate is wrapped in ice, inches thick, drooping gracefully with the weight of each leaf captured green in transparent ice cages. There are giant icicles, four feet long, three inches thick hanging from the stone, temporary stalactites. I walk across the frozen, ice-creaking wooden porch, up the slippery steps onto the dam to look out over the pond.

      It’s frozen absolutely clear without a ripple. If you didn’t know it was winter, if there were green leaves to reflect on its perfectly calm surface, you’d think it was five thirty in the morning of a June dawn; halfway around the calendar from now.

      The glow of the sun is still hidden by the eastern edge of our valley-bowl. There are no clouds. It’s so empty, one could easily wonder if there ever had been, СКАЧАТЬ