snowman

Wednesday, November 5, 1980. Snowman

It snowed that day. At eleven in the morning, huge flakes suddenly fell from the colorless sky - as if an enemy armada from a parallel world had taken over the plots, gardens and lawns of Rumerike without a fight. At two o'clock the snowploughs were already at work on Lilleström, and when at half-past three Sarah Quineslann was slowly and carefully driving her Toyota Corolla between the villas on Kolloveien Street, the November snow was lying on the surrounding hills in a blanket of fluff.

The houses seemed unfamiliar to her in the daylight, so much so that she even drove past the entrance to his garage. Sarah braked sharply, the car skidded, and there was a shriek from the back seat. Her son's disgruntled face appeared in the mirror.

- I won't be long, buddy," she said.

In front of the garage, a large rectangle of asphalt was blackened in the white snow. She guessed this was where the neighbor's car was parked. Her throat constricted: just don't be late!

- Who lives here? - The boy asked.

- Just someone I know," Sara replied, fixing her hair as she looked in the mirror. - I'll be gone for about ten minutes, buddy. I'll leave the keys if you want to listen to the radio.

Without waiting for a reply, she went out and shuffled in her slippery shoes to the door through which she had come and gone many times, but never like this, in broad daylight, under the prying gazes from the windows of the neighboring cottages. Inside the house, like a bumblebee in a jam jar, the bell buzzed. With growing despair she waited, looking out the nearest window, which reflected the black bare apple trees, the gray sky and the white, as if flooded with milk, surroundings. When she finally heard footsteps outside the door, Sarah breathed a sigh of relief and the next moment threw herself into his arms.

- Don't go, my love," she begged, barely containing the sobs that burst from her chest.

- I have to," he answered in the tone of a tired refrain.

His hands fumbled for familiar paths, paths he'd never tired of wandering.

- No, you don't have to," she whispered in his ear. - You want to leave. You're bored here.

- Well, I'm never bored with you....

She caught the displeasure in his voice, though his hands, strong and soft, slid over her skin, down her waist, up her skirt, into her pantyhose. He and Sarah were like an experienced pair of dancers, feeling each other's slightest movement, breath, rhythm. First the white beautiful flame - love. Then black - pain.

His hands lifted her coat, reached under the thick fabric to her nipples. He adored her nipples, took a long time to fondle them-maybe because he didn't have any at all.

- Did you park in front of the garage? - He asked and pinched them forcefully.

She nodded and felt the pain as if it released an arrow of desire into her head. Her bosom opened up to meet his fingers that were about to be there.

- Yes. The boy is waiting in the car.

His hands froze.

- He doesn't know anything," she moaned, feeling his hands slow.

- And your husband? Where is he?

- Where could he be? At work, of course.

There was annoyance in her voice now. Because he'd brought her husband into the conversation, and she couldn't say a word about him without getting annoyed. And also because her body demanded it immediately. Sarah Quinessland unzipped his pants.

- Don't..." he started and grabbed her wrist. But then she slapped him hard with her other hand.

He stared at her in amazement, and a red stain was already spreading on his cheekbone. She clutched at his thick black hair and pulled his face to hers.

- You're going to have to leave," she whispered. - But first you're going to have to fuck me, okay?

She could feel his breath on her face. There was no stopping him now. She slapped him once more with her free hand, and his cock began to swell in her palm.

He was still moving sharp and hard, but she was already cumming. She was numb, the magic was gone, the tension subsided, and desperation came to her again. She missed him. Even now that he was near, she missed him. Missed all the years she'd spent longing, all the tears she'd cried, all the desperate things he'd made her do. Without giving her anything in return. Nothing at all.

Standing with his eyes closed at the edge of the bed, he went about his business. Sarah glanced down at his chest. It took her a long time to get used to it, but then she even began to like that perfectly smooth white skin that encased his pecs. It reminded her of ancient statues that, to please everyone's bashfulness, didn't have nipples either.

His moans grew louder and louder. She knew he was about to cum with a furious growl. She loved it when he growled like that. And that ever-surprised, ecstatic, almost painfully contorted face - as if his orgasm exceeded his wildest expectations every time. Now she was just waiting for his final growl, a farewell mooing in the cold box of his bedroom, which rippled with pictures, curtains, carpets. Soon he would get dressed and leave for the other side of the country, the place where he said he'd gotten a business offer he couldn't refuse. But this one he could refuse. This. And still growl with pleasure.

She closed her eyes. But there was no growl. He stopped.

- What happened? - Sarah opened her eyes.

His face was twisted. But not from pleasure.

- The face," he whispered.

She squirmed:

- Where?

- Outside the window.

The window was at the head of the bed, right above her head. She arched up and felt him, already fallen, slip out of her. The window was too high, so lying down she couldn't see anything. And too high for anyone to look in from outside.

- It was your face," she said in an almost pleading tone.

- I thought so, too," he said, still looking out the window.

Sarah knelt down, took a look. And there... there was definitely someone's face there.

She laughed out loud with relief. The face was white, the mouth and eyes lined with black pebbles, obviously picked up on the side of the road. And the hands were made of apple branches.

- Oh, my God," she whispered, "it's just a snowman!

Her laughter turned to tears, and she burst into helpless sobs as she felt his arms around her.

- I have to go," she sobbed.

- Stay a little longer," he asked.

And she stayed a little longer.

As she approached the garage, Sarah glanced at her watch: it had been almost forty minutes.

He'd promised to call from time to time - he'd always been great at promises - and now she was glad he had. Through the fogged windows of the car she could see the vaguely white face of the boy staring at her from the back seat. She yanked open the door, and to her surprise she found it locked. Her son only opened it when she knocked.

Sarah sat down behind the wheel. The radio was silent and the cabin was icy cold. The keys were on the passenger seat. She turned around: her boy was pale and his lower lip was trembling.

- Had something terrible happened? - She asked.

- 'Yes,' he replied. - I saw him.

There was a subtle, skin-scratching fear in his voice, the kind she hadn't remembered since he'd been a toddler, sitting between her and her husband on the couch in front of the TV, covering his eyes with his palms. And now his voice was breaking, he'd stopped cuddling her at bedtime, started getting interested in car engines and girls. One day he would get in a car with one of them and drive away from her, too.

- Who? - Sarah put the key in the ignition and turned it.

- The snowman...

The engine was silent, and she was suddenly overcome with panic. Just what she had feared. She turned the key again, staring out the windshield. Maybe the battery was dead?

- What did it look like, the snowman? - She stepped on the gas and turned the key in the lock as desperately as if she wanted to break it.

Her son answered, but his words were drowned out by the roar of the engine as the car started.

Sarah shifted gears and jerked the clutch down, trying to get out of here as fast as she could. The wheels stuck in the soft, freshly fallen snow. She added gas, but the car stayed still, the rear wheels skidding along the curb. But then the tires finally reached the asphalt, and the car sped forward and onto the road.

- Dad's waiting for us," Sarah said. - Let's go faster.

She turned on the radio and cranked it up to full volume, so that the car would be filled with sounds other than her own voice. The news announcer reported for the hundredth time that Ronald Reagan had beaten Jimmy Carter in the presidential race that night.

The boy said something again, and she glanced in the mirror.

- What are you saying? - She raised her voice.

He repeated it, but again she couldn't hear, turned down the sound, and drove the car toward the main road and the river, which two mournful ribbons crisscrossed the neighborhood. Suddenly she shuddered, for her son had bent over to her between the front seats. His voice whispered dryly right at her ear, as if he was afraid they would be overheard:

- We're going to die.