The Holiday Season by Michael Knight

Author:Michael Knight
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2007-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Love at the End of the Year

The story ends. It was written for several reasons. Nine of them are secrets. The tenth is that one should never cease considering human love, which remains as grisly and golden as ever, no matter what is tattooed upon the warm, tympanic page.

—Donald Barthelme,

“Rebecca”

Katie

The Butters, Katie and Hugh, were stopped at the intersection of Cottage Hill and Cummerbund, lost, late for the Marchands’ New Year’s Eve party, when Katie decided to leave her husband. At that precise moment, Hugh was craning to look over his shoulder, headlights reflecting on his glasses. He faced front just as the light was changing, wiped the corners of his mouth, eased them uncertainly into traffic. Her husband, Katie knew, hated to be lost.

“I’m all turned around,” he said. “What was that last street? Did you notice the sign?”

Katie shook her head.

“What?”

“No,” she said.

“I’m trying to watch the road,” Hugh said. “I can’t watch you and the road at the same time. Audible responses, OK. I’d be grateful for a little help here, Katie.”

Katie nodded, caught herself, cleared her throat.

“What street are we looking for?”

“Bow tie Lane.”

“I’m leaving you,” she said.

Right away, she wished she hadn’t spoken. The patent symbolism of the occasion (new year, new life) hadn’t occurred to her until that moment. It embarrassed her somehow, made her feel like a cliché. The unhappy housewife. She had spoken on impulse, on the strength of her emotion, but the truth was she couldn’t have put to words the way she felt. Hugh leaned forward now, shut both the radio and the heater off. Cold and quiet seeped into the car like the very gist of winter.

“Point taken,” Hugh said. “I shouldn’t have snapped. But you know I hate being lost. You know how I get. No need to go all dramatic on me.”

What Katie felt, more than anything, was relief. Her pronouncement had been erased, her unhappiness reduced to the product of a squabble, not uncommon even in a healthy marriage, easily repaired. She thought of the children (Evan, twelve; Nicole, eight) at home with Miss Anita. Tonight they would eat too much pizza and drink too much Coke and stay up past their bedtime, rare pleasures. How naturally happiness came to children.

“Katie?”

His voice surprised her.

“It’s all right,” she said.

“To top it off we’re late. Forty minutes. I hate being late almost as much as I hate being lost.”

“They’ll understand.”

“That’s beside the point,” Hugh said.

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