I’m in a mood—a mood I don’t like one bit. Probably because it’s childish. I can’t stand it when Bob puts me off, won’t talk to me. That “putting off” explains why I’m trudging through snow on my way to the train tracks when I should be home with Bob and the kids.

Despite being a grownup married woman, I’ve stomped out of the house, ice skates draped by their laces over my shoulder. Ice skating soothes me. I want to take a spin on the little pond that always freezes between tracks three and four—the place where Joanie and I used skate when we were kids. Only back then we lived next door to each other, and the tracks were just beyond our backyards. We’d walk over in our skates. And we did what our parents told us—wore skate guards while tramping through our yards, bending low to scrunch through the bushes walking onto the cinders up the railroad bed and carefully stepping over track four. We also promised to retreat to the bushes if we heard a train coming, a promise we never kept.

Now the journey is longer because I live a mile away, and it’s harder because it’s not the nocturnal joy it used to be, but a lugging of this gnarly out-of-kilter feeling in my heart. It’s not that Bob and I have argued. No, that’s impossible with him. He doesn’t believe in arguing. So instead, he’s fallen moodily silent in front of the TV, channel-surfing with the intensity of a 1969 man desperate to find the station showing the first moon walk. He does this when he thinks I’m being illogical—which, in this case, means me wanting him to make a decision before someone walks on Mars. It’s not that he retreats often, it’s just that when he does it’s so… so effective. What really grinds me is that he won’t fight. Says it’s a waste of time. I say it’s good to air things out once in awhile. Besides, how can you make up and have wild, passionate sex if you don’t argue now and again?

I’m trudging in boots with their tread worn off, through unshoveled sidewalks and
toddling cautiously over the shoveled ones where ice has formed in the dips. Each careful step is a step of insecurity and reticence: What am I doing? What’s wrong with ME? Each trudging step is a step of resolve: This time I’ll outlast his silence. I’ll be even more silent than he is. Illogical! he’ll say, but it isn’t. Just listen to this night out here, walking along 103rd street. It’s not quieter because it’s nighttime. No, it’s quieter because the snow absorbs sound, swallows it into its deep caverns where it hides until the spring thaw. I can be like that. Silent as a snowflake.

I resolve not to participate in the everyday “please pass the salt” niceties. He can get up and get his own salt. Aw, jeez, what am I thinking? He never uses a saltshaker. He never even asks me to pour him a second cup of coffee. He does it himself. I only do it if I anticipate his need for a second cup, which, come to think of it, isn’t often.

But that’s not the point. His withdrawal is. When he falls silent like this, I fear he’s going to leave me—like my father left my mother. I know, histrionics, but my mind tape rolls forward, nonetheless. Like my father, Bob’ll just up and go to work one day and never return. Unlike my father, he’ll probably fight for the kids, that’s just how strong and stubborn he can be. I can hear him now, telling the judge, “My wife is too illogical to raise boys. I mean… if we had girls, that’d be different.” And the judge will be a man and, with chin in hand and eyes half-closed, will nod agreeably.

At this moment it seems fitting to be heading for the tracks—our marriage feels tied to them right now. My thoughts, like the night air, rub my heart raw.

And, I wonder, what exactly will I do without Bob and the boys? My first response is, I’ll die, but I quickly amend it. I’ll manage just fine, thank you very much, even though I’ve thrown my career down the tubes to stay home with these two boys, OUR boys, and I won’t be earning enough money to have more than cereal for dinner. At least I know how to make a mean granola that’s nowhere as expensive as the kinds they sell in the store. I think about my car and sigh. Oh, yes. The car. I’ll still be driving the same pile of junk I drive now, which is what started all this. All I asked for was a blue car. Reliable. I need a reliable car, and I want a blue one, that’s all. Why is it taking him so long to make up his mind? Jeez, he figured out he wanted to marry me in less than three hours, for crying out loud.

I reach the tracks and walk away from 103^rd street. A city block in or so, sure enough, there’s ice between tracks three and four. Thank goodness some things never change. I sit on track three, stop and listen before taking my boots off. Nothing. Pure, unadulterated silence. And the ice is cleared of snow. Probably the wind from the trains blowing through pushes it aside. Never thought about that before—how Joanie and I never had to clear the ice off. I look up. No stars, not even darkness. The reflection from the streetlights beyond casts the sky in pale yellow.

Takes me a little longer than it used to to tie up the skates, my belly having taken on a kangaroo-like pouch since childbirth. Grunting helps. When I straighten, I notice it’s started to snow. Silent little flakes. Perfect, I think as I put my mittens back on, stand up and smooth out my parka. I step into a glide. Yuck! So many cinders trapped in the ice. Were they always there and I didn’t notice? Each glide turns into annoying stops and starts. I look around. Was this “pond” always this small? Looks to be the size of my bathroom.

I sit back down on track three, stretch my legs out in front of me. Looking over to where I used to live, I notice the bushes are much more sparse—chain-link fences take their place. When I lean to the right a little, I can see that the light’s on in our old kitchen. I can picture my mother there, doing the dishes, my brother drying. (Mom had us take turns.) I think of her strength, raising us by herself, working full-time. She’s had a hard life.

Two years ago, after moving into a condominium, she was preparing to die. I know because so many of her sentences began the same way: “If I’m around next year, I don’t want you bothering to put up a Christmas tree for me.” “If I’m around next year I’m not going to plant flowers at your grandma and grandpa’s graves. I’ll just stick a bunch of plastic flowers in a plastic vase and call it a day.”

After dinner last Thanksgiving, while we were all in the living room listening to the furniture sigh from the weight of our food-laden bodies, she ventured to say, “If I’m around next year I’m not coming over for holidays anymore.”

Despite the heavy meal, Bob sprang off the couch and strode over to her sitting in the lounger. He bent over and rested his hands on her shoulders. With a rare firmness, he said, “I will not have you talking that way.”

She waved her hand. “Oh, you won’t miss me. I’m no help to anyone like this,” she said, referring to the emphysema that smothered the air she took in, robbing her of her once perky mobility.

“It’s not only that,” he said. “I don’t like hearing that ‘If I’m around next year’ crap. I will have none of it.”

She looked up at him, eyes moist. “What do I have to live for, Bob?”

A couple weeks later he came home with a used computer from the shipping company where he works. The company had upgraded its computers and sold the old ones to its employees. The entire system only cost one-hundred bucks. I remember asking, “What on earth are we going to do with another computer?” I nearly had a stroke when he said, “I’m giving it to your mother. I’ll have it connected to the Internet and teach her how to use it.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m sure that’s exactly what will perk her up.”

He followed through and it amazes me to see her today, a mere two months later. Not only does she regularly e-mail my brother and his wife and kids out in California, but she’s also downloading quilting patterns, and tips on Bonsai gardening. I have yet to hear her say, “If I’m here next year …”

Suddenly I want to be home with him, to wrap my arms around his neck and thank him for bringing my mother back to life. Not that I’ve forgotten the silent treatment he’s been giving me, but hey, he’s a good guy, maybe a little misdirected in some ways, but he is good. Very good.

My ears perk up. A train. I hear it in the distance and feel it in the seat of my pants. I stand quickly and scootch over to the middle of the ice hoping the train is on one of the tracks on either side of me. The whistle blows and I nearly jump out of my parka. The ground starts to vibrate and then I see the light as it comes around the bend. It’s track three! My heart pounds. I try to relax, get in position to wave at the conductor like in the old days. Suddenly, I hear a roar coming from behind me. I twist around and, sure enough, there’s another train barreling down on me from the other direction, on track four. A dream come true for Joanie and me, a nightmare at this moment. I’m as frozen as the ice under me. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. They’re both roaring to meet each other now, just like a story problem in math, only this is real. How many milliseconds before they meet? None! The vacuum pulls me in both directions. I spread my legs to steady myself, thinking maybe I should just collapse and roll myself into a ball, but I’m too scared. My scarf twists wildly in the wind, my hair stands on end, my innards tremble and my ears hurt so much I clasp my hands over them.

Then both trains are gone. Just like that. Even though I can still hear their rumbling, it’s so quiet again. Not moving, I squeeze the tears out of my eyes and thank God that’s over. It occurs to me that I’ve deliberately attracted this drama into my life, and it doesn’t take a leap to realize I’m doing the same thing over this new car issue. Funny how people crave drama—will even go to scary movies and ride roller coasters to fill the need. Is my life so dull I need to pick fights to feel alive? Perhaps, but my life could be more fun. Fun could be the goal, could be the drama.

My yearning to get home deepens. I drop to the ice and nearly tear my feet off yanking at my skates. If I could calm down the task would go faster. In my haste, the laces tie themselves into knots. Gosh, dang it! I rip my mittens off with my teeth, fiddle around with the knots until they finally loosen. After pulling on my boots, I grasp the laces and bolt toward 103^rd street. I race home, oblivious to the icy parts of the pavement, tearing over them so fast there’s no time to fall. No stride, no matter how swift, no matter how long, is fast enough to satisfy me. The limitation of being in a body weighs on me both physically and mentally. I feel like I’m flying—on a treadmill—going nowhere fast. Panting, I’ve overtaken only two blocks and still must pass the supermarket, and then there’s the church a block beyond that. Cars whiz by. What’d I’d do for a car right now. Any car!

When I reach the church, I’m forced to walk, the cold air scraping at my lungs. My back dampens from the exertion, my knees wobble, and my fingers ache from gripping the laces. Long strides bring the sight of the drug store into view on the corner where I live. I break into a jog until I reach home, burst through the kitchen door. Despite my rush to the family room, progress continues to be too slow. I smell the hot chocolate Bob must’ve made the kids before putting them to bed, feel the furnace heat brush my face, see my crisp, flower-embroidered curtains hanging over the sink. Time suspends. I know where my precious children are. I know where my loving husband is.

Bob looks up from the couch. “Where’ve you been?”

I run up to him, collapse at his feet, my parka suddenly feeling as thick as a Teletubbie. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, gulping for air. “I just,” I stop to swallow. “I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

“Well,” he says, looking dumbfounded.

Breathlessly, I continue. “Take as long as you like. I know I’ll love whatever you get me.”

Leaning forward, he places his hands on my cheeks, and lifts my head. “What’s this all about?” he asks with characteristic gentleness.

“It’s about the car. How long it’s taking to replace the old one. I was mad. Well, actually, scared. It’s scary driving two kids around in a car that’s unreliable.”

“I know,” he says. “It worries me too. You’d be surprised how hard it is to get exactly what you want.”

“What do you mean?” I say, leaning back on my heels. “All I want is a reliable car, blue.”

He corrects me. “Blue with any color interior other than gray.”

Now it’s my turn to be dumbfounded. I look down and think, oh my goodness, I forgot about that condition I put on it. Of course, I don’t tell him that.

He continues. “Gray depresses you, remember? Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a blue car without a gray interior?”

I shake my head and start to laugh uncontrollably. Then I remember his silent treatment and sober up immediately.

“Bob?” I say.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you tell me why it was taking so long? I can’t stand it when you withdraw from me like that.”

Softly, he says, “Well, if truth be known, I don’t like being yelled at. Ties my stomach in knots.”

I look up at him, perspiration and tears rolling down my face. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” he says, reaching for my hand.

A lump forms in my throat. With quaking voice, I ask, “Are the kids asleep?”

“As far as I know.”

I raise my eyebrows, tilt my head and, stifling more giggles, ask, “Do you think it’s too early to go to bed?”

A smile creeps across his face. “It’s never too early to go to bed with you.”

I shake my head. Can’t believe that after all that’s happened in the past hour, I still crave drama.

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