Winter’s Light

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Fifteen minutes later, a mile and a half from the police station, I reach Pickard Street by foot and stare across the street at my former house. A place filled with the happy memories of five years. The face of my ex-boyfriend, Russ, flickers in my mind like a restored old photograph coming into focus. My heart collapses in my chest. I lean up against a sagging spruce.

I see Russ and me sitting at the breakfast table, our hands intertwined, our minds deep in thought; Russ reads the morning paper; I puzzle over Sudoku.

Every morning, without fail, he would rise an hour earlier than me and serve me coffee—or tea—in bed. I stare up at the second floor of the now-unkempt house, and see Russ standing in the doorway of our bedroom, holding two mugs and smiling. Most days, all year round, he would sleep naked. Which was the case early on in the first year of our relationship: I recall a particular morning when Russ baked French toast, served the warm bread with hot maple syrup, butter, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. We’d eat it propped up in bed, staring out the bay window, into the dazzling light of morning.

We’d make love soon thereafter and Russ would shower and brush his teeth before any bout of lovemaking. He’d smell of sandalwood soap.

My gaze turns to the front of the house, the property now home to a family of four: Mom, Dad, and two young girls.

The children’s toys in the front yard are blanketed in snow, which remind me of buried spirits. I jam my hands into my pockets.

I turn to leave when quick movement from the house next door draws me back to my former past.

Standing on the stoop of the porch in the adjacent yard is a tall, dark-haired woman. Janice Hicks. She sweeps a fine dust of snow from her porch steps. From where I stand fifty feet away, she reminds me of my former self, someone I barely know anymore.

Last year, I came close to pressing charges against Janice’s son, Bret, for animal cruelty and drug abuse, loud music, and underage drinking. While Janice was out of town on work-related issues, Bret broke into my house, inebriated and stoned, smashing glass in the front door, and attempting to apologize for his unruly, out of control behavior.

Things took a surprisingly lucky turn for Bret and me: I got Bret to apologize to his then dog, Darth Vader, and me.

But when Janice learned of the incident, she avoided me at all cost, calling me, “A messed up man with his own adult problems.” I recall her pointing an accusatory finger at me a year ago. Over the hedgerows separating the two properties, she screamed, her voice in an ugly state of duress, “You didn’t handle the situation like an adult, Christian! Calling the sheriff on an eighteen-year-old boy is cowardly. Bret is only a boy, doing boy things. You should have talked to me first.”

To which I was flabbergasted. I always thought Janice was the more levelheaded of the two.

I guess you never know who people really are.

I watch Janice Hicks sweeping the last layer of snow from the bottom step. I turn and follow the narrow sidewalk to the corner of Loran and Quinn Street, and take off at a brisk pace towards home.