Night had fallen.
The town had been blanketed with snow a few hours earlier and the place
was silent, engulfed in a shroud of white.
“What in the devil is that deafening noise?”
Cecil Thompson was awake.
“I swore if I heard another sound from number 57 I would call the
police!” Mr. Thompson felt around in the dark for his glasses. “Damn kids.” He
put them on, and turned on the light.
Cecil was an old man, no younger than 80, with a thin, curved, candy
cane-shaped body. He was always talked about in hushed voices throughout the
sad little town, from the small community church to the enormous houses across
the river. Nobody knew where he had been in his life; they just knew he was
here.
Cecil groggily half-stumbled-half-fell down the stairs. He had never
thought about buying a cane. Canes were for old people.
He crossed his tiny one man kitchen with the dishes still in the sink.
He stomped through his sitting room and bent down to put his shoes on by the
door. He put on his pea coat and scarf, and crankily ventured out into the
cold.
Cold.
It was astounding how many thoughts and emotions could be crammed into
one short word.
He could hear her exuberant laugh from the other room, and knew it would
be hard resisting her tonight. “Cecil darling, why have you got to be such a
wet blanket all the time, huh? Why can’t we have one night when we don’t care?”
It was clear she had dressed up for him. As she entered the room, her dark brown
hair slightly waved. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In a
scandalous red dress that went only down to her knees, she was ready for a
wondrous night out.
“I wish I could tonight Clare, you have no idea how much. But Ginny’s
train comes in at 9 o’clock, and I promised her I would meet her there.”
“Well, make her wait.”
“She’s my wife Clare; I would never do something so cruel as to leave
her waiting on a cold night like this.”
“Face it Cecil, you are cruel. Come on, it’s our last night.”
“What do you mean?” Cecil was confused. This couldn’t be the end of it.
He could never tell himself why he didn’t just leave Ginny; maybe the shame of
having to tell her why or maybe just because he loved the thrill of it all.
Ginny was very pretty, very practical, and very predictable. He rushed
and had married her at a young age, perhaps because she was just about as
predictable as he was. Shortly thereafter he met Clare, and everything seemed to
be swept up in a swirl of confusion.
Clare was exquisite; one look from her and his heart would dissolve into
thousands of butterflies. Someone with such bewitching beauty could not be
resisted-he knew from the moment he saw her she would not only steal his heart,
but all his logical thoughts as well. Clare could dance, she could sing; she
wasn’t ashamed to laugh resonantly in public or to wear dresses that only went
down to her knees. She was the perfect example of the new woman; one who was
just as useful as a man, who could fend for herself. Cecil couldn’t help
falling in love with her, with one so dazzlingly charming, who could?
Clare had taught him to live. Everything about her was magnificent, and
he could hardly think of never seeing her again.
“Please Cecil, let’s just go.”
“Clare. What did you mean this was our last night?”
“I’m thinking of getting the boeuf bourguignon again, it was exquisite.”
She turned and opened the door, and as she did a gust of wind so strong blew it
shut again.
“Clare. Clare!” She tensed, and turned around. “This isn’t our last
night…why would you say something like that?”
“Cecil, I think you had better sit down.” He walked into the sitting
room and sat down in the chair farthest from the fireplace. “I was going to mention
this at dinner, but…”
She was interrupted by the front door slamming once more, but this time
there were footsteps in the hallway. “I’m home! Cecil, where are you? I took a
taxicab from the train station, I hope you don’t mind. I just couldn’t bear the
cold-oh.” As Ginny walked into the room, Cecil could almost feel the wheels
turning in his head, trying desperately to formulate an excuse for having Clare
in their house. “Cecil, who is this?”
“Well, ah-”
“Is this the woman you’ve been seeing when I go on these stress
vacations?” He froze. “Don’t give me that look, I knew. How stupid do you think
I am, Cecil? Did you think I didn’t notice when you started coming home later
from work, and when you clumsily hid a pair of ladies’ underwear that wasn’t
mine in our own bedroom? I didn’t want to believe it, but I should have known
this was inevitable.”
“I think I had better leave.” Clare made her way into the hallway. Maybe
it was the cold, but Cecil couldn’t move; he was still processing it all in his
head. Clare turned to look at him one final time. She had regret in her eyes
now; the radiant blue turning a duller shade. “Goodbye Cecil.” He heard her
walk down the hall. The creak of the doorknob, the whistling wind so loud for a
moment, then deafening silence.
She was gone.
“I’ll be out in a week. Goodnight Cecil.” Ginny climbed the stairs and
turned out the light, leaving Cecil in the darkness.
With
its strength, the wind brought back this sudden sweep of memories to him. They
had all been summed up into one short word: cold. That night was cold, and so
were his feelings. In the silence Cecil paused, remembering all the happiness
that the streets of his town once held. His footsteps the first on the new
snow, he crunched down the street. She had charmed him and then gone on
purpose, leaving him to a life of mediocrity and regret.
When he got to number 57, he noticed something.
“Humph. Empty. Lights out. I know I heard something. Laughter; that
revolting sound.”
Cecil grumped all the way home. “Children should be seen and not heard.”
He’d almost had a family. Perhaps that was why he resented the sounds
from number 57. Perhaps there were no
sounds from number 57. He would never know.
The batteries in his hearing aids had run
out years ago. Now he was just a deaf old man, wandering the streets of a
little matchbox town.
