Winter Nights

by Jason Vaughn



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​The windows went dark in the workshop.  Snow had been falling intermittently for hours, but now it came in big, feathery clumps that squeaked under Harold’s rubber boots as he stepped outside.  I’ll go in before she can come out and get me, he thought.  See what she makes of that.   

The house looked cold to him.  The yellow light from the kitchen window especially.  But he only slept in the house and had his meals in there; the workshop was his real home.  The house and nearly everything in it was Maureen’s.  The mauve curtains, the lacy throw pillows, the decorative platters displayed above the kitchen cabinets.  These things were his wife in the way his hand tools were him.  Sometimes the house seemed even to sigh like her, on windy nights. 

Having dropped his boots in the mudroom and then washed his hands and seated himself at the small kitchen table, Harold said, “I finished that rocker tonight.”
 
“Oh, good,” said Maureen, setting a plate of steaming food in front of him.  “Looks colder out there.  That snow’s really coming down, isn’t it.”
 
“My shop’s warm.” 
 
“I put another blanket on the bed tonight.”
 
Harold picked up his fork and studied his food.  “We’ll sure need it,” he said.
 
Maureen sat down across from him with her own tidy portion.  She salted and peppered it, then spread a napkin smartly in her lap.  The house was quiet, except for the scraping of knives and forks and the muffled grinding sounds of chewing.

“I really like these chicken patties,” Maureen said.  “And I put some basil in the mashed potatoes this time.”

“I thought they looked a little green.”

“That’s the basil.  Can you taste it?” 

Harold worked the food around in his mouth, his left eye squinting.  “Don’t guess I can.” 

Knives and forks against plates.  A quick sucking noise from Harold’s mouth.  Quiet, quiet chewing from Maureen.

“Tomorrow I’ll start the hope chest,” Harold offered.  Then he half-emptied his milk glass, leaving a wash of white over his lip.  “For that young couple here last week.”  

“Oh, yes,” Maureen remembered.  She wiped her mouth slowly and precisely.  “The Martins, was it?”

“They got a baby coming.”

Maureen stared at his milk mustache.  How can he not feel that? she wondered.  Always he drinks milk and always he gets those disgusting mustaches!

When she finished, she took her plate and silverware to the sink, washed everything, dried it and put it away.  She tried to look out the window, to see that calm of the snow, but caught Harold’s reflection and thought, Wipe your face, you old fool!

“Extra blanket might feel nice tonight,” he admitted, then wiped his mouth firmly, the napkin making a raspy sound over his whiskers. 

Maureen shivered.

“Any more pudding?” Harold asked, his hand resting on his already-taut belly.

“Let me warm you some,” Maureen said.  She got out the leftover rice pudding and slid it into the microwave. 

“It’s pretty good,” Harold had to say. 

“And so easy to make.”  Maureen looked through the window of the microwave and watched and listened.  She took the pudding out just before the beep, then stirred it for Harold.  “Eat up while it’s hot,” she said. 

Why’s she always gotta tell me that? Harold wondered.  She think I don’t know when to eat my own pudding?  She never says eat your ice-cream while it’s cold!

Maureen studied his reflection as she washed his dishes.  Harold’s hand was hovering over the bowl.  What on earth’s he waiting for? she thought.  I won’t heat it again if it gets cold.  He can heat it again.

Finally Harold started in on the pudding, with smacking sounds that probably could have been heard in the farthest corners of that house. 

Maureen sat down again.  Noticing her Pocket Dream Dictionary in the napkin holder, she grabbed it up to see if “pudding” was listed inside.  She’d never dreamt of pudding, but thought suddenly that even in waking life it had to mean something bad.  She drew a quick breath of surprise when she actually found the word PUDDINGS in her book:

To dream of puddings denotes small returns from large investments, if you only see it.  To eat it, is proof that your affairs will be disappointing.  For a young woman to cook or otherwise prepare a pudding, denotes that her lover will be sensual and worldly minded.  And if she marries him, she will see her love and fortune vanish.

Maureen chuckled at the ‘sensual and worldly minded’ part just as Harold’s spoon clanked in his bowl.  She noticed a small glob of pudding at the corner of his mouth, then looked back to her book and thought, Does he have no feeling there at all?  I’ll tell him, I will.

At the same time, Harold was thinking, Well, I’ve eaten it while it was hot, by God.  Let her tell me that again.  I’ll give her an earful; I swear it. 

He reached for another napkin then and knocked over the saltshaker.  It made a tinny clack that startled them both out of their thoughts. 

They stared at the shaker, and the light spray of salt on the table.  Had this ever happened before? 

Finally Maureen said, “I’ll clear this away.”  Then she stood and brushed the salt off the table into her hand.  She hadn’t even thought of the bad luck, only that she would look up SALT in her dream book later on. 

Reaching again for a napkin, over-careful in his movements this time, Harold said, “Hell, I’m sorry,” and wiped the pudding from his face.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, equally covering the rooftops and the square, gray-white bodies of both the workshop and the house, and falling always in those big, feathery clumps until long after every window went dark.