yellow under a green glass shade in the station office. Conductor with lamp and whistle. Swinging and blowing. Train gliding away on the track turning into the winter trees and snowy woodlands.
Smith a solitary figure with his little bag. Save for an old lady and a dog. As the great grey cars click down the rails, window by window, moving away. Give anything to be able to stand in a crowd. She'll be looking out of the club car showing me to her brother as they pass. Stand here. Show utter indifference to big country house parties everywhere. Here come the windows. All her friends will be looking too. Ready now, the pose just right. These first windows. No. The second. Must be at the observation glass at the end. Look more indifferent. Gee. Not a soul. To look at me.
Orget
The message
I'm self
Contained.
5
WHITE clapboard country hotel. The Goose Goes Inn. Often reminding George regrettably of Mrs. Goldminer. Last night the snow flurries turned into a blizzard. Whiteness now lays heaped high through the morning woods and pink on the sunny hills.
Smith arrived at the hotel in the dark. And in his room pulled the curtains over and sat in the big flowered chair with legs crossed sipping a drink. Said snow you can't get me all cozy and warm in here. Standing in front of the mirror, red from neck to ankles. Rotating the throat and outstretched arms. A little ritual for the good night's sleep. It's freezing outside. And with that cold thought tuck the head into the white crisp pillow to sail away on the magic carpet. First checking the zip on the red underwear. Never know who might trip to the wrong door in the night. It is a matter of basic good manners to be properly zipped up. And then when they say O I beg your pardon, one can smile and pass for a glowing ember.
Few taps on the phone. Gay voice.
"Good morning, Mr. Smith."
"I think two eggs, toast, honey and coffee."
"The juice of some fruit, Mr. Smith."
"Not this morning, thank you. Think there'll be ice today."
"Hard to say Mr. Smith, going to be a white Christmas, sure was a lot a snow last night."
"Skiing, how's that."
"Plenty."
And breakfast on the big maple tray. As Smith snaked up from behind the blankets when the maid was gone. Toast hot in the napkin. Pop on the butter and honey. Live and let live. Pour out the steaming dish of coffee. And the train just pulled out of the junction and Miss Tomson never took a peek or gave a wave. Didn't even want her pay. Just disappeared off to her house party and fun with the flashy makers of her life's laughter. Why do the odious manage so well in this world. And people with principles get trampled and kicked and crushed to the bottom of the pile.
And Smith in galoshes, a parcel tucked under each arm, set off down the road from The Goose Goes Inn, walking in a tire track. By a closed up shack for selling summer vegetables. And another two miles by white fields, to a fork in the road. Where a narrow lane climbed a little hill lined neatly with young trees. And beyond a stone wall the white gabled roof of a house. In die first month I bought it I planted a rare row of saplings along the drive. Carried away by the thought of summer evening strolls under a canopy of leaves. The kids got at them with hatchets. What's left looks all silver now.
Smith gingerly making tracks through the snow, drifts up to the knees. Stone wall with a tall rustic figure and light and sign. Mrs. George Smith. I don't suppose she'll be looking out the window or God forbid, down the sights of a gun. Always had a horror of living near roads. Now when I come out here I wish I could hear the odd car go by. Catch my breath. They don't see me coming. She's in there combing out her hair. Which is brown. She used to say when I first met her, hey George grab handfuls of it and pull me down on your knee. I obeyed in a stiff mechanical manner because it was all so overt. Yet once she gave me a whole bowl of cherries and they were side by side on the kitchen table and I thought this will be the test, she's always withholding and depriving and