The Post-War Dream

become listless — legs, arms, and body inert — and by the time Hollis reached him, the individual seemed resigned to his plight.

“Hey, you all right? You okay there?”

Leaning over him, rubbing his bare hands together, Hollis recognized familiar green eyes darting inside the red hood, gazing first at the firmament above — scanning the heavens, giving a sidelong look at the sun — before fixing on Hollis while, at the same instant, a sigh of frustration was expressed.

“Goddamnit,” his buddy Lon said, both annoyed and heartened that someone had chanced upon his predicament. “Goddamn — ” Puffing with exasperation, Lon arched his big head back, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Digging his heels into the snow, he began rocking his massive chest back and forth, evidently trying to gain enough momentum to flip himself. “Son of a bitch — ” Lon's chubby, flushed face grimaced. His galoshes pounded the ground, throwing a spattering of slush into the air. “Oh, fuck — ”

“Just hold on,” Hollis said, the rotund sight of his friend bringing to mind some toppled snowman or, perhaps, a distressed Santa Claus. “Here — ”

Poor Lon, Hollis thought. Poor guy: cursing, sighing, bitching, but forcing a grin once Hollis proffered his hands and — fingers clutching Lon's black mitts, legs braced to keep himself from also falling (the ache in his left thigh contracted to a dime-size circle of pain and, all at once, briefly abated) — helped him sit up, then kneel, then stand on the spot where he had apparently slipped backward.

Not yet sure of his balance, Lon remained standing there for a while, his arms hanging straight at his sides. “Thanks,” he muttered, without sounding grateful. He glanced at Hollis with a bemused expression — his face was rosy and damp, thin strands of silver hair were plastered on his forehead.

“Could've sworn I was the last man on earth,” Hollis said, swatting clumps of snow off Lon's wet backside. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Yep,” Lon said, “you were wrong.” Then brushing the hair away from his forehead with a mitt, he asked, “So how's Debra holding up today?”

“Well, she's never liked snow, but she's doing okay, I guess.”

“That's good to hear.”

For a while they loitered there, the two of them staring at a ridge of cumulus which canvassed the Catalina Mountains’ summit, until Hollis said, “You know, I should've figured you'd wander into this mess.”

“Really?”

“Seems like you'd want to see it before it melts away.”

But unlike Hollis, Lon hadn't come to observe the transformed golf courses, the greens gone white. No, he insisted, doctor's orders had him walking at dawn, doing his usual route — from hole one to hole eighteen, hole eighteen to hole one, and home by the time his wife, Jane, finished cooking breakfast: “I couldn't care less about the snow. Doesn't mean a thing. It's just snow, you know.”

“Mm,” Hollis said, cupping his hands at his mouth and exhaling into them.

But Hollis knew the snow meant something more to Lon; he knew as much last evening when Lon had phoned, gleefully saying, “Hey, you and Debra go to your window and look. It's hell freezing over, it's the beginning of the end.” And soon Hollis was peering through parted kitchen curtains as he made chocolate pudding for Debra, surprised to discover the backyard had already become an otherworldly place; his cactus garden had grown fluffy, the swimming pool was a snowy lair.

“My goodness,” Debra had called from the living room, sounding tired and miserable, “have you seen what's going on outside?”

“Yes,” Hollis had replied, transfixed by what was raining into the backyard, altering the view which he had grown accustomed to enjoying. Even at night the cacti were apparent, the beds showcased in the broad beams of two floodlights, and he had always liked that his garden was visible from the kitchen and dining-room windows. For some reason, he found its nearness comforting. Often he would sit at the dining table for prolonged periods, drinking coffee while staring at the various things he had cultivated. Time evaporated during those meditative breaks, as it did last night when he had first glimpsed the snowfall. After a while he glanced at the stove clock, then he pivoted and walked from the kitchen, leaving the pudding to chill in the refrigerator, going to where Debra lingered wearily in front of the television (the TV Guide near her face, an index finger scanning a page, her body emitting a faint odor which hinted at sickness). Without acknowledging his presence, she shook her head, frowning: “Can you believe it? A week ago you were wearing shorts.” But he had assumed a smiling, sympathetic face, taking her into his arms from behind and holding her gently — the way one might handle something delicate and rare.

Later, while they watched a rerun of Law amp; Order, Debra had shivered and said, “Lord, I've always hated this kind of weather.” She was snuggled against him on the couch, draped in the same comforter she would eventually carry to their bed. “Pudding on a night like this,” she complained. “Doesn't seem quite right.”

Not right, Hollis had thought, when sun-washed vistas and mesas were promised in the sales brochure (astonishing views, sparkling air: The morning's dawn another perfect day), when the panoramic splendor of the Catalina Mountains loomed beautifully beyond the aquamarine waters of outdoor hot tubs. Then this morning — standing beside Lon on the buried golf course, gazing at the white expanse ahead of him — he truly felt displaced from where he actually stood, somehow removed from this region of cacti, diamondback rattlesnakes, and desert.

An insubstantial breeze roamed around, whisking up crystalline particles and spiraling them into sunlight as a shimmering, refracted mist. Yet it was a dry onshore wind Hollis was suddenly sensing, blowing cold from Siberia and southward along the Sea of Japan. Hidden beneath the layer of snow, he imagined, were the artifacts of warfare, a scattering of personal and military-designated debris. Like memories best forgotten, he thought. Like blank spaces in an old photo album where once images had existed. But how many discarded objects had been left behind as the troops concluded their tours of duty? What else had remained in that country where a heavy snowfall persisted, covering the hills and the mountains, sedating the hard fighting until, eventually, the storm had ceased?

4

Last week, while sitting at the kitchen table, Debra had said to Hollis, “Will you, please, tell me about us.” She had, under completely different circumstances, said something similar many months before as they strolled around the block one evening after dinner. By then he had stopped writing every night, had been unwilling to face those earlier years, specifically those few weeks he had spent fighting in Korea. There was a lot he just wasn't comfortable recalling, he had told her, and although he was doing his best to do so, it would probably take some time.

“Then skip the war for now,” she had suggested. “Why don't you write about us instead?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, everyone likes a love story, right?”

“I guess.”

“So write a love story, how we met and fell for each other, all that stuff.”

“Who'd want to read that?”

“Christ, Hollis, I would.”

“I don't know, Deb. You know, I'm sure I could write a little bit about my time in Japan.”

“Okay, do that — and then you should write a Hollis and Debra epic. Tell me some things I might not know about us, and you, and how you view our life — because I'd really like to hear your take on our story. It'd likely do us some good, anyway.”

“Maybe, we'll see.”

But, to date, the book project had ground to a halt. With just over six pages completed, none of the self- assessment or introspection Debra had wanted was offered; nor was there an inkling of a wartime saga or a love story in progress — nothing at all which came remotely close to shedding any new light on their relationship, or his military service. He had, at least, begun an opening chapter for his autobiography — a chapter entitled “Where I