The Stillness of Winter

The Stillness of Winter

By

Vincent J. Watson

Silentdream Publishing

© 2014

Copyright © 2014 by Vincent J. Watson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. Please direct all inquiries to the address or email below.

First Printing: 2014

Smashwords Edition

Silentdream Publishing

Minneapolis, MN 55408

612-605-1775

The Author Can Be Reached At

www.stonesthrowgathering.com

some things I need to say

The original idea for this book has been kicking around in my head for many years but never managed to write itself into existence due to my obsessively visual nature when imagining things.

Perhaps it was that I needed to meet certain people in my life to complete the story and fill out the characters. Some of those people are no longer here to see my dream of actually finishing this book come true but… (there is always a but) if you believe in such things I am sure that they are well aware of their roles in it. Those who are still around will no doubt see themselves in certain characters or at the very least see themselves as they wish to be. It is of course, as I see them, but that’s probably just me being obvious.

I wish to thank my family (Sarah, Valen, Michael, Demian, Zoë & Phoebe) for putting up with my occasional moodiness, and for realizing that that crazed look of frustration I get when staring off into space while working out an issue is simply my mind at work, overheating, stalling, etc.

Of special note is Michelle who I channeled constantly while writing some of the conversations and also Wanda who was an amazing writer and friend. You both are dearly missed.

A special thanks to Sue for pointing out my more obvious technical errors and creative faux pas. Her knowledge of things most people know nothing about can be occasionally scary but irrevocably useful.

Thanks to a certain Minneapolis coffee shop for keeping the caffeine coming. I'm not sure if I should mention the name but they have a sign out front that says Spyhouse. Does that count as a mention?

For the record, certain humorous references regarding a certain Minnesota college are based on my experience with certain number of graduates of said college and in no way imply that all participants at that particular college should be disparaged or otherwise made fun of as It was also not my intention in any way to cast a shadow on said college itself. It must be said however that the character in this novel representing said college does in fact (in my experience) correctly represent the arrogantly annoying, frustratingly bourgeois, condescendingly despotic frame of mind that seems to accompany graduates of said college. Nuf said.

Next, I thank you for reading my mental ramblings. I hope this story touches your heart and soul as well as makes you think about love in its many incarnations. It's such a completely complicated thing, but so very much worth it when it works.

Lastly, I borrow a quote from Jamie Monroe (the Lingo whore) who stole it from someone else, who stole it from someone else. Go be yourself and no one can tell you that are doing it wrong. I'm actually pretty sure that it is completely possible to do it wrong, but I digress. It is what it is.

( Be The Ball )

Chapter 1

I have never understood the complexities of love as it relates to the human personality that controls such things. It surrounds the body and soul, while inevitably; it causes change in the one person you thought you wanted to know better than you could ever know even yourself. It brings with it a feeling of helplessness, like a child new to a world where nothing is as it had seemed, and then only until it changes again. I felt like that newborn child when I discovered that the one person I had loved beyond life itself, had picked up only the more productive pieces of her life and walked out of a home we had both sworn that we would never leave. Compounding my confusion was the fact that she had done so in secret, and at a time where I was not there to contest her departure or to demand any explanation for her self-removal from my life.

It had been two years since Julia had entered my relatively uncomplicated and solitary life. She seemed, all at once, to push all of my emotional demons aside; replacing them with a light that shown brightly at times, magnificently at others, and always without doubt or hesitation. Julia let me know in no uncertain terms, that it was ok to be there with her in any way I chose to be at that particular moment in time. She let me know that there could be an us, without fear of having the me I protected so fiercely compromised. And it was because of Julia, and because of her reassurance, that I had opened my eyes every morning that we were together, finally knowing exactly where the pieces of this particular puzzle fit into my life. And on that fall day, I stood in the middle of the room where we had shared a meal, laughter and comfort not quite 24 hours ago, holding a note which simply said, I love you with all my heart. Please forgive me, goodbye.

Drawing from my own personal history, I probably would not have felt so abandoned had the previous months not been so emotionally uncomplicated. Never more at any other time since Julia and I had begun this affair of the heart had things seemed so indicative of perfection. Throughout the summer, we had taken long walks for hours around the world we had just begun to share and talked about all of the things we liked and loved about it, and about each other. It seemed as they unfolded, that these particular conversations were possibly, intentionally or unintentionally, connections to inquiries, which served to outline one possible future for us as we moved forward with each other. Sometimes there was nothing that needed to be said, and we simply walked together, holding each other as if attempting to merge our bodies and souls into one being forever.

Now, after all this time, I have to reflect on those walks, those times, those quiet moments and try to convince myself that, of all our time together, those times were indeed without flaws and were most likely to end in forever. These things that we questioned, admired, laughed and joked about, seemed to be that which inevitably became just the right answer at just the right moment.

On that day, I stood there looking around the room noticing the smallest changes that reflected her absence. It was as if all of the things I had denied myself and refused to believe in prior to Julia were at that moment once again thrown into question. I stood there noticing the things that I had grown used to. Things that were relatively small in their existence, and things I would not have noticed had I not been standing there holding a note that proclaimed love while announcing Julia's abandonment of everything we planned. The laptop I had given her on her birthday last year - which when not in use sat on the kitchen counter, its cords neatly coiled inside a small travel pouch - gone. The black and white picture that my best friend Marlys, had taken of us at that particular birthday dinner was now only a slightly faded rectangle on the wall.

Oddly enough, there was nothing out of place. Julia, who often joked that her OCD was only applicable when it came to cleaning, usually made sure that everything both had a place, and was, always in that place. Of interest, considering the circumstances, was that there was a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter that had not been put away. I wanted to, but couldn't smile at the fact that she had bothered to get the groceries on the list that we kept on the refrigerator. Apparently her OCD ran even deeper when in the process of leaving without notice; but at that particular moment, there would be no laughter. There would be no sudden realization that I was really dreaming and would wake up when it was over, still knowing that all of my demons were still and irrevocably kept at bay simply by her being by my side.

I picked up my cell phone and dialed her number. It rang once and went to voicemail with her normally light and earthy voice replaced by the standard greeting that was more formal, more informational: The number you have dialed is unavailable, please try again later. I sat down and placed the phone in front of me face down, crossed my arms, and sat my chin on them, staring at it. My mind, of course, wanted to believe that if I sat there long enough, the phone would just eventually ring, that it would be Julia and whatever complicated misunderstanding or series of events that had caused this temporary intrusion into what I had understood to be an amazing adventure would soon be resolved. Minutes, hours, and eventually the afternoon settled into evening with me sitting there slumped over the table with my head on my arms, inches away from a phone that stubbornly refused to ring. I drifted in and out of consciousness believing that at any moment the phone was going to ring and it would be her.

Time passed. I remember that in the haze that accompanied either falling asleep or having been asleep, and being disturbed by some intrusive noise in the background, I made decisions that had no bearing on when or if she called. I did not go to the bathroom even though the fluids in my bladder insistently pushed their way towards the nearest exit. The confusing thoughts that accompany post-dream state did not allow for such conscious conclusions that normally allow one to function appropriately. That is to say that on one hand, at no point did it occur to me to simply take the phone with me to the bathroom.

On the other hand, I may have unconsciously rationalized that there were a few spots in the house where reception was sketchy and that moving through those spots would happen at the exact moment that the powers that control such things would put her call through. It was several hours later that my pulsating bladder won the battle and I was forced to relent and head for the bathroom. I checked the face of my phone. Five bars, that's good. Volume turned all the way up, perfect. I left it face up and reluctantly made my way down the hall.

I sat down even though I only had to pee, but since I usually did this anyway, I did so out of habit more than some contrived effort to better hear the phone. The fact that I sat down on the toilet to pee made Julia laugh. She, who believed in such things as reincarnation, had once stated that these were probably remnants of having been a woman in another life. I had smiled and said, If that was the case, I hope I had really big tits. She, who had breasts of a very appropriate size for her five foot six frame, smiled and informed me: They are more trouble than they're worth. It was amazing how unencumbered she was with guilt or shame about the human body.

On one of those many nights when we were new and sitting down by the river chatting and learning about all of the oddities surrounding our lives, she told me her most personal secret. We were doing the getting-to-know-you thing, talking about who we were and trying our best to be honest, or at least reasonably truthful, without triggering the other's warning bells. It was, of course, the dating dance, but unlike at other times, at one point I realized that there was no dishonesty, intentional subterfuge, or exaggerated tales involved in what I was saying. It simply wasn't necessary, as I believed she would have accepted me had I suddenly sprouted a second head and four more fingers. It was then that she told me about the car accident, her parents, and her body.

It was the year she had graduated from college. Her parents had driven from Iowa City to Minneapolis to attend the graduation and then bring her back home to Iowa. Somewhere on the way home, a carload of drunken teenagers veered in front of them, forcing them off the road. She did not see the accident as she had lain down in the back seat surrounded in music from her headphones and had drifted off. She only remembered waking up in the hospital three days later surrounded by machines, monitors, and strangers wearing hospital garb. I remember as she told me this story that she had a slight and persistent smile on her face. It was almost as if the smile stood as a gatekeeper for emotions that she did not want to allow to be able push their way to the surface. She wanted absolute control over the words she was allowing to escape.

When she had awakened, she could not talk due to the tube down her throat. Once they had realized that she was awake, small teams of people came in, removed the tube so she could speak, asked a bunch of questions, and generally annoyed her. She had reluctantly answered questions like, what is your name, do you know where you are, how many fingers am I holding up, etc. She still could not speak and trying to speak hurt like hell, so she had answered by nodding her head or making hand gestures - even though those had hurt like hell as well.

Julia paused for a moment as she spoke, taking in a deep breath. I cupped her face with my hand, and she leaned into it, but did not turn to face me. She regained that subtle smile that accompanied her story and continued.

After about an hour or so, when all of the nurses had finished poking and prodding her, and the last one had been about to leave the room, she had managed to bump her arm up against the bed loud enough to get her attention. She had uttered one word: Parents. The nurse had smiled and said she would get the doctor to come in. She had felt the tears start immediately. Good news would have started with, They're ok, I'll get the doctor. Bad news contained no such preface. She told me about the doctor who had come in, tasked with her care and with dispensing such life changing news as the death of one’s parents. She said that he had been an older gentleman with kind eyes and a soft voice, and thus perfect for such obviously emotional duties. She laughed and told me that he reminded her of that actor who played G'kar on the Babylon 5 series. (I loved the fact that she knew who G'Kar was.) Over the next hour or so, she had learned that the car had been forced off the road and that both of her parents had not survived the ordeal, but had not suffered. She learned that she had been saved because she had been laying down in the back seat and the front seat had surrounded her as the car had rolled five or six times. She had learned that, despite that protection, her pelvis had been broken in several places and several springs from the seat had punctured her torso. Two surgeries in two days had repaired various injuries, muscles and punctures.

Julia couldn't remember exactly how and when she had learned of these additional items, but she did recall having been reminded of them over the next several weeks in preparation for the six additional surgeries that had been required to complete all of the repairs. She thought that the initial shock of being told that drunken teenagers out on a joy ride had killed both of her parents had pretty much closed her mind to any additional information being absorbed at the time. The doctor had held her hand during the entire initial conversation. She remembered noticing this, but also that she could not feel his hand because she could not feel her own.

After a period of time, he had asked her if she had any questions. She had managed to whisper the words, What about the kids? The doctor had lowered his head and shook it from side to side. She had thought to herself, No one to blame then. and had turned her head away from the doctor standing near the door and stared out the window. She could see the shadowy reflection of him as he left the room in the glass that separated her from the world that had, without warning, changed her life irrevocably. She told me that it seemed to be unnaturally beautiful outside and that she had wanted more than ever at that moment to be on the other side of that glass instead of lying on a hospital bed immobilized by tubes and bandages.

I had already told Julia about my limited family, my childhood, my dreams and desires. I told her how I was an only child raised by a single mom who dreamed of only good things for her son, but had worked too hard at too many things to make ends meet and participate in his life very much at the same time. I never begrudged her this lack of contact as my imagination, dreams, and journals had filled in that time with this and that and, because of her, I had never gone to bed hungry or alone. I told her that I had spent the better part of my life as a loner, and as one who believed that it was truly better to listen than to speak, to observe rather than do, or to know rather than believe.

As my mother tells it, my childhood was one of quiet contentment, rather than rash demands, and that, for a long period of time, they had thought I was incapable of communicating my needs or desires. I would sit in quiet, ubiquitous thought until whatever it was I wanted to happen, happened, ceased, or was put in front of me. Maybe it was because of that, the way I had contemplated life before me that I finally began to believe that that which had been set before me, was the thing I desired and would be content with. I also would have never have believed that such things, when finally presented, would be so abruptly taken from me without explanation.

Now I think that for many years, my quiet world of contemplative solace brought me only minimal understanding of who I was, or the emotional possibilities put before me. Had I thought that, finally, I had become the master, and that I could stare out into the world, as presented, with complete mastery and understanding? If I once had dreamed of things so real, the existence that I had allowed to develop only served to skew the general direction my life had taken.

I told her that I had often wondered for wonderings sake, if it was possible to will one's self into insanity, by simply having the desire to do so. I had always assumed that if this were possible, insanity was therefore, by definition, self-defined and of little use to anyone else attempting to define an individual. Julia shook her head in disagreement. That would mean that it would be impossible to hold anyone responsible for their actions and that the world would have long ago descended into chaos, she said. I was not sure what she had meant at the time.

Now, years later, I believe that she was trying to tell me we are not alone and that people are, and should be, held responsible for their own actions. But by this logic, would self-induced insanity be considered the same as insanity created by some series of causes and effects that happened to shape the way your life unfolded? Is it the same as having abusive parents who ignored your most intimate needs and told you fairy tales to stop you from touching yourself, or a perverted uncle who did touch you in the wrong places when no one was looking?

I told her about the live spiders my visiting uncle kept as pets and would often leave outside my door and that I often wondered if they were going to come back violently, as a nightmarish acid trip to propagate horrendous images in my head. Would therapists come to my still and silent room, and summarily sit in high backed leather chairs and ask me to recite the alphabet backwards while they took notes on invisible pads and noticed that I bit my finger nails down to the very edges of my fingers, including the skin? These are the moments in time, which have quite obsessed and consumed my thoughts - more than the world I always believed that I belonged in.

Julia accepted me anyway and this I loved about her. I told her that as I grew into a teenager, I used to take walks before the sun would come up because I believed that twilight was simply the best part of the day for figuring things out. I would walk for miles in the darkness, occasionally turning down a dirt road in search of something new to explore.

I used to sit on strangers' porch swings in the middle of the night and imagine myself part of the world I was silently invading, and then I would walk some more. Each house was a different story. You could imagine the people who occupied each home and then try to imagine what their lives might be like. Were there children or no children, elderly couple or Martha Stewart Wannabe? You could always tell. You could smell it, on the breath of the house or the cut of the lawn.

I can sometimes still smell the mist burning off the grass as the sun rose in front me during my long walk home after a long night of sitting by the river. I can still feel the pain in my legs as I walked home after a particularly long night, and collapsed into bed to settle in waiting for night to come around again, ripe for more exploration. And I would wait for sleep, listening to the world wake up around me, my own personal theater of sound engulfed by the random clamor of someone else's world waking up, while mine only desired sleep.

Life had gone on in this manner for some years, with me shadowing the images I believed would seduce the world into simply believing that I had become well adjusted enough to present a reasonable front to society. There was nothing that would cause anyone to believe that I suffered from any form of discontent or had in any way disassociated myself from the normal things that children were supposed to believe in. My grades had been adequate, and had dipped and risen with the normal levels of distracted-teenager frequency. Friends had been few and casual, and the days had gone by without any sense of urgency or particular purpose. All of my dreams and desires were kept well hidden inside a