above me. “Look at you—a snowman,”she said, smiling so brightly. And I said, “Then tell me something. Be honest with a snowman. Is your husband cold when he performs the procreative act?”
At first she just raised her brow, prompting me to repeat it, but by the time I did, her face changed, a grave concern upon it, and her gaze turned inward. I sat up. “What’s wrong?”—“I am unwell,” she said. “Take me back.”
I was terrified. She saw it and, once back in the sleigh, she offered an explanation, “It’s my pregnancy.”
“You are— pregnant ?!”
“You didn’t know?”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“I—guess I thought you knew. Everyone else does.”
“Oh my God, I shouldn’t have—if I’d known—”
“It’s all right. It’s just—something is a little wrong right now.”
“Something what?!”
“It’s not a man’s business, Alexander. Will you just get me home, please?”
• • •
The bumpy sleigh ride I had made her endure . . . of course it was all my fault! I would kill myself if she lost her baby. They confined her to bed. They were saying the worst hadn’t happened, and she was hopeful. Days passed. I stayed at her side as often as she’d let me. I kept track of her face. If she was calm, I breathed. If she looked concerned, I held my breath. At the same time I kept thinking: A baby. A baby! My brother must be normal. He is not like me. I am alone. Curse them. Curse the world! I no longer needed her answer, when one day she said, “That question you had asked . . . Your brother is not at all a cold man. He cares deeply about me. He is a devoted husband.” Then she asked, “Tell me, what had happened between Marie Tolstoy and you?”
As I opened my mouth to respond, Andrei walked in the door. You see—the problem with the Turkish war was that it just would not start in earnest. So Andrei had sought permission to leave the idle troops to be with his pregnant wife, and showed up at Velitzyno quite unexpectedly.
“What did you do to my wife?!” were Andrei’s first words. Then, as Anna—instantly oblivious of me—lifted her arms to greet her normal husband, he took control of his emotions and asked me out for a word. Anna objected, “Alexander had done me no wrong!” but Andrei wasalready closing the door behind us. When we were out of Anna’s earshot, he berated me. I rebuked not a single fantastic accusation of his because I felt guilt and—at the same time—because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But I promised to remove myself from the scene, and to begin with, I absconded to the old barn I’d frequented with Matryona.
As I yanked at the barn’s door, a whole rack of icicles, sharp and long, broke off the eaves, plunged down in front of my face, and stabbed the snow, narrowly missing my foot. I picked up the icicles one by one and broke them into smaller and smaller pieces until my palms bled and only the icicles’ wrist-thick roots resisted my best attempts at destruction. Those I hurled against the barn wall, again and again. Shards ricocheted into me. After a while there was no piece left larger than a pea.
And then, at long last, my supply of rage ran out. It occurred to me that it was time to stop asking God for help, because if he was paying attention, he ought to be helping Matryona and Savva and Anna, not me; that I was one year away from turning thirty and had nothing to show for it . . . If I was serious about loathing myself, it was time to graduate to doing it quietly—and responsibly, without the bonfire and attendant harm to others.
It would be, at any rate, more honest.
• • •
Curiously, when I undressed for bed that night, I found a shard of an icicle stuck between my vest and shirt. I placed it on my dresser and found it still solid come morning. I had no idea what I’d done to it, but it never melted: not when I washed my dried blood off it, nor after a week in my pocket when I brought it
At first she just raised her brow, prompting me to repeat it, but by the time I did, her face changed, a grave concern upon it, and her gaze turned inward. I sat up. “What’s wrong?”—“I am unwell,” she said. “Take me back.”
I was terrified. She saw it and, once back in the sleigh, she offered an explanation, “It’s my pregnancy.”
“You are— pregnant ?!”
“You didn’t know?”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“I—guess I thought you knew. Everyone else does.”
“Oh my God, I shouldn’t have—if I’d known—”
“It’s all right. It’s just—something is a little wrong right now.”
“Something what?!”
“It’s not a man’s business, Alexander. Will you just get me home, please?”
• • •
The bumpy sleigh ride I had made her endure . . . of course it was all my fault! I would kill myself if she lost her baby. They confined her to bed. They were saying the worst hadn’t happened, and she was hopeful. Days passed. I stayed at her side as often as she’d let me. I kept track of her face. If she was calm, I breathed. If she looked concerned, I held my breath. At the same time I kept thinking: A baby. A baby! My brother must be normal. He is not like me. I am alone. Curse them. Curse the world! I no longer needed her answer, when one day she said, “That question you had asked . . . Your brother is not at all a cold man. He cares deeply about me. He is a devoted husband.” Then she asked, “Tell me, what had happened between Marie Tolstoy and you?”
As I opened my mouth to respond, Andrei walked in the door. You see—the problem with the Turkish war was that it just would not start in earnest. So Andrei had sought permission to leave the idle troops to be with his pregnant wife, and showed up at Velitzyno quite unexpectedly.
“What did you do to my wife?!” were Andrei’s first words. Then, as Anna—instantly oblivious of me—lifted her arms to greet her normal husband, he took control of his emotions and asked me out for a word. Anna objected, “Alexander had done me no wrong!” but Andrei wasalready closing the door behind us. When we were out of Anna’s earshot, he berated me. I rebuked not a single fantastic accusation of his because I felt guilt and—at the same time—because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But I promised to remove myself from the scene, and to begin with, I absconded to the old barn I’d frequented with Matryona.
As I yanked at the barn’s door, a whole rack of icicles, sharp and long, broke off the eaves, plunged down in front of my face, and stabbed the snow, narrowly missing my foot. I picked up the icicles one by one and broke them into smaller and smaller pieces until my palms bled and only the icicles’ wrist-thick roots resisted my best attempts at destruction. Those I hurled against the barn wall, again and again. Shards ricocheted into me. After a while there was no piece left larger than a pea.
And then, at long last, my supply of rage ran out. It occurred to me that it was time to stop asking God for help, because if he was paying attention, he ought to be helping Matryona and Savva and Anna, not me; that I was one year away from turning thirty and had nothing to show for it . . . If I was serious about loathing myself, it was time to graduate to doing it quietly—and responsibly, without the bonfire and attendant harm to others.
It would be, at any rate, more honest.
• • •
Curiously, when I undressed for bed that night, I found a shard of an icicle stuck between my vest and shirt. I placed it on my dresser and found it still solid come morning. I had no idea what I’d done to it, but it never melted: not when I washed my dried blood off it, nor after a week in my pocket when I brought it
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