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SNOW SCENE by Mary Rae (published in Songs Of Innocence) It was still snowing and the yard looked small and grey from the window, but Ellen didn't mind. A few months earlier she had been an ordinary ten year old, but everything was different now. She sat quietly in her chair, staring, with her back set firmly against the room, against her aunt who was standing in the doorway, and against the strange house and its twisting ivy wreath. But the snow didn't bother her. Not now, at least. All that numbing whiteness, all that silence made her feel calm. And somehow, it made it easier to think of her old house and friends, of her old life—before anyone had ever imagined that parents could die. And it was easier to think of the little stream in the woods where she used to catch crayfish in a jar, only to throw them back a moment later. "No sense tormenting the little creatures," her mother would say. For a moment, Ellen could almost feel the familiar froth of the current between her toes, and she imagined the water slowing down, thickening to a satiny brown. Then she saw long, yellow trees bending over to touch the surface and arching back to the sky, too beautiful to be real. It had been real once. But Ellen was glad now for the quiet curtain of snow that kept her from the world, so gently, so certainly. "Poor Dear," whispered her aunt. Ellen felt the words separate and rise up like two dark birds whose wings overshadowed her small, milky hands. The tiniest quiver worked its way around her lips, but she set her teeth against it until her jaws ached, until all the muscles in her face collapsed into something like serenity. "Ellen, won't you at least…" But Ellen didn't want to hear the words anymore. She felt her aunt's love as if it were folding itself around her neck, her shoulders and down her white arms…as if, at any moment, it would gather itself up and press against her cheek, filling her with a dismal longing. She couldn't let that happen, so she stared until her eyes watered, blinking only when a fox suddenly cut a red gash into the black and white afternoon. After a moment, she heard the door close softly behind her, and she sighed deeply. She was alone. The grey sky shifted to purple, softening the shock of Ellen's black eyebrows against her pale skin. She was very young, but already showed signs of a fragile, blue-veined beauty. Ellen's father, a handsome and vain man, had always taken particular pride in Ellen's good looks, and he did his best to encourage her friendships with attractive, well-groomed little girls who would not, as he put it, "detract" from his daughter's elegance. "She's every bit a Murray," he'd boast, "and deserves only the best." Mrs. Murray, however, had a somewhat broader view of life, and so, when her husband complained about Ellen's new friendship with Lindy Walsh, whom he saw as a "fat, unkempt, and totally unlovely child," she only shrugged and let it go at that. There was no denying that Lindy was unkempt, and even a little odd-looking. Her dresses were always crumpled, with little islands of flesh peeking out from the seams around her waist. Her hair didn't help much either, matted flat against a white face dotted with two ice-blue eyes. But that was Lindy. It wasn't that her features were all that bad. Taken separately, they might even have been called pretty. But together they resembled a Japanese mask caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. Lindy herself seemed perpetually confused, as if she never quite knew what was expected of her. Even Mrs. Murray couldn't help thinking, "Now there's a child who needs something. But what?" Ellen could not have told you what drew her to Lindy. But after her first visit to the Walsh's broken-down little house, sadly adorned with lace curtains above the peeling linoleum floors, her friendship with Lindy was sealed. She couldn't have told you why Lindy's life with her father and grandmother suddenly loomed up unreal and shadowy before her. And she could never have told you why she was so attached to someone who lied to her so often—There was the time Lindy showed Ellen the picture of thirteen little girls in white dresses and veils, and claimed they were all her sisters. Not that Ellen minded, really. She didn't. So, when Lindy swore the chestnut pony in the neighboring field was hers, that was okay, too. Ellen never said a thing, never let on. That summer, the two girls spent all their time together, playing in the tall, stiff weeds behind Lindy's house, or walking down to the Little Market to buy sodas and candy. And even on the hottest days, Lindy would bring her only treasure—a snow-scene paperweight her mother had given her, or so she said. Ellen was fascinated by the tiny couple in the crimson-colored horse-drawn sled, the mysteriously lighted windows in the purple village behind them, and the lazy, falling snow. Lindy and Ellen spent hours making up stories about the couple and the snowy village, oblivious to the ninety degree heat. Lindy almost always pretended that she was snuggled between the embracing couple, safe from the hurting cold— and it was always the night before Christmas. At first, Ellen felt funny talking about Christmas Eve in June. But little by little, she was drawn into the magic winter of the little globe. And one day, something happened that made Ellen want to turn the world upside-down, and drift off into the quietest, deepest snow of all. She and Lindy were playing with some figures on the floor, when Lindy's father suddenly bellowed from the bedroom, "Lindy! Bring me a drink! Lindy girl get in here!" Lindy's cheeks filled with purple, and she threw her little people against the wall, screamed something about "my fambly," and began crying hysterically. Ellen caught a glimpse of Lindy's father peering angrily through the door with an empty bottle in his hand, just before he kicked the door shut with his foot. Then there was the sound of breaking glass. Lindy sobbed uncontrollably, while her frail, flower-like grandmother rocked steadily back and forth, tears just rimming her eyes. Ellen tried her best to comfort Lindy, but it was no use. This went beyond friendship. Ellen didn't understand it all, but she felt that something awful and black had passed in front of her, that a mysterious door had opened, and out of it had come life's darker hand, experimenting on poor Lindy. Arranging things. Ellen saw all this, and brought Lindy home whenever she could, in spite of her father's obvious disapproval. She knew that Lindy needed her, and she wanted to help, but she didn't know what to do. So she fixed Lindy's hair in pretty french braids, gave her her pink satin blouse, and played out snow scenes with her all through July and August. By summer's end, Ellen herself had begun to feel at home in the snow, as if she belonged to the little village. After all, Lindy belonged, and she was Lindy's best friend. Her only friend. It was getting dark now, and Ellen got up, stretched, and sat on the edge of the bed. Beside her on the nightstand, was the snow-scene paperweight which Lindy had given her soon after Ellen's parents had died. At first, Ellen had refused to take it. It had always meant so much to Lindy. But when Lindy pressed it into her hands and Ellen felt the rising tears, she clung to the little paradise with all her soul. And when it was decided that Ellen would move away to live with her aunt, she cradled the paperweight in her hands throughout the long trip. That had been months ago. It seemed like years. Now, she picked up the snow scene, cupping it in her palm, then let herself fall back on the pillow. And as she lay there in the half-light, she imagined a black hand reaching down for her, and she thought of her unhappiness that wouldn't go away, and she thought of pale deer shot dead in the forest, and trees uprooted, and everything all broken up and unable to mend itself. Then, she thought of Lindy. If only Ellen could slow down that hand and be a little girl again, a girl whose own delicate fingers could fix the world just by moving toys around. Ellen shook the paperweight, and ,for a moment, she could see Lindy huddled close to the tiny lovers, disappearing into the white confusion. Ellen's aunt called to her. She didn't answer, but only let the paperweight drop on the bed beside her. As Ellen drifted off to sleep, the shadow of a hand fell across her brow, but she slowed it down, and let the snow fall again. Then she and Lindy snuggled together on the sled between the happy couple, and they whispered to each other about all the beautiful painted horses and dolls and candy canes they were sure to find in the morning. It would be so wonderful. So perfect. All their dreams would come true. The swishing of the sled made them drowsy, and they lay back contentedly, knowing that this night, and every other night, was Christmas Eve. |