Art by Mike Webb
I live alone in Shoulders, a small town named after the large hills that bookend it. Nobody knows each other here, despite the small town cliché. Even so, it’s incredibly beautiful, and I can find nothing to complain about. From my window I watch the strikingly grey sky move slowly overhead, providing a muddy backdrop to my writing. My room faces a row of white houses owned by families.
Although I said I live alone, I technically live with someone else: Emily. She’s a friend of my family; a schoolteacher whose husband died a year ago, and suddenly needs the company and financial support. I came into the picture out of convenience, kindness, and weariness of my old city.
Outside of watching Emily hang laundry in the backyard, I rarely see her. I cut the grass, rake the leaves, and plow the driveway; all of this I do for her benefit, so she doesn’t feel forgotten. I heard she was trying to have children before her husband’s death, but then again, what woman isn’t? She isn’t devoid of second chances: with a respectable job, attractive looks, and a lovely house, she can catch the eye of any man she wants.
And speaking of the house: it’s a good thing that it’s insulated, because this is the coldest winter I’ve ever experienced.
Yesterday I worked at the convenience store on the corner, where I work a five day schedule. The owner is an old man named Harold, who only works weekends now due to his age. Harold’s a town classic. Unlike the other townsfolk, he recognises people by their faces, and chats everyone up. In him I found my first friend in Shoulders, and he surprisingly found hope in me.
His children moved into the city a long time ago, and with no one left to inherit the store, he offered me the job. On my first visit, in fact; he said this to me:
“You’re fresh. You’re new in town, but you’re not a punk; and the other ones here are punks. Animals. I want to help you out, but only if you work your damnedest. Understand? I see a spark in you, like people had in the old times. Back in the day, people moved here because this place was – and still is – so goddamned beautiful. Now, everyone who lives here has always lived here. They’re jaded. But you’ve come to Shoulders for the right reasons. If you say you’re a writer, then this place will – will – inspire you. You’re going to need money to survive, and I want you to survive, because Shoulders needs you. I’ve decided to trust you with the town’s remaining root.”
It’s funny how I missed the Hope Wanted sign when I went in.
I specified yesterday because Emily came into the store, which is an exceptionally rare occurrence as it simply never happens. Shoulders has a large grocery store where she does her shopping, for both the considerable cheapness and freshness of their selection, which is heavily contrasted with what we stock in the convenience store. Our items are priced to keep us in business, which basically means Harold plans on going down with the ship; it’s his unrealistic hope that I’ll keep him out of debt.
Emily wove between the shelves and aisles, glancing at each with feigned interest. Something was definitely up. When her little dance ended, she was at the counter, looking down at the Scratch & Wins. I greeted her with a friendly smile, as I always do, and asked how I could be of service. She asked for cigarettes.
Now, this was very alarming – the woman had never smoked before, and knew better than to start; but there she was, asking for them.
“I don’t think you want this,” I told her, and suggested she leave with a free pack of gum.
“But I do,” she said to me with reddened eyes.
Her voice never broke – not once – so I knew she had made up her mind long, long before even leaving the house.
“I want to be calm. They say cigarettes make you calm.”
I reached for a small pack of milds and set it on the counter.
“Only after a long period of use. I’m not going to judge you for experimenting, because you’ll know what’s best for you.”
Never judge customers, no matter what the circumstance is – that’s the first rule Harold taught me. But every time I sell cigarettes, I feel like a drug dealer.
“Here, have some matches and gum to go with it.”
The store is about as old as Harold and, just as Harold will never expose himself to a medical examination, has never been renovated. Any of the original insulation has undoubtedly degraded into thin air over time. If I didn’t bundle up while working, I’d probably freeze to death.
My teeth chatter and I stomp the floor to keep warm, unless a costumer arrives. Whenever the door opens, the little bell’s ding-a-ling announces the arrival of frozen Hell, sending literal shivers down my spine as a storm of snowflakes bursts into the store. This isn’t to say I dislike winter, however – quite the opposite. On an aesthetic level, winter is tied with autumn for being my favourite season. There’s nothing quite like the slow descent of snowflakes on a clear night, the sight of your breath appearing and disappearing before you, and the footprints you leave behind yourself.
As the snow crunches with each and every step I take, nostalgic memories spring to mind. I just don’t like it when my skin turns blue. Yes, my first winter in Shoulders has been unbearably cold, but it’s also been more enchanting than all those previous.
Suddenly I hear a gunshot, breaking my string of consciousness. I’ve never heard one firsthand before, but I instinctively know what it is, and it is extremely loud. Comparing it to a firecracker is like comparing a lion’s roar to a cat’s meow.
Immediately I abandon my typewriter and head downstairs, towards the sound’s origin, which was, unmistakably, the backyard. The back door is open to the snow-covered patio, and standing there, barefoot, wearing a pink bathrobe, is Emily.
She’s holding a gun and eyeing the forest beyond the backyard. Careful not to startle her, as I don’t want a bullet in me, I stand still, waiting for her tense figure to slacken. Eventually her shoulders relax, and I softly call out to her.
She turns to me, holding the gun like a hair dryer. Suddenly I’m seeing every housewife I’ve ever known in a different light.
“What happened?” is the most general question I can think of.
“Wolves come here during winter for food,” she says. “I was just scaring one off.”
I shake my head. My socks stick to the patio’s icy wood as I step closer to her, slowly moving my arm around her shoulder and taking the gun from her hands.
“We have wildlife patrol here. You even have their number written down beside the phone.”
She sighs, and I smell cigarettes on her breath.
“I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”
From the bathroom I grab a towel to dry and warm her feet. She’s sitting in the kitchen, breathing in the hot chocolate I made for her as if she can drink the steam.
If there’s one thing that the videos in ninth grade taught me, it’s that all matter goes through different phases while still retaining their basic molecular structure, only altering in form as the atoms dance either intimately or from a distance. Does Emily teach science?
Soon she’s in her slippers, which I found at the foot of her bed. Conveniently, this allows me to describe her bedroom: immediately noticeable is how it retains the mark of marriage; the territorial scent of her husband’s cologne lingers in the air, as if sprayed recently – which is doubtless; photographs remain in place, showing proudly displayed, full toothed smiles from Emily, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Altogether, the room is weighted in loneliness and memories of happier times.
I sit across from her at the kitchen table, pondering this. Nothing is spoken – not even when I set the gun in front of me. Should I trust her with it? An emotionally distraught woman with a firearm draws attention. Even if she’s fending off wolves, the police will only patronise her, and take away the gun as well as her dignity.
Rain falls lightly outside, which means I’ll be setting out salt tomorrow. The typing of my keys adds a rhythmic layer to the raindrops, reminiscent of improvised jazz drumming in an odd time signature. I hear classical being played on the stereo downstairs, and suddenly catch myself humming.
The combination of these two musical styles, and the abrupt halt of my own voice has placed a thought in my head – how can two people be so connected yet disconnected at the same time? Emily and I share the same house, we eat the same food, we hear the same sounds, and so on. Yet any social interaction is rendered intermittent. Are we both waiting for the other to make the first move?
I wonder what’s it like to be quiet all the time; to never have anything to say. A girl named Adeline comes into the store with her mother from time to time, and she’s so incredibly shy that I never even hear a peep from her. Harold told me that she’s fifteen, since Harold always tells me the history of anyone who walks in. Hardly a single girl in my old city wasn’t an obnoxious, gossiping showcase of flesh, so Adeline’s quietness intrigues me.
I wonder if she’s constantly thinking of things to say, but is worried about saying them. Is she afraid of being judged? I want to tell her that yes, everyone is judged, but in a humanitarian way. People think more in terms of how they can help others rather than destroy them.
Before I met Emily, Harold, and the store regulars, I had assumed Christmas would be purely spiritual for me this year. Now I have to find presents for my new friends, even if I receive nothing in return from them. I’m sure my family will send a parcel or two. A part of me was hoping to break tradition by abandoning such materialism, but hey, tradition formed who I am. I’ll buy Harold a new clock for his store, and I’ll buy Emily a nice, warm comforter to replace her old one; I’ll send my parents the photographs I took throughout the year, and take one with Emily, so they can see how we’re both doing.
I miss Christmas with the family. When I was a kid, my mom would wake me up on Christmas Day with the smell of hot chocolate, and I’d drink it with my sister before heading downstairs. My sister is older than me, and always brought it up when we were kids. Currently she’s an airplane pilot, which had worried Mom in the beginning, but over time became an acceptable profession in the eyes of our parents.
A carefully aggressive girl, my sister – she always rushed for the presents first, leaving me to scour the debris of wrapping paper.
I remember finding a large box addressed to me by Santa, wrapped in Frosty the Snowmans. I knew that inside was a truck for my action figures, but I had trouble freeing it from the tape. My sister’s hand came down angelically over my shoulder, and she tore the paper for me with her long fingernails. I turned to hug her – out of Christmas spirit, brotherly love, or something else, I don’t know – and Mom, always ready with the camera, took the shot. She had it framed.
Right now it’s pouring rain in Shoulders. Sometimes lightning flashes across the black sky, and thunder booms soon after, noticeably shaking my room. I decide that I’m very tired and undress before turning off the light, then lie atop the blankets on my bed.
Watching the raindrops splash against my window, coupled with the soothing, pattering sound, is lulling me to sleep. Soon I can no longer keep my eyelids open, and I’m greeted by blackness deeper and darker than my room behind them. For a short time I consider the softness of my pillow – whether I should alter the angle of my head in order to be more comfortable. I then lie on my side, slipping out of consciousness without realising it.
My dream opens to a snow-covered forest, with sparse, fluffy snowflakes falling from the trees. Judging by the brightness of the Sun, and the soft blue sky, I’d say it’s morning. I’m sitting on a large broken tree branch, which runs parallel to an icy path; in front of me, beyond a copse of trees, is a frozen river.
Other than the chirping birds and dripping icicles, no sound is heard for a time, until, in the near distance, I hear the crunching of snow. I turn my head to see Adeline walking up the trail, warmly bundled in an ensemble of light blue winter clothing; the brim of her toque is lined with white evergreens. She stops on the trail beside me, not saying a single word.
“Are you going to the store?”
She shakes her head.
“Can you talk?”
Water drips onto her hat as though keeping time.
“Yeah.”
I stand on the branch and reach up, snapping off the icicle that was leaking onto her.
“My sister and I used to use these as swords. A sword fight ensued every time we found them. She usually won with a jab to my heart – but it was all pretend, of course.”
Adeline takes the icicle from me with mitten-covered hands. I grab another from a nearby tree and stand across from her on the trail, the length of the branch between us.
“So I just attack you?”
Nodding, I shift into a parrying position. She holds out her icicle and charges.
I feel the point of her icicle on my chest and press mine into her jacket. Neither of us moves for a time.
“What happens when we both sword each other?”
“Then it’s a draw – we both win. Want to go again?”
“Yeah.”
When she pulls away, Adeline looks exactly like my sister. I wake up.
Not only has it stopped raining, but it’s already morning. I know I’ve had many dreams throughout the night, but I can only remember the forest one. Dressing, I watch the quiet street outside my window.
A freshly made snowman stands on the lawn opposite ours, smiling joyfully at the street before it, its stick arms spread as though parting water. Unseen children fill the air with laughter when I open my window and a chill breeze caresses my face. The faint scent of Christmas holds to the air.
Sitting at my desk, I type, wondering how Harold is doing at the store. Business was better in summer, when everyone wanted drinks, popsicles, and ice cream, and grabbed anything else that caught their eye. I’ll have to shovel the parking lot tomorrow since Harold’s back is too weak for it.
Goose bumps ripple through my skin. Is it really that cold? My ears prick up. No, it’s not cold – I hear a scream, coming from the backyard.
It’s Emily – her voice can’t be mistaken; hearing it is so rare that I’ve committed it to memory. What should I do? I’m standing, looking around for something but I don’t know what. If it’s a wolf, then I’ll use Emily’s gun to scare it off.
I reach behind the typewriter and grab it. As soon as it’s in my hands, I race down the stairs, pass the telephone and go out the door.
Emily is wearing a blue dress with sunflowers on it, paralyzed in a defensive position where the backyard meets the forest. In front of her, slowly pacing side to side, is a large grey wolf, its pink tongue protruding from its black, wormy lips. I can’t just run back and call someone in this situation.
I point the gun to the sky and fire, the sound momentarily deafening me, and the recoil pushes me back a step. Sucking in its tongue, the wolf stands still. All I hear is ringing. Suddenly the wolf lunges at Emily, and all I can think to do is fire twice, hoping to hit the wolf.
I’m filled with the greatest sense of relief I’ve ever felt when it’s knocked back, barking wildly – though I can’t hear a bit of it – before escaping to the forest. I drop the gun and race to Emily, holding the sides of her shaking arms. She’s looking at me with frightened, worried eyes, so I touch her face, and I touch her lips, and suddenly she’s smiling at me.
Emily moves her lips to tell me something important, but I can’t make out a single word through the ringing.