The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. David Wroblewski
The snow lay jaundiced under the yard light and the shadow of the house lampblack across the snow, unbroken save for a single skewed rectangle glowing at its core. Light from the kitchen window. Flakes of snow were captured there, drifting earthward like ash. Up through the furnace register his father’s voice rang, tinny and fractured. Edgar walked to his bed and slapped the mattress for Almondine, but she lay in the doorway and would not come. At last he dragged his blanket over to her and arranged himself on the slatted floor. She rolled onto her side and braced her feet straight-legged against him.
Then all the voices fell silent. The light at the bottom of the stairs dimmed. They lay together on the dusty-smelling floor, listening to the timbers of the house groan and pop. Formless light seethed when Edgar closed his eyes. Then he was awake. He put his hand under Almondine’s belly and she stood and stretched her feet out front and bowed her spine until a high whine escaped her, and they crept down the stairs, feeling their way in the dark. In the living room, the tiny candlestick lamp cast just enough light to outline the chairs.
He thought the kitchen would be a shambles, but the table stood level, the chairs snugged evenly beneath. All shadow and silhouette. He walked around the table and touched the chairs in turn, points of the compass. The freezer compressor ticked and engaged and murmured a low electric throb; the blower sighed warm air across his stockinged foot as he passed the register. A silver bead of water blossomed at the threaded end of the tap and fell into the void. He twisted down the faucets.
His mother whispered to him from the doorway of their bedroom.
“Edgar, what are you looking for?”
He turned and signed, but in the dark she couldn’t read it. He walked to the living room and stood near the candlestick lamp and she followed behind, cinching up the belt around her robe. She sat on the edge of her chair and looked at him. Almondine stood beside her until his mother ran her hand along the dog’s flanks, then she downed between them on the floor. Their shadows moved enormous across the walls and windows of the living room as they signed.
Is he all right?
His lip is cut. He lost his glasses. He feels ashamed.
What happened?
It’s … She thought for a moment, then started again. It’s hard to say.
Is he coming back?
She shook her head. Of course not. Not after this.
What about the truck?
I don’t know.
Edgar stood and gestured at the door. I saw where his glasses fell. I was going to get them.
Will you still know in the morning?
I think so.
Then wait until tomorrow. He’ll wake if he hears the door.
Okay.
Edgar stood and walked to the stairway.
“Edgar?” his mother whispered.
He looked back at her.
“This thing between your father and Claude. It’s old, from since they were children. I don’t think they even understand it. I know I don’t. The thing to remember is that it is over. We tried to help Claude and it didn’t work out.”
He nodded.
“And, Edgar?”
He turned to look back at her. What?
“I don’t think your father is going to want to answer a lot of questions about what happened.”
She smiled a little, and that made him smile. He felt some unnamable tenderness toward his father, talking about him in the dark like that. A laugh came up from inside him, like a hiccup. He nodded and clapped his leg and he and Almondine mounted the stairs, the top floor solely theirs once more. And that night, he dreamt of a jumbled world, color and sound without substance, and in the dreaming everything fitted together perfectly, mosaic pieces interlocked in a stately, exquisite dance.
DOCTOR PAPINEAU DROVE THEIR truck back out to their house the next day. Edgar’s father packed Claude’s things in the truck—not much more than the suitcase he had arrived with: a box of magazines, his shirts and pants, a pair of work boots, and a well-worn navy pea coat. In time, they heard that Claude had picked up part-time work at the veneer mill and odd jobs on the side. He worked for Doctor Papineau, in fact. Later on they put the rollaway bed into the truck, along with the little table and the lamp, and drove them into town, too.
THE SNOW HELD OFF until December that year, but once loosed, it seemed never to stop. Edgar and his father shoveled the driveway while flakes covered their caps. Edgar’s father knew the trick of skimming the snow without picking up gravel.
“Leave some on the driveway, would you?” he’d say, reminding Edgar how the stones in the grass shot like bullets across the lawn on the first mowing.
Edgar took his litter into the snow in pairs or trios, Tinder and Essay and Finch, then Pout and Baboo, then Umbra and Opal. They chased one another, sliding on their front paws, reversing, backpedaling, running with their noses against the ground, trenching pale lines in the powder, stopping only to sneeze it out. Those early snows didn’t pack. When Edgar managed to squeeze together a snowball, he tossed it at Tinder. It disintegrated in the dog’s mouth and he licked his chops and looked on the ground for it.
The Saturday before Christmas they planned to go shopping in Ashland but it was snowing so hard his mother thought they wouldn’t be able to get back. They stayed home and watched the astronauts driving around on the moon in their buggy. His father said it looked like they were getting ready to plant corn. And every week there was a news story about Alexandra Honeywell and Starchild Colony. It was cold; people were leaving, she admitted, but the inspired would take their place. She stood in the snow reading poetry to the camera and talked about the voyageurs. Often, those segments played after the weather report. He never failed to be in the living room when the forecast was announced.
ON NEW YEAR’S EVE his mother roasted a duck. Near midnight, they poured three glasses of champagne and clinked. The television counted down to midnight and when Auld Lang Syne began to play, his mother jumped up and held out her hand and asked him to dance.
I don’t know how, he signed.
“Then it’s time you learned,” she said, pulling him up off the couch. Though they were staying home, she wore a black-and-white dress and black shoes with straps across the back, and nylons. She showed him how to put his arm around her waist and hold out his other hand and she put her hand in his.
“This is how the girls will look at you when you dance with them,” she said, and she looked into his eyes until he blushed. He didn’t know how to move his feet. He couldn’t even explain the problem since she was holding his hands, but she knew anyway.
“Here, like a box,” she said. She stopped and made him put his hands out, palm down, and she moved them to demonstrate what his feet should do. Then she stepped up to him again. The room was dark, and the lights from the Christmas tree sparkled in the windows. When she put her head against his shoulder, the air grew warm. The sweet cider taste of the champagne was in his mouth, mingled with his mother’s perfume, and he knew even then that the sensation would be with him for the rest of his life.
When the song stopped, his mother whispered, “Happy new year.” His father had been leaning against the kitchen doorway. When the orchestra started in again, he walked up and said, “Pardon me, may I cut in?” His mother slipped away from Edgar and into his father’s arms. Edgar watched them dance, music ringing through the house, and then he opened the refrigerator and took a package of curds and pulled on his shoes and coat. He tried to tell them where he was going. Though the song had ended, they stood there, swaying, silhouetted against the lights of the Christmas tree.
He and Almondine ran through a night black and sharp-edged with cold. In the barn, he switched on the lights and set Patti Page singing “The Tennessee Waltz” on the old record player. Then he used up the curds, handing them