‘Okay, you’re suffocating me now!’ Laura exclaimed.
Jack released her and took her left hand in his. ‘Take care, okay? And write me.’
Laura leant over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Bye, Jack.’
‘Bye,’ he replied. He paced to the door without looking back.
Jack finally reached his street. The usual forty-five-minute walk to Iyanough Avenue had already taken him more than an hour. In places, the snow had risen above his knees and walking had felt like wading through a lake of maple syrup. Here, however, just yards from Hyannis Harbor, the fresh falling snow had failed to battle against the coarse saline winds that rose from the North Atlantic, endowing the sidewalks with just a thin translucent glaze.
He looked out at the harbour, usually peppered with the tiny lights of expensive moored yachts. Tonight, there was nothing out there but snowflakes frenetically dancing in the grey.
Jack neared his parents’ house. The soft ochre lights from inside demarked it, pulling the white timber-clad structure from the monochrome background. He stepped onto the veranda and unlocked the door. A breath of appreciatively warm air, laced with the smells of his mom’s cooking, brushed over him as he stepped inside.
‘Dinner’s ready, Jack,’ his mom called out from the kitchen.
Jack hung up his coat, removed his boots and followed the scented trail into the kitchen where he found his mom, dad and sister sitting at the table. Their dinners were untouched and their silent eyes were fixed upon him as he walked towards them.
Jack took his usual place opposite his sister, Alice.
‘Lord, bless this food and family,’ his dad said quietly. He smiled and picked up his knife and fork.
‘Did something keep you from making it home on time?’ his mom asked.
‘Sorry,’ Jack murmured. ‘The snow was real deep in places, it was—’
‘I expect you found time to meet your friends, though,’ his dad interrupted.
‘Only for five minutes.’
His dad nodded, emitting a noise of satisfaction.
From the corner of his eye, Jack studied his dad. In his late forties, he was losing the fight to middle-age; his combed-over hair was greying and thin and the lines around his eyes and forehead were now permanently shadowed gullies. He was punctiliously dissecting the slab of pork on his plate, mixing it with a small quantity of carrot and boiled potato. There was a rhythmical cadence to his eating. Every meal was the same.
A sharp pain struck Jack’s shin bone. He stifled a yelp and scowled at Alice. A quick flick of her head, and an agitated gesture of her eyes towards his plate, made him realise that he had completely stopped eating and was gaping at his dad like a stunned goldfish. He lowered his gaze to his own plate and quickly took a slice of pork.
‘So, honey—just like I said I would, I found someone to take away those old boxes from the basement for you.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ his mom chirped, clearly delighted.
‘Yeah, a guy who runs the antique store up in Dennis.’
‘What boxes?’ Jack enquired.
His mom rolled her eyes. ‘Old boxes of junk that have been taking up far too much space for far too long.’
‘He’s going to swing by tomorrow and take a look. He says he’ll give a fair price.’
‘Well, that sure is great,’ Velda concurred. ‘I think we could open up an antiques store with all we’ve accumulated over the years.’
‘What about you, Alice?’ Roscoe asked. ‘Are you all fired up and ready to go back to college tomorrow? Get behind the easel again?’
‘Yes—I can’t wait. This semester is print-making and ceramics.’
‘That sure sounds exciting,’ Roscoe replied. ‘We’ll leave after breakfast—hopefully give the sun and the snow-ploughs a chance to clear the roads so we can get off the Cape.’
After dessert, Jack headed upstairs to his room, closing the door behind him. He sank down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what he could do to breach this wall of stagnation that had imperceptibly risen around him, preventing access to any alternative life to that which he was now living. Reaching across to the top drawer of his bedside table, he removed a photograph and held it above him. He thought for a moment then realised that the picture had been taken almost exactly two years ago. It was of him and his one and only girlfriend, Margaret Farrier. They were standing outside her house on Canterbury Road, Folkestone in England, their fingers timidly entwined and shy grins etched on their faces.
Jack lowered the picture, bringing Margaret just inches from his face. Why did you stop writing to me? he wondered. His letters—almost one a month since the visit to England—had gone unanswered. All except for one reply. She had been, and still was, his only relationship, so he had had little with which he could compare it, but it had felt to him as though they had had something special together. He had been naïve, he realised now, to think that their relationship could have survived the three-thousand-mile gulf between them. Stupid. He reached over and pulled out the single letter that he had received from her. 18th January 1974. Dear Jack, Thank you so much for your letter. Glad the flight home was good. I’m missing you, too! I think it was one of the best weeks of my life. Yes, I suppose I am your girlfriend now! I’ve already told my dad that I want to get a job so I can
