The Color of Cold and Ice Read online

  Did the clerk in the jewelry store recognize her? It sure seemed like it. He rushed over immediately when they walked in, giving her a knowing glance. She acted indifferent, too indifferent, like the overdone acting that Shelly was so infamous for. It would be like her to have a ring picked out as a way of unburdening him. Wasn’t a baby on the way during his first year of internship a burden? No, he could never look at it that way. Not after everything he saw in the ER. There were too many irresponsible parents. He wouldn’t be one. Allison knew that.

  Allison looked out for him because he had too many responsibilities, too much on his plate, she insisted. She always knew what was best for him, just like all those times she would bring him a brown bag dinner on those nights he worked late. They were always much more than one would expect to be inside a brown bag. The bag’s contents were carefully laid out in her glass containers with the red lids, something healthy, all the food groups in the right portions. What if she had decided to bring one on that particular night?

  They married within two weeks of buying the ring. Didn’t she sacrifice? She hadn’t planned on getting pregnant. She had her teaching career. She taught fourth grade, right up until they actually did find out she was pregnant, a year after their marriage. The one before marriage had been a false alarm, a late period.

  Because they thought she was with child, a small wedding was planned. Allison had said it was sensible. He was relieved. Even their honeymoon was brief, a long weekend in Maine. They had rented a car, drove up to see the fall leaves and stayed in one of those famous New England bed and breakfasts, the ones with doilies on the tables, quilts on the beds and scented candles in jars. Hand-carved wooden plaques with quaint sayings hung both vertically and horizontally to each other, like old masterpieces were hung in an English estate, blocking some but not enough of the sweetly flowered blue and pink wallpaper.

  Their room reminded him of his grandmother’s, not conducive to where he envisioned honeymoon sex. He climbed aboard missionary style, and midway through the process got his toe caught in the granny afghan he had pushed to the end of the bed. The more he struggled to free it, the limper he became. He ended up tearing a hole in the afghan. “I hope we don’t have to pay for that,” he said. The frustration he felt turned into uproarious laughter, in which Allison joined in. The next night, he tore off everything except the fitted sheet.

  Upon checking out, he told the innkeeper about the torn afghan, omitting the circumstances and offered to pay. He remembered his own grandmother and how much effort she put into those things. The innkeeper smiled slyly, as if this sort of thing happened all the time, and said it could easily be mended, not to worry.

  On the drive home, Allison apologized and told him after he had an established practice; they could make up for not having had a grand ceremony or an exotic honeymoon. That endeared her to him, a sign, an omen that pledging their lives to each other was the right thing to do.

  After finding out she wasn’t pregnant, they forewent birth control. He had already conditioned himself to being a father. Molly just happened. A couple of years later, Little John happened, although Little John’s entrance into the womb was more of an event instead of a mere happening.

  That was the one night in their married life to remember. He supposed everyone had one, maybe more than one. He didn’t feel as if he deserved it. It was Valentine’s Day. He had almost forgotten. But everything out on the street on his way home reminded him. It had for weeks, every window display flashing red — red roses, red hearts, red lingerie, red purses, shoes, and dresses. It was on the verge of being the red-light district in Amsterdam. So, how could it have slipped his mind? He stopped at the only flower vender near the subway along with the other lost souls of manhood and chose the best dozen roses from a depleted assortment, pink, as there were no red left, along with a cheesy card.

  * * *

  The doors opened. The lady in red got off. He breathed in her perfume as she brushed past him. Why had he drank that cup of coffee at this time of day? He didn’t need the extra stimulation. He should have gotten herbal tea, something to help him wind down. He had stopped at the Java Bean Factory after work, to maybe catch a glimpse of the girl who had waited on him this morning. It was an anomaly that he even went in there at all. Now, twice in one day. It was his custom to make a quick run into Starbucks, but the line was out the door this morning. Must have been the snow along with the sudden drop in temperature, everyone wanting to wrap their lips and hands around something hot. So, he went around the corner and trekked for a couple of blocks until he happened upon a hole in the wall local place. It was chic and shabby at the same time, in other words, so Manhattan, a place one expected to see Woody Allen at, engaged in a lively conversation with a man of the cloth about immortality and dying. He had been thinking about that a lot himself lately. Fate had led him through that door. For what reason, he didn’t know. It had something to do with the girl, he supposed.

  The girl looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She smiled at him, like she did with all the other customers, and then did a double take. She looked directly into his eyes and said, “Thank you. I’m forever in your debt.” That was not a thank you for buying the coffee but for something else. It caught him off guard. He merely said, “You’re welcome,” although he didn’t have a clue what for. He moved ahead to the pickup counter to get his coffee and muffin. Allison would frown on him for getting a muffin after preparing him one of her healthy breakfasts, a smoothie, and one of her granola mixtures. It was because of those day-in, day-out healthy breakfasts that he couldn’t resist the heavily laden chocolate chip muffin.

  There was no chance for any lingering looks or questions or small talk. The woman behind him looked to be in a hurry. She had her credit card out and was practically breathing down his neck, an unpleasant flaw in most New Yorkers. He wrote prescriptions for this sort of hurried anxiety all day long. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Mark or the back of Mark going into the restroom. He took a step out of line and craned his neck to see more clearly, but the restroom door was closing. Just his imagination. He doubted if Mark even got out of bed that early. He knew he didn’t go into the record store until noon. And he was usually up until the wee hours of the morning, working some gig. He looked around to see the lady was nudging her way within a respectable half inch of touching him, placing her order. So, he just left. There would be a room full of patients awaiting him. The girl was probably just a little offbeat, like the rest of the city, but then the more he thought about it, there was something about her eyes, something about her face he seemed to recognize. It had stayed with him all day. Where did he know her from? She had to have been a patient, someone who came through his office, a one time visit, or someone he had seen when he worked in the ER.

  * * *

  His station came up. He departed the subway, threw his cup in the nearest trash receptacle, and walked up the steps to the sidewalk. He reached for the gloves in his pocket, repositioned his scarf high on his neck, and braced himself for the cold. A sting of wind hit his face as he began the three-block walk to his house in slow motion. It wasn’t the wind or the snow that held him back. It was his existence. No people or vehicles about. He was marooned on a desert island. He became smaller and smaller until no one could even see him to rescue him. He diminished and became less consequential with each step. The snow picked up, and his legs grew heavier. On a flat surface in less than one inch of snow, he was climbing Mt. Everest.

  Caution: School Crossing, the yellow sign blared at him. His clamped his gloved hand against his chest. It felt like an anvil rested on his heart. His father had died of a heart attack. Could this be happening to him? At the intersection, he leaned up against a Stop sign, a thin layer of frost on the red surface. The street was empty. It was eerily still on the street in contrast to what was going on within his body. He tried to calm himself. It was anxiety, he was sure. He tried to tell himself it was the coffee and the
muffin, the combination of the caffeine and the sugar. But it had happened on numerous occasions before. He didn’t dare tell Allison.

  Things had to change. This was a sign if anything were ever a sign. He and Allison would have a heart to heart, not that Allison was at fault. There was just something wrong, something about his existence, something he couldn’t quite verbalize. Yet, he needed to.

  He slumped down in the snow. The coldness left him. A childhood memory, one he had forgotten, came rushing back. He was in kindergarten. His mother had always taken him and picked him up after school. Yet on this particular day his mom told him to ride the bus home. He had forgotten. He waited outside the school building for her, but she didn’t come. It was cold and snowing like today. He walked up and down the sidewalk. All the other kids had left. He began to panic. After a while, he just sat in the snow. A serene feeling overcame him. He wasn’t cold anymore. He had gone back to some blissful state, something he had known at birth. He was perfectly content. Then his mom drove up and jumped out of the car. She was in a frantic state, one moment admonishing him; the other hugging him until he thought his lungs would burst. She took him home. His father came home early. “You gave us quite a scare, kiddo.” His father used to call him kiddo. He had forgotten that. His older brother, who usually picked on him, wrapped the blanket up tighter around his chin, as he sat by the fire gulping down hot chocolate with marshmallows before dinner, something unheard of at their house.

  * * *

  He pictured Allison and the kids in a toasty house, a fake gas fire going in the hearth. She would be standing over the wok, spatula in hand, steam rising. It was Chinese night. He didn’t want Chinese. He had it for lunch today. He should have passed, walked down the street, gotten something from a vendor, a bratwurst with all the toppings. His last meal. He clutched his hand to his chest. Allison would be outraged, just like she would be if she knew about the chocolate chip muffin he had this morning. Those were so unhealthy, she said. How long had it been since he had done anything like that? When they were dating. That was the last time. Allison let his atrocious eating habits pass then. All medical students ate that way, or at least the ones he knew.

  Mondays had been Chinese night for as long as he could remember. It was the ritual. Yet it was easy. It was there, something brought in by a rep, and from his favorite Chinese restaurant. The rep, of course, knew that. What he didn’t know was that Monday was Chinese night at home. He was rushed. The beginning of the workweek was always busy. Now he couldn’t manage the thought of stir-fry again. It wasn’t really the food. It was the routine. He was so sick of the same old thing, day after day, mostly the same patients with the same complaints, seeing multitudes of people out on the street, in the coffee shops, people he didn’t know, people who didn’t know him, people all wrapped up in their confined little lives. He didn’t take the time to get to know anyone. Nor did anyone take the time to get to know him. He didn’t even know his patients, not really. He just knew their facades, their bodies, their moles, their grayed tongues, their varicose veins, the scribblings about their conditions he wrote on their charts. He didn’t even know it was Doris’s birthday last week. She had worked for him since day one.

  He wanted to skip dinner all together and just have hot chocolate, maybe roast marshmallows over the fireplace, the fake fire, the one without real wood. Do something different. Leave his charade of a life if only for one night. The kids could skip dinner as well. Molly would be thrilled, but Little John, he might be as appalled as Allison. Could Allison just ease up a little? That’s all he wanted, something not planned, something spontaneous. Something without a list attached to it.

  He curled up in the snow, his right hand still clutching his chest, his back against the stop sign, digging his body into the shallow formation of an igloo. What was happening to him? He looked up at the stars, not paying any attention to his numbing feet, the pins and needles in his hands through the expensive leather gloves that Allison’s mom had gotten him for Christmas. A calmness swept over him, like on that day when he was a young boy.

  Chapter 5

  Orange

  * * *

  TAUT STRANDS OF warp swallow soft fibers of weft as the shuttle makes its way through the loom to create me. I am carefully removed from the wooden frame and then boiled in a mixture of roots and tubers, plants, bark, leaves, flowers and fruits, and then beaten against rocks to assure my hue. It is a labor of love and one of humility. I trek the far reaches of the Himalayas on the body of a holy man who carries only a walking stick and a bowl for sustenance. Vibrations of Sanskrit chants are absorbed into my substance. I bathe in pristine water and sit cross-legged on the top of a mountain. I feel the cold, crisp air, but my soul is warm. I behold beauty in every direction.

  The pendulum swings. Industrial looms run by disgruntled workers form me. I’m utilitarian and serve a lone purpose. My fibers are stiff. I feel the chaffed skin and smell the stench of sweat of the man I cover. Self-loathing and anger penetrate my fibers. I sense the condemnation and mocking from the man pushing the metal rod against my backside as it clangs against the metal cuffs. Hollywood tries to add romance to my situation and calls me the new black. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

  In a small village, I am yet again handled with care. I am the earth, a rich vein of clay. I am rolled out flat and baked in the sun. I love the name I have been given, terra-cotta. It flows on the tongue. I am trodden upon, but I don’t mind, except for possibly spiked heels. Bare feet are my favorite. But also, I love the bare hands. I am massaged into shape in the form of adobe bricks. I am placed one by one on the terra-cotta. There is that word again. I make a home, the home of an artist, a potter. He molds me and sits me spinning atop a wheel. The motion makes me ecstatic. I am a Whirling Dervish. I become a beautiful pot, admired by many. I am passed down through generations. Someone is careless and knocks me to the floor. I crash on the beautiful Saltillo tile of a Mexican restaurant. What is that I hear? It’s my song. A mariachi band is playing. All my colorful cousins stand playfully against the stucco plaster. I am happy. In my elation, I drift back to another time.

  I purr and strut along a cobblestone street, elated and smug after a victory over a mouse, a worthy prey. I stop to lick my tabby fur and am caught off guard. A man scoops me up and begins caressing me, the stench of linseed oil strong on his bony hands. He looks up at the moon and down at my fur, an ah ha moment for him. In haste, he carries me back to his studio, giving me a place of honor on a cushion in the corner. I watch as he skillfully captures my very essence on canvas, as he translates it to the rising moon and hayfields below. He signs his name, Vincent. I think, superb. This man understands me. My hunting prowess takes second seat. I am humbled in his presence, and I meow my approval.

  For a brief time, I am followed by the paparazzi. Yet I evoke reverence and respect. Awes and oohs can be heard with the snap of Canons, Nikons and Hasselblad’s. I am sublime. They call me autumn. I fade and fall, as all things do. A chill invades the air. I am earthy and fragrant peering out of pots on porches. It is the season. I am everywhere — chrysanthemums, pumpkins, jack-o-lanterns. The air grows more frigid.

  I am transformed. You can find me crackling and popping inside a hearth. I look out to see a family playing a board game, drinking hot chocolate. Outside it is snowing. In another instance, I look out, taking in the hungry gaze of lovers and blush, if that is indeed possible for me. In the distance, I blaze against the backdrop of stars, comforting a lone hiker on the Appalachian Trail.

  I am a color chart in a hardware store, a smear of paint across the top of a can. A woman eyes my different tints and shades, choosing two. To the clerk, she says, “I will take these two.” The clerk walks away and then comes back and says almost in shock, “You did say these were for the outside of a house?”

  “Yes, I did,” the woman, clearly of the hippie era, replies. This woman is bold. Once again, I am reminded of the painter a century ago.

  My pro
geny of tints and shades are many — apricot, peach, amber, burnt sienna, vermilion, salmon, tangerine, pumpkin…the list goes on. Simply put, a child calls me orange, the color of juice, or the fruit, or a carrot. Bugs Bunny likes carrots. “What’s up, Doc?”

  I am a pumpkin pie with whipped cream. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I am a scary jack-o-lantern. I am both yin and yang. I am the ten thousand straws of The Tao.

  At my root, I am the sacral chakra, second up the ladder, between red and yellow. I am both sensual and sexual. When I’m balanced, I give grace to movement and pleasure without guilt. I am positive and spontaneous, acting on pure gut or instinct. I give freedom and inspire. I won’t steer you wrong, except in the kitchen. I am a stimulant and will definitely whet your appetite.

  I have dropped all, renounced my old ways. I have cast aside my childish ways to mature. I am a new beginning.

  Chapter 6

  Mark

  * * *

  FEATHERY WHITE FLAKES melted against the stubble on his face. He blew hot breath into his bare, reddened hands as he walked at a brisk pace in an undetermined direction. The snow accumulated, each translucent crystal unique. He felt the slush of wet socks against his numbing toes. The temperature had dropped.

  It was him against nature. If only he had fur to keep him warm. If only he had a shotgun. A grizzly bear might appear at any moment. He was sorely unprepared. A worn leather jacket, threadbare jeans, and worn sneakers just didn’t cut it for this environment. How melodramatic, he thought. Central Park could not be compared to the snowcapped Rocky Mountains. He was not Jeremiah Johnson. And, grizzly bears were not supposed to be east of the Mississippi.