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Fiction Short Story

Nadene Mattson

Nadene R. Mattson is a native of Bear Lake County, Idaho. She took early retirement after working as editor/publisher of a monthly corporate magazine for several years, and later as a proposal writer for an architectural firm. Nadene recently completed her first novel and has the work making the rounds looking for an agent/publisher. She is presently caring for her mother and lives at Logan, Utah.

Twelve Months of Winter

I push the button that ejects the tape from the car cassette player and stare into the skeleton-like cottonwoods at the 'Y' in the road just past our house. Even though it's warm outside and should be stifling hot sitting here inside, I'm chilled to the bone and shaking violently. The same kind of cold one feels immediately after giving birth. With all my heart, I wish a nurse could come along and wrap me in one of those blankets fresh from the warmer oven and make all this go away, but deep inside I know even a warm blanket will not dispel this kind of cold.

In the house I struggle to make my mind function. Where did I put that ratty imitation fur coat that was my consolation prize when I'd discovered the last affair? The one before the cassette tape in the car. I dig through several closets and finally find it in the storage room downstairs, put it on and go back to sit in the car, with the windows rolled up.

My mind wanders. Anything not to think of the cold. Or that tape. The kids won't be home from school for at least three hours.

Would that be enough time to suffocate in a hot car?

I toy with the notion, then go back to dissecting small question fragments, all starting with "Why?" I feel myself slipping into that dark place that has taken so many years to climb out of, again feeling the panic of being too close to the edge, fingernails losing their grip.

Like a ticker tape, a phrase runs through my mind: "He who fails to learn from his mistakes is destined to live them again," and I wonder who said that. Probably a Hindu or Buddha thing. But they should have said, "She who fails..."

And fails. And fails.

But this is the end of fail and the end of hope. He'd begged me to take him back. This time would be different, he promised, and I had.

That time had been different for me too, because I'd had the wit to say, "This is the last time. There won't be a next time. You cheat again and I'll know before you know I know, and you will have your walking papers," which is why I talked to the P.I. about installing that voice activated recorder on the phone line. Because I knew.

The guy charged a huge amount and wouldn't install it himself. Watergate was in the news. He said wiretapping could get his license yanked, but he gave me the machine with instructions on how to install it.

I'd prayed to God I was wrong, but my instincts had become so finely honed over the past twenty-four plus years that it wasn't hard to spot when he was again "on the make." He was such a slave to habit that little changes in his behavior were instant warnings. And he said dumb things that were a dead giveaway, almost like he wanted to get caught. Maybe he did. Maybe this time he'd found someone he couldn't live without and would rather get caught than have to say the words that would end it all.

I stare again at the cottonwoods. They show flecks of green. A week of warm weather like today and the leaves will unfurl and winter will be past, for the trees. But I will miss the spring. And the summer. And the fall. This will be my twelve months of winter, a terrible time to live through. A worse time for my children.

But I could choose to sit in the too-warm car and never be cold again.

I hadn't known about any of it until we'd been married fourteen years, but he'd been through four women by then. I'd never even changed a tire, and our youngest of six children was not yet two weeks old. The admonition had rung in my ears that a Mormon wife is supposed to make it work. Somehow. So I did. We uprooted the kids and moved to give us a chance for a new start.

And three years ago when he strayed again, I still didn't know how to fix a tire. By that time two children were grown and had eagerly left the nest. But, like most Mormon wives, I had no skills that would earn enough to raise four children. That was back in the days when child support was not well enforced. I knew: I'd checked. But that time he'd promised it wouldn't happen again.

But it did. The proof there on that tape sticking out of the player. I still can't change a tire, and the kids will be home in barely more than two hours now.

I look at the clutch of cottonwoods again, my gaze drawn back to the 'Y' that flanks the trees on either side, and my mind plays with parallels. The cottonwood trees stand huge and tall in the middle of the road. To be safe, the driver must choose the road to the left or the right; to go straight puts one in peril of his life. Much like sitting in this car until the kids come home.

Realizing I am no longer cold pulls me back to present; in fact I'm sweating profusely. I bring the tape with me into the house and hide it in the bottom of the cedar chest. A quick shower clears my head. I pull on a sweatshirt, faded jeans, a pair of old sneakers, and an old denim jacket and get back in the car. Slowly, I angle onto the road, follow the right arm of that 'Y' into town, and stop at Garr's auto repair where we get the work done on our automobiles.

"Nice to see you," he says. "What can I do for you today?"

"Well, I need to learn to change a tire. I'll pay you for your time. And while you're at it, maybe you could teach me how to change the oil and check the battery too."

Mr. Garr studies me for what feels like a full minute, then goes to get his tools.