necessary for me to say — because they were too obvious.
― André Gide
Snowbound
I made a promise to pick Beth up in the country in the middle of a snowstorm and now I'm having doubts about the wisdom of that. It's really snowing heavily outside and we could end up marooned in a Victorian house in the middle of nowhere.
Beth's oblivious to the weather, however, and is outside now packing up the car so we can get out of here.
I hear the door slam and she’s back, but looking panicked.
“Spence, have you seen the snow out there? I can’t even see the road.”
“Not to worry,” I yawn, we’ll just follow the sled’s tracks out to the main road. That's how I got in here.”
But it seems Beth is skeptical now that she's apprised of the danger.
“Oh really?” she smiles sweetly, “and what tracks do you mean?"
I get up, pull the window lace aside and peer out—the woods are blanked out by streamers of snow and the yard, parking lot and field are buried beneath an avalanche of white.
I'm shocked by what I see.
“I don’t believe it—how could that happen so fast?”
She looks at me like I’m new. “C’mon Slick, we’re in the country—wide open spaces—country breezes.”
I look glumly out at the swirling flakes.
“Some breezes—more a blizzard. So what do we do now?”
She shakes her head slowly, “Wait it out,” she whispers.
There’s a strange tone in her voice, a timbre I haven’t heard before, and it makes me a little uneasy. It crosses my mind she’s less than delighted at spending the night with me.
I push the thought aside, but am surprised—it’s an eventuality I didn’t consider. Why is that?
It occurs to me I’ve been pushing ahead, pursuing my agenda, my wants and needs, without referencing hers.
Have I ever once stopped to consider her needs? What if being Mrs. Spencer Sloane was not on her radar?
Have I even really looked at her, or, is the way it’s always been—all about me?
Seems like Beth has been doing some pondering of her own.
“I’m really sorry, Spence—making you drive all the way out here—and now we’re stuck.”
She looks really vulnerable and I feel a selfish heel.
“Hey, don’t look at it like that—we’re not stuck—this is an adventure.”
“An adventure?” she smiles quizzically.
“Yes, an opportunity to really talk—to really get to know each other.”
She pauses and looks at me quizzically.
“That’s an interesting point of view,” she laughs, “as if the past few months didn’t really mean very much.”
I grab her hand and look deeply into her eyes, “maybe they didn’t, Beth―I mean, I was so busy taking you places, doing things, I don’t recall one time we actually sat down to talk.”
“Oh, sure we did,” she protests, “I told you all about me—my plans to take history courses in the fall, and I told you about my volunteering.”
“Yes, you told me about those things, but you didn’t tell me why. For example, why do you volunteer here—are you bored?”
I realize as I say it, that although I've been with her for months I haven't really seen her.
She does seem surprised though, I even have to ask her such an obvious question.
“Me, Bored? No, Silly. I love working here. I’m fascinated by the past—I’ve always been. For as long as I can remember I’ve had this yearning for a simpler way of life—like the kind the Victorians lived.”
“Really?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "I can’t imagine you and your family without modern conveniences, living like this.”
I sweep my hand around the room at the simple and quaint antiques.
“What’s wrong with living like this?”
“You’re kidding, right? Take these decorations, for instance,” I laugh, pointing to the Christmas tree. “Popcorn strung on the tree—paper cut-out decorations, and in place of scented candles, a few cloves stuck into an orange?”
She goes sullen and quiet, and then, says in a voice so low, I can hardly hear, “at least it’s real.”
I feel as if I've been shot through with an arrow. I underestimated this girl.
I wonder what else I got wrong.