“Does Eleanor Queen seem especially happy?” she spat at him as softly as she could.
“It’s our first full day, it takes time—”
“And you didn’t have the best day either, hate to bring it up. So running off to your room to hide—”
“To hide? I came here to work!”
“What about the rest of us?”
He sidled up so close to her his spittle stung like venom against her cheek. “Don’t think I haven’t always known that you wanted me to do something, succeed at something. Well, I’m getting on track, my work is better than ever. I never got in your way—I supported your decisions, even when you changed your mind.”
She knew he was referring to her abrupt change of plans after Tycho was born. Shaw thought she’d given the ECCB her notice, but she hadn’t yet, in case…she still felt strong then; she wasn’t ready. They’d been arguing about it for days—Shaw insistent for the first time that it was his turn—when Orla had blurted out the unforgivable.
“Are you going to bring in a regular paycheck? While you pursue your dreams? Because that’s what I do—make a salary we can count on. It seems to me you have it easier if I keep working, because then we don’t need to rely on you for most of our money.”
She might as well have stabbed him in the gut with his abandoned knitting needles. She’d apologized immediately. But it didn’t matter how many times she said she didn’t mean it, because the truth of it, the tools of his “trade,” lay scattered around the perimeter of their apartment. Orla had insisted that she believed in his talent, though he hadn’t, at that time, found his calling. But Shaw came back with the most self-damning rebuke of all.
“I’d never have been able to stay in New York without you. And your co-op.”
It was a pitiful admission and she’d struggled to decide if it was brave of him to confess it or a sign of something more pathetic that might unravel their future. Things had been tense during the final few weeks of her maternity leave. But once she was out of the house again, back to the routine they’d made work for many years, everything settled down. They hadn’t had another serious argument since then. But neither had they ever experienced a scenario where they would both be home together indefinitely.
Their first full day in their new home had not gone well. And if this was how he was going to behave in the North Country, the move was going to be a mistake beyond what she’d imagined. They—she—had anticipated needing an adjustment period; they were well aware that everything about their lives in upstate New York would be different than it had been downstate. But what if they’d failed to factor in an inability to constantly be in each other’s company? And what if Shaw’s grumpiness—or even the fear he’d experienced on his misadventure—was a sign that he was having second thoughts? He wasn’t allowed to have second thoughts. Especially after one day. They had all uprooted their lives for him in support of a landscape he desired to put on canvas, in support of his one hundred and thirty square feet of personal space.
Orla considered blaming the house. Its previous owner had lived here for decades, and died here—perhaps in Shaw’s studio. They’d found an enameled chamber pot in the room’s closet when they cleaned it out; maybe in his final years, the old man had been too rickety to climb the stairs to the only bathroom. Was there a filament of him still here, slithering between them, making silent, grouchy demands?
More likely, it was the many rooms, the many doors. Were they growing apart already? Or did they need more rooms, more doors, to maintain the boundaries of their own identities? As much as she wanted to blame something, Orla recognized it was the people within the rooms that mattered, and how they handled their emotions.
As the movie faded to black, Eleanor Queen clapped at the triumphant conclusion and Tycho jumped up and down. Shaw popped his head out of his studio and asked if Orla needed help getting the kids ready for bed. She said no but went upstairs feeling buoyed by his offer. He had sounded more like himself; hopefully their day of minor struggles wouldn’t wreck their equilibrium for long. When she came back downstairs, Shaw was waiting at the bottom holding two glasses of American Honey. For the first time all evening she grinned, and accepted the whiskey.
“I’m sorry—” they both blurted.
She followed him to the couch and scrunched into her preferred corner. Shaw set the whiskey bottle on the floor between them and curled in beside her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t plan on the day being so stressful, and I’m not handling it well.”
“I’m sorry too.”
They clinked their glasses together, optimistic winners of a consolation prize.
“To trailblazers,” he said.
“I don’t know if I’m exactly blazing a trail; maybe singeing it a bit.”
He snorted. “Well, tomorrow’s another day. And I won’t be so…I’ll stick around, I promise.”
They sipped in silence for a moment, gathering their thoughts. It felt good to be beside him, just the two of them, no one else around; it had been a while.
“You found a good idea?” she asked. It was important to her that he knew of—that he felt—her faith in him. “I guess I shouldn’t have reacted that way—it’s been weeks since you could work.”
A dreamy look came to his face. “I can’t really explain it. The imagery I see…the certainty I feel. It’s even stronger now. Like the muse is saying, ‘This! Look at this!’” He shook his head in wonder. “I printed up a few of my photos just for shape, depth. And started sketching, painted the first background layer.”
“I’m glad, Shaw. I really am.” Their fingers met, entwined. “Can we talk now? About today? The kids were so scared.”
“I don’t really understand—what happened?”
“I don’t know. They were playing. I came in to do some work in the living room. Next thing I know, they’re screaming. There was a total whiteout—”
“Oh my God.”
“I couldn’t see a thing. I found them and started helping them inside and then…back to clear, sunny skies. Like nothing ever happened.”
“That’s really odd.” His face spoke more than his words, and she wondered if he was thinking of his own frightening experience.
“Tycho was more or less unfazed afterward. But Bean…I just…I so hoped this would be something she’s not afraid of, and I don’t want her to be afraid. Especially on the first day.”
Frustrated, Shaw shook his head, reminding Orla of the rocking of an Etch A Sketch, erasing an image. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed—I know…I kept thinking, when I was out there and couldn’t get back, that it was my punishment. I was thinking the whole time that I shouldn’t have left, you’re all new to this place, and it was my…I convinced myself—I was sure the forest was punishing me. For bad decisions.”
Orla didn’t like how he was anthropomorphizing the wilderness again. She didn’t think Mother Nature interacted with individuals any more than she believed Jesus did. And it reminded her too much of Eleanor Queen’s unsettling description—like a bad dream come to life, of something wanting to eat her.