Water drips from icicles outside the kitchen window. Clear skies glisten through dirty glass panes. I’m pouring my first cup of coffee when I hear snow sliding down the roof and know it’s time to call Carissa.
“You want me to come?” Her voice breaks a little. She’s a couple years older, but I’ve always been the “big sister”.
“No,” I say. “I just felt, you know, the weight of it today.”
“I feel it every day,” says Carissa. “You haven’t heard from Pete, have you?”
“No. He’s still in jail.” To change the subject, I tell her I made $400 dollars in tips last night.
“At least now, Leah, you can keep it.”
After we hang up, I take a sip of cold coffee and return my mug to the numbers 1 and 3 slashed into the top of Mom’s oak table. Back when snow shrouded the cabin, Pete carved the numbers–his dealer’s cell–into the wood. Mom never said a word to him about it. Wouldn’t, of course. Not any more. She’d forgotten how hard she’d worked to refinish the table in the first place, but I remembered. She’d been so proud of her handiwork. Then she fell in love with Pete and her world narrowed down to a chunk of meth.
I run a finger over a burn in the oak, scrape crud out of the 6. Grime darkens the tips of my nails. I get up. Take a knife and wash rag out of the sink. Dig at the numbers, intending to clean out the gunk, but as I work, the blade obliterates every digit.
Through the winter, Carissa and I have lived with what we’ve done, her down in LA, me on the mountain. She tells me her days teaching English are filled with hypocrisy, her nights with chardonnay. I go to work at Brewster’s, serving margaritas and beer, scooping pretzels from plastic bags under the bar. I shop at Vons, drop by the post office, fill my truck with gas, go to Mass, but not confession.
Now the snow is melting along the roads, polishing the asphalt, revealing discarded ski gloves, wine bottles, the occasional empty syringe. The locals emerge like bears from caves. The skiers and boarders head home. I slouch down side streets to avoid the cops, even though they swallowed every word we fed them.
***
I’m late for work–Saturday lunch–me walking head down, avoiding puddles, thinking hard about leaving. I can escape when the college kids and Aussies go.
“Hey.” A voice. Rough. Close to my ear. And a smell like cat pee. Pete’s grip is hard. He drags me off the road, through muddy slush, and into a crowd of trees. I’m shocked at his strength. He is, after all, a middle-aged tweaker. Just like my mom.
“You got me put away, didn’t you?” He shoves me facedown into a sooty ridge of snow; digs his bony knee into my back. Icy crystals flick into my nose. “Well, the jury let me go.”
I struggle against him, but he presses harder. Yanks off my backpack, wrenches my shoulder. I let out a muffled scream. Then his weight lightens as he rummages through my stuff.
“Where’s your money?” He curses, jerks me up, his scabby face in mine, his eyes glittering like ice.
I cough, catch my breath. Through the pines, I glimpse the cabin. My voice comes out a squeak, “Home.”
***
Inside the cabin, Pete shakes me. “Where is it, bitch?”
“In… bedroom. Chest… of drawers.”
He throws me to the ground, my head smacking against the hardwood floor as he struts away to claim his booty. I curl up, wrap my arms around my ears, close my eyes. Drawers slam in the next room. Glass shatters.
I begin to scoot toward my mother’s scarred oak table. Pull myself up on shaky legs, search the top for the knife.
It’s not there.
Suddenly air whooshes from my lungs he slams me to the floor. Dollar bills–last night’s tips–flutter down.
“Don’t screw with me.” His fingers bite into my neck. “Where’s the insurance money?”
I gasp. “We didn’t get–”
“You had to. You killed her. I want it.” His sunken eyes remind me of my mother’s.
My leg is free enough to move. I force a soothing whisper, “It wasn’t like that, Pete.” Then I become a dervish of energy, knocking my knee into his groin. He lets go of my throat.
I scramble under the table. The knife’s on the floor. I reach out, grab for it. Can’t get it. Twist closer. He’s on me. My knuckles scrape his ribs. I turn my hand downward, getting the blade into the softness of his belly, and thrust up, his stench spiking my adrenaline.
The throbbing world suspends. I hold my breath. Close my eyes. See the wraith-white snow settling on the roof of my mother’s car.
Pete goes still. I wait until I’m sure he’s dead, then work my way out from beneath him and crawl back under the table, folding into myself, my face wet, my nose running. My mother was a junkie. She begged us.
While a January blizzard pounded the cabin, my mother sat at the table across from Carissa and me, her hair the color of moldy straw, her body reduced to twigs. She picked at a scab on her lip, slanted her eyes away. We didn’t understand, so she took our hands and stared hard at us. She’d been in and out of rehab. She was miserable. She wanted out. We didn’t want to do it. But in the end, we drove her up the mountain. Carissa fed her one last needle, we kissed her good-bye and rolled the old black Ford into the ravine.
***
All winter long, it snowed like crazy, but now the snow is melting.
Gay Degani wrote her first novel in the fifth grade using a purple ballpoint on lined paper. Later she scribbled a short story in a high school creative writing class that everyone hated. It came in second in an Atlantic Monthly Writing Contest. She then managed to put writing lower on her priority list until her kids were launched and now she is dead serious.
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69 Responses to “SPRING MELT • by Gay Degani”
Comments
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June 6th, 2008 at 12:36 am
So sweet. Gave it a five.
June 6th, 2008 at 1:13 am
Great story, Gay, full of incident and emotion. Loved the descriptions of the melting snow, “polishing the asphalt” – brilliant. You built in so much here, the layers, the history, the character dynamics. Masterful. Thanks for a terrific read. (It got 5 stars from me too.)
June 6th, 2008 at 1:50 am
blimey….this really is prose at its best…it has to be a five, without dispute.
June 6th, 2008 at 3:25 am
I finished reading that with my nose six inches from the screen. Totally pulled me in.
“She tells me her days teaching English are filled with hypocrisy, her nights with chardonnay.” – that’s a great line.
June 6th, 2008 at 3:42 am
That was a real gripping tale Gay and the horror of the melting snow at the end – perfect.
June 6th, 2008 at 4:28 am
My first 5.
I knew I was holding out for this one.
mike
June 6th, 2008 at 5:46 am
Great.
June 6th, 2008 at 7:27 am
I agree with Oonah about the last line – so simple and yet so horribly foreboding. Gave me that great creepy feeling.
June 6th, 2008 at 7:45 am
Bizarrely, the single flaw in this story somehow ties the whole thing together – intentional or not, well done Gay.
June 6th, 2008 at 7:45 am
Beautiful writing, Gay. It drew me in from the first line. Excellent last line.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:20 am
Thanks Sarah! We seem to be locked in a mutual admiration society here, but I’ve got to work on “prolific” to catch up with you!
June 6th, 2008 at 8:21 am
M! Thank you sooo much. You are a sweetheart!
June 6th, 2008 at 8:22 am
Gerard, You have to know how much it means to me that YOU like this piece. I am definitely stoked.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:23 am
From a such a master (mistress?) of the craft, this is meaningful praise. Thanks Oonah. I’m getting more stoked.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:24 am
Wow! I just may explode! Thanks so much Mike. You’re the best!
June 6th, 2008 at 8:25 am
Thank you, Patricia. In that one little word, you made me feel pretty darn terrific. I appreciate it so much.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:27 am
Madeline, I am very pleased that you like this. And that people get it. Thanks for your kind words.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:27 am
You snared me in a beautiful web of words and like the proverbial fly, caught me and wouldn’t let me go until I read every word.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:31 am
Tony!! Thanks for the comment, but which flaw are you talking about…that pulls it together? My curiosity is the size of Hoover Dam. I can see a couple myself, and as pointed out by another friend a line missing from the struggle scene, but I’m dying to know which flaw ties it all together??? And to figure out if it was something I did on purpose?
June 6th, 2008 at 8:32 am
Thanks Cate. I think it segues rather nicely from your excellent story yesterday. Good job, J and C.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:36 am
Anne-Marie, thank you so much for such a beautiful image in regard to my story. I’m looking forward to reading one of your pieces here soon! Get to work girl!
June 6th, 2008 at 8:38 am
Hmm that sounds a little conceited on my part. I also have to keep plugging away at quality. I’m definitely a fan of yours.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:39 am
KC, thanks for the five. I so appreciate it.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:48 am
the bio was just as powerful as the prose. watch out everybody.
June 6th, 2008 at 8:48 am
You certainly are dead serious, Gay. And dead-on with this story.
Great writing. Simply great. Details! Like the pretzels from the plastic bag behind the bar.
Five big ‘ol super-gold stars from me this morning.
You ROCK!
June 6th, 2008 at 9:08 am
Great story and the last line just about made me gasp. I love this.
June 6th, 2008 at 9:50 am
The dark places you go scare the crap out of me, girlfriend! Amazing story.
June 6th, 2008 at 9:52 am
Definitely 5*. You held my attention, kept me in suspense and delivered a killer ending – and so beautifully written.
Cheers
MArk
June 6th, 2008 at 10:58 am
Gay, You blew me away. Absolutely amazing! Congratulations on another fantastic short story.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:16 am
Really well done mystery. Very tense and very poetically written.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:19 am
Wow. Now you know it’s a good piece.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:21 am
Thanks Dani! Did you know I have a novel (unrevised) in which the villainous’s name is “Dani?” Be afraid. Be very afraid. No just kidding. Thanks for the kudos.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:22 am
A gasp! You’ve just made my day, Sylvia! Thank you. Thank you.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:23 am
You’re the roll to my rock!
June 6th, 2008 at 11:25 am
Good. I’ve done my job then. Trish, thanks for ready and for all your support.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:26 am
Thank you, Mark, you gave me a terrific review, letting me know what worked. I appreciate it. Here’s a toast: To Mark! One heck of a nice guy!
June 6th, 2008 at 11:27 am
Gay, I’m so amazed by you and your talent! Awesome! Once again a seat-grabber…my favorite to date… Amazing what we can do when we really focus…and don’t be modest, you deserve the praise…keep it up and keep representing all of us 50-somethings who change course mid-stream…and discover…we like swimming upstream! Great work…
June 6th, 2008 at 11:28 am
Kristen, thank you! I know you are sooo busy these days so I appreciate that you’ve taken the time now and in the past. You’re a great friend.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:30 am
Thank you, Erin, for your kind words. And for calling it a mystery too because that’s what I try to write, but in the short form, it’s very hard to do. You gave me a high tribute. Grats.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:32 am
Denise, You remember it, this past January, up in Mammoth? This is that story and you were one of my first readers helping me to find my way through the blizzard. Thanks for all your support over the years toward my salmon destination.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:36 am
Gay, this is remarkably tight writing. On second reading I see how every line, every detail, clues the reader in to the emotional desperation of the characters and the inevitable ending. Great details, great tension, very precise and poetic descriptions. I’ll recommend this to others. 5*.
June 6th, 2008 at 11:40 am
Wow. Greg, I’m…speechless. Thank you.
June 6th, 2008 at 12:45 pm
Looking back at your title after I finished reading the story made it even more poignant. You do such a great job capturing the main character’s thoughts in this story with so few words, but the right words. Wonderful writing.
June 6th, 2008 at 1:27 pm
Thank you Gayle. I always hope to be worthy of your mentorship.
June 6th, 2008 at 2:33 pm
Gay, I just loved this story. Keep writing more!!!! Betsy
June 6th, 2008 at 2:47 pm
Great descriptive words, seamless transition, and words that compel a reader to seek the next line.
5 stars.
June 6th, 2008 at 4:14 pm
Another slam dunk! But then again, I’m not surprised!
June 6th, 2008 at 5:47 pm
I agree. The line “She tells me her days teaching English are filled with hypocrisy, her nights with chardonnay.†is GREAT! I also had my face 6 inches from the computer screen. Talk about drawing someone in and hooking them!
Gay, this short is the best yet!
June 6th, 2008 at 8:50 pm
That melting snow was the trick–great tale, Gay.
–dj
June 6th, 2008 at 11:18 pm
Gay—-I ate it up. The last line was the icing on the cake!!! You are a gem of many facets, and I’m lucky to be Mama D. Luv ya.
June 7th, 2008 at 6:28 am
As others have noted, the last line and the line about chardonnay are both classic. But what I like even more about your writing is the interjection of the everyday, the real. “I shop at Vons” is the line that does it for me because it is so unnecessary to the plot and so ordinary — and that’s exactly what makes it real for me. Bravo.
June 7th, 2008 at 11:37 am
Incredible, Gay! Such a powerful story. I was truly sucked in, the hand at my throat would not let me pull away until I had read every last word.
June 7th, 2008 at 2:01 pm
Gripping story; clever, thoughtful, and I really cared about her.
June 7th, 2008 at 6:25 pm
Great story, Gay. I like that you addressed an ever-growing (drug) problem. I enjoyed the pace and the snow imagery. Can’t wait to read your next one!
June 8th, 2008 at 6:47 am
Great imagery and real emotion. Can you imagine having to kill your own mother? Needing to kill your own mother BECAUSE you love her that much? Wow, you make it so believable, necessary and tragic. Great job.
June 8th, 2008 at 8:27 am
mom, once again you amaze me. good stuff.
June 8th, 2008 at 9:20 am
mom once again you amaze me.
June 9th, 2008 at 2:09 pm
As an artist (not a writer), I definitely appreciated the visuals and the emotions attached to those visuals…especially the last line. Grief and heartache…these things don’t just magically disappear, they melt away.
Great story!
June 9th, 2008 at 8:18 pm
A story that pulls the reader along all the way and pulls no punches. The ’surprising but inevitable’ revelation that the mother and not Pete was the victim was flawlessly executed.
This story resonates like an old Martin D28 acoustic.
Superb writing!
Spike
June 10th, 2008 at 12:03 pm
Another great short suspense story–so graphic–a glimpse of a world most of us (thankfully) don’t live in, but need to hear about. Armina
June 12th, 2008 at 5:48 pm
That was absolutely incredible. It was gripping and disturbing and beautiful, all at the same time.
I’m so very, very impressed!
June 13th, 2008 at 11:32 pm
Excellent.
Jennifer
June 14th, 2008 at 9:02 am
Gay, you are doing SO well! Keep it up! Loved it, gave it a 5.
June 19th, 2008 at 5:02 pm
Gay! That was terrific!
June 19th, 2008 at 10:39 pm
good story Gay, very descriptive. Keep them coming!
June 24th, 2008 at 4:03 pm
Fiction (I hope) delivered with beauty and precision. Terrific!
December 13th, 2008 at 5:05 am
Gay, just read this story again and have to say it’s one of the best shorts I think I’ve ever read. Totally and utterly alive. If you don’t get a book deal, I’ll eat my hat (and that’ll be painful, since I play polo!!) x
December 13th, 2008 at 5:06 am
PS: It SO deserves to win the pushcart prize…please please!
January 5th, 2009 at 3:55 pm
i felt the snow going up my nostrils, great description.