| He had a key, but he didn’t let himself in. She’d be by soon enough; church got out at noon. Joe stood on the porch and watched the snow fall. The trees on the street were tall when he was growing up, but half were gone, their replacements thin and timid. It made the old street look naked and exposed and somehow past its time, as though the houses should have gone, too. Start over. Of course they had started over, again and again, in ways he knew he didn’t notice. What was the color of the house across the street when he was a kid – same as today? Couldn’t remember. His best friend lived there once but he moved away. Who lived there now? He’d have to ask. Not that the answer would mean much. Half past. He’d smoked two cigarettes. No reason to worry; she’d probably stayed behind for a cup of coffee. He’d endured many such Sundays – the parents would go downstairs to have coffee and doughnuts in the basement, and the kids would sit in the chairs and dangle their feet and wait for the day of duty to move along. It would be Grandma’s next, or one of the uncles. Saturday and Sunday were twins, but they couldn’t be more different. Sunday afternoon had to be the most dreaded time in a kid’s week – tight clothes, old folks grinning at you and grabbing your ear, finding things in their rooms you really didn’t want to see. Spare teeth in glass. Pictures on the wall that looked like they came from Frankenstein times. Musty closets, your dad’s toys. Scrapbooks with hair. He got out his keys, opened the door, and stepped inside. The house was quiet; it smelled of fish and stale smoke. I shouldn’t be here, Joe thought. She’s going to have a stroke if she gets scared because she thinks there’s a burglar inside. If I came every Sunday she’d expect me. But I don’t. First thing she wants, last thing she expects. Will she expect me next week too if she finds me here today? No; she'd understand. But next Sunday rolls around, she comes home, it’s like it always is, but it’s different, because I was here last week. I should go. He walked into the kitchen. There was a cup and saucer in the sink, the morning paper on the table in the breakfast nook, open to the crossword puzzle. An empty ashtray, her cigarettes, a book of matches. Huh: Clover coffee. He wondered if she had found these in the drawer, and thought about going downtown together on Saturdays. He almost hoped she didn’t. At least not right away. There was a card on the table: a Valentine. TO MY SON, it said. It had a picture of a bluebird. I’m chirping up a special song / Be my Valentine all year long! He’d always thought it strange to get a Valentine’s Day card from his mom when he was older – in his teens it was embarrassing, and in his 20s it was an annoying reminder that he wasn’t getting one from any girls. Idiot, he thought. He opened it. Unsigned. Joe took from his coat the Valentine’s Day card he’d bought on the way over. He thought a moment, and wrote on the envelope: I owe you an ice cream downtown. Howzabout a date, Valentine? He took the matches, pulled the front behind the matchheads so the book formed a little pyramid, and placed it on the card. Then he left and locked the door behind him. Joe sat in the car with the motor running for a while, waiting for her to come home, thinking he might pop in and surprise her. But she didn’t come. By the time he put the car in gear the snow had almost covered his footprints on the walk up to the door. He thought she might notice the faint impressions - if she was expecting to see them, that is. |
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