The First Flurry
We have been in his prehistoric rust-bucket of a car on our way to his parents’ house for Christmas dinner for no more than a couple of minutes.
”My dad was in an accident,” he says, and I look at him. “But you already knew that.” He takes his eyes off the road for a moment and meets my gaze. I smile, mostly to put him at ease.
“I did. But my buddy-sense is tingling, and I’m guessing there’s a reason you bring it up.” Ash and I have been friends for about a year and a half now, but that’s not how I know something’s up. He’s more transparent than a plastic bag.
“I haven’t really seen him much since he woke up. He spent all that time at the rehab center, you know, getting better. He’s just been home for a few months.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, clears his throat that way he always does when he’s uncomfortable, and gets to the point. “Mom says he’s a little different now. I don’t know what that means, but I just thought you should know.”
“But I’ve never met the man before. I’m sure he can’t be so different that even I notice it.”
“No, I guess you’re right. As always.” He smiles and looks at me as we’re stopping at a red light.
“And don’t you forget it.” I won a bet once, when we were drunk, about which girl was going to slap this creep in the bar who kept hitting on anyone close enough to smell his rank, boozy breath. The prize was to be right in all questions and circumstances — always and forever. As the car starts rolling again, I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore. “Fugly hat you got there.” It’s a bright orange knitted cap with flaps that cover his ears.
“Thanks!” He grins. “My mom made it. It matches my fugly old car perfectly, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah! It really does.” I look down at my shoes, a pair of brand spanking new trainers that my mother bought me. They’re supposed to be amazing for some special reason I couldn’t care less about. There are no actual holes in the floor of the car, but if the engine were to die it wouldn’t take much effort before we could power the car Flintstones-style. The shoes might actually come in handy.
We’re silent the rest of the way. This is one of the best things about Ash. We can sit for hours, studying, drinking, staring into space, quieter than any mouse that’s ever walked the earth, and it’s never awkward. With him there can be such a thing as blissful silence.
My mind starts to wander as we roll through the streets of Eugene, a city much cooler than Portland. What little information I have about Mr. Simmons’ accident amounts to this: As he was driving home on the Florence-Eugene highway, there was a guy in a truck, probably a really big one, who fell asleep at the wheel — someone whom the national caffeine outreach program, also known as Starbucks, apparently hadn’t reached. Factoring in all possible aspects of their encounter with each other, it wasn’t bad luck. It was ridiculous. Such things shouldn’t happen.
I close my eyes and imagine the sound of the horn that Mr. Simmons surely blasted as the truck swung into his lane just a few yards in front of him. The horn drowns out the sound of the radio, but the man in the truck doesn’t wake up, and now it’s a question of yanking the wheel or becoming a crash test dummy. On second thought, he wouldn’t have had time to blast his horn. He is alone with the music as he yanks the wheel. He yanks it too hard, his desire to escape too primal to control. The car rolls, the sounds of breaking glass and groaning metal shredding the air. I know the car rolled and came to a stop, upside down, at the edge of the woods surrounding the road. This is how I imagine it went down, because Ash has never wanted to talk about it. Unfortunately, this hasn’t kept me from wanting to know. I’ve been told I have a morbid mind, but I prefer to think of myself as inquisitive.
“Hey, are you sleeping?” My eyes pop open at the sound of his voice.
“Nope! I’m awake, I swear to God.”
“Good, ’cause we’re here now,” he says as we pull into the driveway of a little house. There’s a whole bunch of them lined up on both sides of the street, all of them of the same approximate size and shape. The one we’re parked beside is a mossy green color, with white corners. It looks like they painted the house recently. I guess Mrs. Simmons needed something to do while Mr. Simmons was recuperating. You can only knit so many weird looking hats before you get bored.
We get out of the car and walk to the front door. I’ve brought a potted plant to present to Mrs. Simmons. Ash rings the bell.
“Don’t you have a key? You know, you kind of look like a gnome in that hat. Maybe you should stay out here in the garden with the others and I’ll bring some food out when we’re finished eating.” I gently nudge him in the side with my elbow. We’re about the same height, which is to say we could both afford to grow a few inches.
“I forgot my key, okay? And I know I look like a dork. Just don’t tell my mom. I only wore it to make her happy. But I must admit that my ears are pretty toasty,” he says, and pulls at the tassels attached to the earflaps.
“Mum’s the word,” I say, smiling. It’s nice, the relationship he has with his parents. When he talks about them I always imagine this idyllic 1950’s cartoon couple, where the father sits reading a paper, smoking a pipe, while the mother, clad in an apron, is baking a pie. There are noises coming from just inside the door before it is opened to show the beaming face of Mrs. Simmons and to let out the wondrous smells of her cooking. She is actually wearing an apron.
“Welcome,” she says, looking about ready to burst with glee. “Please, come in. Don’t stand out there in the cold.” She motions for us to enter, and Ash crosses the threshold first, gathering his mother up in a hug as soon as he’s in the house. I walk in behind him, and I think to myself that my mother wouldn’t be that happy to see me even if I’d been dipped in gold and polished to a blinding shine.
“You must be Alex. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She is looking at me expectantly, like she knows something I don’t. I feel like I should do a magic trick or something. I do what I can and show her the plant I’ve been holding low at my side. But before I give it to her I hold out my hand.
“It’s so nice to meet you too, Mrs. Simmons. Thank you for having me.” My mother has taught me to be polite. That was one of the things that she nagged the most about when I was growing up, but when I’m introduced to new people nowadays, I feel very grateful for her insistence. Being polite gets you further than I ever expected when I was a kid. “I brought you this little tree. Ash told me you like flowers, but that you’re allergic to some of them. I don’t know much about plants, so I thought a tree might be better than a flower.” She takes it and beams at me.
“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful. This will be perfect for our bedroom window.”
“Hey, Mom. Where’s Dad at? Is he lazing in front of the TV while you do all the work?”
“Actually, he’s in the kitchen making sure the food doesn’t get burned.” Ash wears his surprised face. “We should probably join him.” She says this with a twitch of the mouth, turns to me abruptly and says, “I really like your hair, by the way. How do you get it so curly? I’ve always wanted curly hair.”
She walks away then, towards what I’m guessing must be the kitchen. I turn to Ash and raise my eyebrows and he just shrugs as he hangs up his jacket and walks after his mother. I hang up my own jacket next to his and follow them. The walk to the kitchen is short, just through a hallway to the right that passes a sitting room with a giant decked out Christmas tree. When I enter the kitchen there’s a man standing at the stove who I assume must be Mr. Simmons. He is very skinny. I see that even though he’s standing with his back to the door. There’s a big table, a slab of some light wood, the grains of which I’m sure Ash and his family have been tracing with their fingers for a countless number of years, and tonight it’s set for four instead of three. Ash and Mrs. Simmons are putting dish after dish on the table, most of them not containing stuff my mother would choose for a Christmas dinner. It’s not traditional enough for that. But that’s the greatest thing about celebrating with another family — it might be their tradition.
“Dad, this is Alex. I’ve told you about her. She’s the one who’s kept me from flunking these past three semesters.” He turns around to greet me. The first thing I notice is how similar they look, the same coffee colored eyes, the same chin that makes their faces less than distinguished. They even have the same haircut, the dark brown hair cropped close to the scalp. Apart from the furiously red scar at his left temple, looking at Mr. Simmons is like looking at Ash in thirty-five years. There’s confusion in his eyes.
“Your son exaggerates a great deal, I’m afraid, Mr. Simmons. I know less than nothing about the complicated things he studies. And I couldn’t draw to save my life.” I smile at him, trying to figure out what it is about me that makes him confused, just as he offers up the information free of charge.
“You’re a girl. I don’t get it. He talks about you like you’re a guy. I thought your name was Alex.”
“Actually, it’s Alexandra. But the only people who call me by my full name are my parents.”
“So you’re his girlfriend? Why else would he talk about you so much? Every time he’s called, Maureen tells me at least five new things you two have done together.” I can’t help but smile at Ash, who looks absolutely mortified. His eyes are practically bugging out of his head.
“No, Mr. Simmons, we’re not together. Just very good friends.”
“Huh. Does that work nowadays? I thought guys and girls couldn’t be friends without someone wanting to bone the other.”
“Patrick!” Mrs. Simmons pipes in. “Just take that pot off the stove and go sit down.” She glares at him and points to one of the chairs around the table, just in case he might think he should sit down somewhere else. Mr. Simmons grunts in reply and does what he’s told.
We all sit down and survey the table. There’s some sort of casserole, half a salt-encrusted salmon, a roast, a huge bowl of mashed potatoes, a huge bowl of roasted vegetables, a big bowl of salad, and on it goes. I’m astounded at the amount of work it must have taken to produce such a feast.
“You’ve really done an amazing job, Mrs. Simmons. My mother could never cook like this.”
“Oh, stop. It wasn’t that difficult. Plus, this year I had a lot of help.” She looks at her husband, who focuses on cutting the roast. I glance at Ash, who’s looking at his mother with a question in his eyes. His mother doesn’t see this though, as she seems to have her own problems on her mind, so he redirects his questioning gaze to the plate in front of him. I know this move as well as the lines in my favorite movie.
“What is it you study, Alex? I don’t think Ashley has ever mentioned this.” Mrs. Simmons smiles benignly, and I can see Ash cringe at the sound of his full name.
“I’m majoring in English literature, with a minor in anthropology.” At this Mr. Simmons takes his eyes of his plate.
“So you’re not going to be an architect?” He’s not pleased.
“No, I am not. Ash is going to have to be architect for the both of us while I waste my attention on less useful stuff.” I look at him with a smile to fully gauge his reaction. He glares at me for a moment before turning his attention back to his food. Ash clears his throat.
“Alex and I met at a concert, Dad. It was this completely unknown indie band that we both really liked. And then when we started talking, we realized we had a ton of things in common.” To my ears it sounds like Ash is trying too hard. But then again, this might be a family where conversation is actually encouraged rather than frowned upon.
“Like what?” is all his father answers.
“Well, like books, movies, games and stuff. And comic books.”
They’re looking at each other like Mrs. Simmons and I aren’t even in the room.
“So, she’s a dweeb like you then.” Ash looks like he’s been slapped in the face, and I feel the need to contribute to the conversation.
“Actually, we prefer geeks. Or nerds works, too. Haven’t you heard that nerds are the new jocks? I’ve even read somewhere that we’re going to take over the world some day.” I say this as a joke, because quite frankly, I can’t see the severity of the subject. But I can tell by the expressions on their faces that this might have been the wrong thing to say.
“Not where I’m from, they’re not,” Mr. Simmons mutters and looks down at his half empty plate. Apparently that’s all he wants to say about it. Crisis averted. Mission accomplished.
No one seems very enthusiastic about talking after this, and the meal is finished in silence. This is what I’m used to in a family setting, so it doesn’t bother me, but it seems to be rubbing both Ash and Mrs. Simmons the wrong way. After the table has been cleared we all walk into the living room for coffee. Ash tells his mother that we should be heading out soon, because we still both have a lot of work to do back at school. His mother complains about the necessity of studying during Christmas, but he doesn’t take her bait. Ash can be a hard fish to catch when he’s in one of his moods.
“Ashley told me you’re writing an essay. What are you writing about, if I may ask?” Mr. Simmons isn’t interested in what I’m doing at school, but I get the feeling it might have been a while since he spoke to someone for more than a few minutes at a time. He doesn’t seem like the talkative type though, which conflicts with how I’ve imagined him.
“I’m writing about the didactic aspects of old folklore and fairy tales. Personally, I find the implications of what life and culture used to be like in these stories fascinating.” I can hear Ash and his mother having a hushed argument in the hallway.
“That sounds really boring.”
“Yes, my mother told me exactly that when I said I couldn’t join them on their trip to Aspen over the holidays.”
“So, that’s why you’re here. I’ve been wondering about that ever since Maureen told me you were coming. I was convinced your parents hated you when she said they weren’t dead.” He says this with a perfectly straight face, like he’s ordering a pizza or stating the fact that a lemon is yellow.
“My parents don’t hate me. They just have no interest in me or how I live my life, and they never have.” This is a fact that I accepted long ago. “They have more important things to think about, such as how much money they have in the bank, or where to go for their next vacation.”
“I see. You’re loaded, in other words.”
“I’m not loaded, but they are. They give me things I don’t need or want at times, but apart from that, I’m not much affected by their wealth.” I can hear myself starting to talk the way my mother does when she’s speaking with one of her so-called girlfriends. She’s in a secret league of plastic ladies who refuse to look or act their age. To be a member you have to have undergone at least five plastic surgeries and be married to a man who makes no less than seven figures a year.
“And you and Ash aren’t bumping uglies? I’m sure he could do way worse than you.”
“Thanks, but I’m not his type.”
“Damn it. I knew we jinxed it by giving him a girl’s name. He’s gayer than one of those stylist people you see on the TV all the time, isn’t he?”
“Dad, what the fuck!” Ash is standing in the doorway, staring at his father, chest heaving with every breath he takes.
“What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, and you’re more fond of toys than any man your age rightly should be. What am I supposed to think?” He’s stood up from the leather armchair he was sitting in, probably so that he can face his son at eyelevel. His angry face stands out in contrast to the jolly, twinkling lights of the Christmas tree behind him. The scar at his temple is so scarlet I almost expect blood to start seeping out of it.
“You’re not supposed to say shit like that.” The volume of their voices is well beyond normal now.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you’re my dad!” Ash screams this, and then there is silence. I look at him and see that he’s crying. I wasn’t meant to be here for this, but now that I am, I have to do what I can to make it bearable. I walk over to him, thread my fingers through his and lead him towards the door, where Mrs. Simmons is standing. She looks ashamed. I let go of Ash’s hand to get our jackets down, and she turns to me without speaking.
“Thank you for your hospitality, and for a lovely meal, but I think it’s best for us to leave,” I say. She doesn’t reply but nods her head instead. I give the jacket to Ash and he puts it on and walks out the door without looking at his mother.
“I’ll drive,” I tell him, and he tosses me the car keys without argument. On the drive back to the dorms the silence in the car is not blissful. It’s not even awkward. I’d prefer that over the pressing misery that’s emanating from my friend, making the air hard to breathe. I have to say something.
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” he says quietly, more to himself than to me I think.
This sparks an image in my head. A car, lying upside down at the edge of the woods with Mr. Simmons in it. There’s broken glass on the ground and in the car as well, where the glass is mixed with blood. There’s a smell of gasoline in the air. Before the ambulance arrives, there’s movement in the woods, shadows ambling among the trees. Someone walks out, looking just like Patrick Simmons. The Mr. Simmons in the car is carried away, disappearing into the dark woods. He’s been taken by the shadows. The other Mr. Simmons climbs into the car and falls unconscious just as the first snow starts to fall to wipe away his tracks.
