A Single Awe

And [I] understood, in the endless instant before she answered, how Pharaoh’s army, seeing the ground break open, seeing the first fringed horses fall into the gap, made their vows, that each heart changes, faced with a single awe and in that moment a promise is written out.

 

—Brenda Hillman,

“Mighty Forms”

 

WHILE DANA MACARTHUR’S HUSBAND BRYAN WAS BUSY unwrapping gifts with his tellers, she slipped away—finally—from the Sentinel Savings holiday party to smoke her only cigarette of the night.

Smoking was allowed inside the banquet hall—the upper reaches of the ceiling had been foggy for hours—but Dana was trying to keep her backsliding hidden. She’d quit last New Year’s, more or less, as a promise to Bryan. Honey, he’d say, I just don’t want anything to happen to you. And how could she disagree? But she missed her cigarettes, missed the private time they’d always given her. All night she’d watched the bankers get drunker and drunker, watched Bryan fuss happily over them, and felt, more and more, as though she was standing alone in the room. Why not go the distance?

She almost escaped the banquet hall unnoticed. But at the doorway to the lobby, turning the corner too fast, she nearly walked into the chest of a man she knew: Jimmy, a new teller at Bryan’s bank, just out of college, tall and trim and smelling faintly of beer.

Excuse me, Jimmy said. He bowed a little, swept his hand forward in mock gallantry. Milady.

Dana sidestepped him with only a murmur of acknowledgment. She had met Jimmy just once before tonight, while stopping by the bank for a lunch date with Bryan a few weeks earlier. She’d noticed Jimmy right away—you couldn’t help but notice him. He was handsome in a catalog-model way: sandy-blond, with a symmetrical face and slim hips, and a half smile she bet he’d practiced. He’d winked at her, when they first shook hands across the counter. She decided then not to pay him much mind. Most bankers, she’d found, were a lot less slick than they hoped.

But earlier tonight, while Bryan and the other branch managers handed out bonus checks, Dana had caught Jimmy staring at her from the other side of the room, his arm slung across the shoulders of a short, pretty blonde. He’d grinned at Dana, rocked on his feet; the woman stared wide-eyed at the party over the rim of her plastic cup. The quickness of his smile disturbed her; Dana had looked away. Bryan had reintroduced them not long after. (You remember Jimmy? Of course. His handshake, firm and dry. The woman’s name was April. His wife or girlfriend, Dana couldn’t remember.)

In a small, shadowed nook just outside the entrance to the hall, Dana lit up, feeling small and furtive. Snow swirled past her, sparse and gritty. The parking lot shone with a glittering veneer of ice—another eggnog and she might have trouble negotiating it in her heels. There’d be some bruised asses later, when the party let out. Dana watched headlights crawl east on Henderson. The roads would be getting bad, too.

She thought about Jimmy’s wink, his smile. She tried to make herself angry, but the feeling wouldn’t take. Dana was twenty-seven—hardly old—but in the past couple of years, it was true, people like Jimmy and April had come to seem younger and younger—more like the high schoolers in Dana’s algebra classes than the kind of people she and Bryan were. Which was like no one, except in the way they acted. Everyone in the banquet hall was either too young, drinking too much, or middle-aged, trying to seem young by drinking too much. Jimmy might be nothing more than a boy in a grown-up’s body, but at least he didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t.

And anyway: whatever else in him might be flawed, Dana could certainly appreciate his grown-up body.

As she thought this the pneumatic door to her left wheezed, and Jimmy himself appeared, leaning his torso outside, craning his neck left and right. Dana froze—her nook was just out of his line of sight. But Jimmy walked outside anyway, shrugging on an overcoat. He turned a half circle, and then spotted her. He grinned, feigning surprise.

Dana, hey, he said. He pointed at her hand. You looked like someone sneaking. I’m dying. Can I bum one?

She should have told him she was finished—which was the truth. But instead she said, Who says I’m sneaking? and extended her pack.

Jimmy laughed and took a cigarette. Well, he said, Bryan’s been telling us all how you quit. He’s real proud of you.

Dana wasn’t surprised to hear it, but the news didn’t make her any happier.

Our secret, all right? she said.

Jimmy put the cigarette between his lips and patted his coat pockets. Hey, I’m not legal either. April’d have a damn kitten.

Dana held out her lighter, but Jimmy said, Got one. He probably had his own cigarettes, too. He lit up, took a drag, and sighed. Then he leaned companionably back against the brick.

You know, he said, I’m glad to see you here tonight.

He glanced at her sideways and blew out a plume of smoke, half smiling. What a piece of work.

Is that so? she asked.

He laughed. Yeah, it is. And not just because that’s a killer dress.

Dana could scarcely believe she’d heard him. Jimmy had gone right for her vanity, newly bruised. She had found the dress a few days earlier, shopping on a whim—she’d discovered, with a little thrill, how good she looked in it. The dress was black, with long sheer sleeves, and an ankle-length skirt slit up to mid-thigh. Probably not appropriate for a Christmas party, but its lines and color favored her, showed her off. She’d been dieting, had flattened her stomach a little; in the dress all that work seemed worth it. To teach she only wore sensible clothes; maybe once or twice a year did she have a chance to look this good.

So why was she surprised that someone had noticed?

And . . . hadn’t she wanted other men to notice? In the days since she owned it, if she was being honest, she had imagined strangers seeing her in it. Admiring her. Even removing it from her. The good-looking man buying ties in the next department—she’d seen him in the mirror, caught in the act of looking away, as she held the dress up against her body. Or even—she had indeed thought this—a man like Jimmy. Maybe even Jimmy himself. A man who winked at the boss’s wife when she visited the bank in her jeans and running shoes. What would a man like that think of her in a dress like this?

Now she knew. She kept her eyes out on the parking lot.

Thank you, she said, keeping her voice neutral. Where’s your girlfriend?

Jimmy grinned as though Dana had done something wonderful.

Inside, he said. Ladies’ room. There was a line—I saw my window and took it.

Dana crushed out the butt of her cigarette. Instead of a Christmas party she should be standing outside of some fifth-year senior’s house, listening to the blare of speakers propped in a window, trying to keep track of her center of gravity. Jimmy could ask, What’s your major? She could tell him to fuck off. Or she could lean on his arm.

Your husband’s quite a guy, Jimmy said to her.

Thank you, Dana said—inanely, as though she’d made Bryan the way he was.

He’s crazy about you. Dana, Dana—that’s all he talks about.

Jimmy gave her that sideways glance again. It was uncanny—was she wearing a sign with her troubles on it? Did men like Jimmy have a radar for insecurities? Probably.

She’d tried to surprise Bryan with the new dress tonight. My my my, he’d said, when she came out of the bathroom wearing it. A flicker in his eyes, a dimple in his cheek—and she’d felt grateful, taller, stronger. Like the old days, that was all it took. He was knotting his tie. She wanted him to drop it, to come over to her. To feel him pull her closer when he kissed her. But instead he said, You look fabulous, hon, and then went back to frowning at his crooked knot.

And she’d seen the evening rolling out ahead of them: after the long tedium of the party she and Bryan would have to stay late, to make sure the drunk tellers all got home safely. They wouldn’t be alone again in their bedroom until at least three in the morning, and by then they would stink of sweat and stale smoke, and Bryan might very well be asleep, turned to the wall, before the dress was even off.

She should, she knew, go inside. End this line of thinking before it extended any further.

Instead she shook another cigarette from the pack. She started to dig for her lighter, but Jimmy held out his. Dana leaned forward toward his cupped hands. His arm pressed against hers through the sleeves of their coats. He was wearing cologne: just a hint escaped from the collar of his shirt.

Jimmy was saying, No, I mean it. I love working for Bryan, we all do. Heck of a nice guy.

He sure is.

Can I ask you something, though? His eyes were glittering with secrets.

Dana took in a breath, barely knowing what to hope for. Sure, she said.

So I’ve been hearing this rumor.

She knew, then, what he was going to ask, and felt a surge of disappointment so strong she almost began to cry.

She said, Go ahead.

Is it true that—I mean, I heard that—Jimmy laughed at himself. Is it true he saved someone’s life once? That’s why . . . ? Jimmy moved his fingers up and down over his right forearm, indicating Bryan’s scars.

Dana wondered what sort of look was on her face.

Hey, Jimmy said, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Really.

But she had no one but herself to blame for his asking. When Dana had been just—just a kid, five years ago, she had stood in a corner at a Sentinel dinner party and told the story of Bryan’s burns—his heroism—for the first time. Back then she had been proud. She wanted the people who worked with him to know what Bryan had done, what he was. And it was possible that the reason Bryan Macarthur was now a branch manager had something to do with that story, circulating out there in whispers. Dana and Bryan had never discussed this possibility, but she knew they had both thought it. He’d been upset—sad—when he found out she’d told.

He’d said, They look at me differently. I’m nothing special.

She’d told him, You are to me. Then she kissed him, deeply.

Now she took a breath.

It’s true, she told Jimmy. We were in college together, in Colorado. We went to the mountains on a ski trip. We were driving through a blizzard and found a wrecked car. Bryan pulled a woman out after the car caught fire.

Dana pushed back her coat and dress sleeve. She held up her wrist in front of Jimmy and turned it.

He and I dragged her up to the road, she said. I got burned a little, too.

Jimmy looked at the scar twisting from her forearm down to the base of her thumb.

Jesus, he said, leaning back. That’s pretty fucking brave.

It happened quickly, Dana said.

That’s a strange thing to say.

She shrugged. He was right. She couldn’t explain why she’d said it . . . or why she’d shown him the scar, which she usually kept hidden. It was nothing—not compared to Bryan’s. Her face flushed, and she hoped Jimmy wouldn’t notice. She was lingering too long—what did she think was going to happen, anyway? What could happen? She had to end this, get back inside.

When she looked up from readjusting her sleeve, Jimmy was leaning forward, too close.

You’ve got some more secrets, I bet. I thought so when I first met you.

Dana pulled back, almost by instinct.

I’m sorry, she said. I have to get inside. Good night, Jimmy.

She took a step, her stomach jumping, but Jimmy said, Wait, and even though she told herself to keep going, she turned around anyway.

Jimmy took hold of her hand. He was taller even than Bryan, and she had to arch up to kiss him. His lips were cold, his breath tasting of cigarette smoke and the sting of a breath mint. He opened her mouth wide; she returned the pressure. His hand slipped down the back of her long coat and squeezed at her rear end, and for a moment she was pressed against him from her knees to her shoulders.

Then Dana put a hand inside Jimmy’s open overcoat—his stomach, under the smooth silk of his shirt, was stony-hard—and pushed. Jimmy rocked back. He smiled and brushed a thumb wonderingly across his lips.

What was that? Dana asked, and though she meant to sound angry, her voice quavered.

You wanted me to, he said.

He was right. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted, in fact, to pull him into an empty car and do a lot more than kiss him. Since meeting Bryan she’d never kissed another man—her body felt light, her ankles wobbly.

But she said, I’m going inside. Don’t ever do that again.

You might change your mind, Jimmy said. He dug in his pocket and handed her a business card. She took it the same way she’d kissed him—her body acting a second ahead of her will. Don’t call me at home, he said. My cell’s there on the card.

I’m not going to call you, she said, and dropped the card into the snow.

He smiled, like he knew something she didn’t, and then shrugged. That’s too bad, he said, and then put his hands in his coat pockets and walked past her. You’re a very sexy woman, Dana.

Bryan could fire you for this.

She hated the shrillness of her voice.

Jimmy walked backward for a few steps. Well, I guess if I have a job Monday morning, I’ll know you didn’t tell him.

The pneumatic door wheezed open and Jimmy walked inside; the party—voices and laughter and warmth—spilled out The door closed on the noise, on Jimmy, and she was alone again.

Dana leaned against the brick wall for a few minutes, in shock.

She didn’t want to return to the party, but she had to. Bryan would worry if she was out of sight any longer; even now he might be looking for her. But she fumbled her cigarettes as she transferred them from her pocket to her purse, dropping them into the dark corner. She almost didn’t pick them up—they’d gotten her into this trouble in the first place. But she knelt all the same. The cigarettes lay on an old crust of snow, next to Jimmy’s business card. She crumpled the card and dropped it into her purse; she’d throw that away inside, in the bathroom.

The lobby was almost empty, except for a young couple Dana didn’t know, who spoke loudly and fondly at each other. Dana walked past them, down a side hall and into the women’s restroom. There was, of course, no line.

She splashed water into her mouth and chewed a handful of breath mints; she reapplied her lipstick. In the mirror, under the fluorescents, she looked too pale. Exactly like a woman who’d just done something she wasn’t proud of.

Bryan spotted her the moment she reentered the hall; he broke away from a knot of laughing employees to jog over. He was wearing a Santa hat that flopped against his ear, bouncing with his movements. On Bryan—gangly and tall—it looked even more ridiculous than it was supposed to. His expression was, at once, eager and sheepish.

What is that? she asked.

I know, I know—the tellers got it for me. And a nice pen, too. He kissed the top of her head. You’re cold, he said, drawing back.

I was getting some air.

His lips tightened Uh-uh. You were smoking. I can smell it.

She tried to play it off like a joke: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Honey, you were doing so well—

That was it—she wanted to slug him. Bryan, I don’t want to hear it.

He looked at her, his face falling a bit. Come on, he said, his voice low. I’m only trying to help.

What would he do if she started a scene, here? The party was his baby, one of his great achievements at Sentinel: There’s too much separation around here. We need to be closer if we’re going to get the right kind of work done.

But why was her anger Bryan’s fault, why was anything Bryan’s fault? She was the one who’d just been groped by one of his employees.

Before she could reply, Bryan looked over her shoulder and brightened. Dana turned and saw, to her horror, Jimmy and April approaching, coats draped over their arms.

Hey, you two, Bryan said. Don’t tell me you’re leaving already?

She’s got to work tomorrow morning, Jimmy said, smiling mildly into the air, squeezing April’s shoulders. April’s eyes were glittering with drink; she leaned into Jimmy’s chest as though he’d permanently bent her. She wore, Dana saw, dangling reindeer earrings with little red stones for noses.

You know what I found out? Bryan said to Dana, beaming. These two are engaged.

Last week, April said. She held out her hand, and Dana, trying hard not to stare at Jimmy in outright amazement, pretended to examine the ring.

That’s beautiful, Dana said.

Hey Jimmy, Bryan said. Let me talk at you for a minute.

Not work?

Only for a minute.

Can you believe this guy? Jimmy said, to both women, and winked at Dana again. Then he and Bryan walked away a few steps, where Bryan began talking with his hands.

He’s so funny, April said. Dana didn’t know which one of the men she meant.

So, Dana said—because she had to say something. Have you set a date?

Jimmy, twenty feet away, swept his eyes across her. He’d done this on purpose. A word from her and she could expose him. She ought to.

April smiled at her question and scrunched up her face.

Next June, she said.

Not long now, Dana said, her throat tight. She tried to feel pity—this poor girl was clueless. Jimmy had probably fucked around on her dozens of times. Or maybe April knew, was following some blind hope that she’d be able to change him, rein him in with a ring.

But either way, Dana couldn’t bring herself to look for long at April’s future, all the pain that was waiting for her out there. No. April was beautiful and lush, and when Dana looked at her she couldn’t help but imagine her kissing Jimmy, naked with Jimmy in all her cheerleaderish glory, the two of them lit with amber light, like in a movie. If he had this, what could he possibly want with Dana?

He wanted her, she knew, because she was different: small and dark and slim. And, of course, forbidden.

Jimmy just loves your husband, April was saying. I got to talk to him tonight. He’s so nice. April leaned closer, and put her hand on Dana’s wrist. Her breath smelled like wine. She said, We’re both so lucky.

Dana stared at her.

Jimmy and Bryan came back over to them then, Bryan laughing heartily, and Jimmy smiling broadly at Dana.

You guys be careful going home, now, Bryan said.

Goodbye, April said, shaking Dana’s hand. It was so nice to meet you.

Congratulations, Dana said. Then she shook Jimmy’s hand coolly.

See you around, Jimmy said, grinning.

I’m sure you will, she said, hoping that in this light no one could see the color in her cheeks.

 

AFTER JIMMY AND APRIL left, Dana retreated to a comer, drinking another eggnog and trying not to be noticed. She watched Bryan work the room, traveling from one laughing knot of employees to the next. They all loved him. And they should—Bryan loved all of them. Dana tried not to think of Jimmy, of the feel of his stomach under her palm. But she could remember it with tremendous clarity, just by closing her eyes.

Half an hour later Bryan returned to her.

Hi there, he said. I’m sorry. Okay?

He bent to kiss her temple; she turned her head. She couldn’t help herself.

I’m sorry, too, she said quickly. I—I’m not feeling well.

What is it? Bryan moved in close to her, putting a hand on her waist. Honey?

My stomach. I drank too much.

Bryan began looking around—trying to spot, she guessed, the bathroom, or a chair where she could sit. His Santa hat jingled.

She touched his elbow. Honey, I’m sorry—but can you run me home? I don’t think I ought to drive, and I have to lie down.

His eyes widened. She had to admit a grim little satisfaction in screwing up his careful plans. Or else why would she have asked?

Yeah, Bryan said. Umm—let me talk to Dave and Mary—

Okay. I’ll go sit in the car, all right? I’m sorry.

Now she meant it. Bryan looked frantic.

Outside the snow was falling heavily; the sculpted bushes growing against the brick of the reception hall were already prettily frosted. Dana moved carefully across the parking lot, steadying herself on the hoods of other cars, half expecting Jimmy to pop up from the shadows, smirking and beautiful. By the time she was inside the car, she had the shivers. She turned on the heater and sat with her hands in her armpits, watching her breath curl smokily against the passenger window, and through it, the snow piling up on the hood of the next car over.

But this was only Ohio snow—only a tease. Dana had grown up in Colorado, where the snow didn’t fuck around. She missed the mountains in winter, the acres of hip-deep snow that would never be tracked up, dirtied with slush.

The snow had been a lot worse than this, the night of the accident. That was for sure. It piled up on top of a coating of ice, riding winds that swirled over the caps of mountains. That was another thing you almost never saw in the Midwest: the kind of snowstorm that frightened you, that spawned disasters.

She’d kissed another man. Jimmy had kissed her, and she’d kissed him back, and then she’d pushed him away.

Bryan opened the door and folded himself behind the wheel. How you doing? he asked.

Better. She waved her hand. Fresh air.

We’ll get you home, Bryan said and stroked her knee. His voice was regretful. He was thinking, maybe, that he’d have to hold her hair out of the way while she puked into the toilet. His hand lingered a bit on her knee, his thumb moving in circles. She put her hand over his and pressed down. Maybe she could convince herself the kiss hadn’t really happened. Bryan didn’t deserve any of this: what she’d done, what was in her head.

It had been a kiss, nothing more. In the end Dana had brushed off Jimmy in the right way.

Maybe when they were home, she could make amends. She would tell Bryan she’d lied about being sick. Maybe she’d pull him down on the bed before he went back to the party. She wouldn’t even take off the dress.

Dana leaned her head against the seat while Bryan put the car into gear.

No, the dress would come off. Bryan had a thing about her belly. If it happened—if—he would end up sitting in front of her on the bed. He’d kiss her navel, then stretch his long neck and lick at her nipples, and sigh: I love you, Dana. He’d say this three times during lovemaking. In the vicinity of her belly and breasts, and then when he entered her, and again when he was coming. As though, if he didn’t, Dana would roll out of bed, aghast. Each time he’d say it, he’d meet Dana’s eyes, checking.

I love you, too, she’d say, each time. Or sometimes she’d just kiss him, hard, putting her fingers in his hair.

Bryan would make love to her.

Jimmy would have fucked her. He’d have no trouble using the word.

Dana remembered: she hadn’t thrown away Jimmy’s card.

Without looking at her hands, she felt her purse, making sure the clasp was closed. She rubbed sweat off her palms and into the wool of her coat. The slick reflections of streetlights shone on the pavement. Bryan drove slowly, hunched over the wheel, hands at ten and two. The heater roared, and he muttered at the idiots who wouldn’t slow down, who couldn’t see it was for Crissakes snowing.

 

AT THE TIME of the accident, Dana had been dating Bryan for two months. They were both students at the University of Colorado. They’d met in a statistics class. The professor was Japanese and had trouble with names, and so kept a seating chart; Bryan was Macarthur, and Dana was McKinnon. They’d started talking before class, then during the walk out of the room. Soon they were trading notes. She spent a long time looking at Bryan’s hands as he wrote—his handwriting was beautiful and looping, like a woman’s. He had long, delicate fingers. When she finally held them, during a movie, she found they were delightfully soft. A few nights later she took him to bed.

The ski trip was a surprise; Bryan called her on a Friday morning and asked if she wanted to go away for the weekend. They drove up to Breckenridge with two of Bryan’s friends from the business program, tanned fraternity boys with perfect white teeth, who talked openly and excitedly about the snow bunnies they hoped to lay before the weekend was over. Dana thought she and Bryan were along only because Bryan drove a Cherokee that still smelled new.

But in their fake Swiss chalet, after sex by the fireplace, Bryan told her he loved her, and Dana saw the weekend differently, as Bryan must have planned it: as a romantic getaway. A chance for fireside declarations.

Dana wasn’t sure then what exactly she felt for him. She liked him fine—but love? She was charmed by his niceness—everyone who knew him was. But when she thought about him, he added up only to an outline of a man. He wasn’t handsome, though he was far from ugly. He was athletic, and liked to hike and run. He liked sitting under a blanket with her and watching television. He read a lot of science fiction. He was capable of talking for hours about banking or economic theory, and how he wanted to reform this or that. Sometimes he wrote letters to the school newspaper, about how, for instance, Democrats could never understand fiscal responsibility. When she talked about her homework, or her student teaching, he listened attentively—but he asked her questions in a way that always made her suspect he had rehearsed them. An entry in his Day Runner: Things to ask Dana.

Bryan’s family had money, but he was generous. He treated her to the weekend in Breckenridge, and offered in a way that didn’t make her feel embarrassed, poor. He was nice, attentive to her, unfailingly polite.

But the truth was, when they weren’t in bed, Dana was often bored. That boredom made her feel horribly petty—but she couldn’t rid herself of it, no matter how hard she tried. And on the ride up to Breckenridge, listening to his buddies pretend to laugh at his jokes, she understood she could never last with him.

She kept quiet as they settled into their room. But there, despite herself, she began having a good time. Bryan was cheerful and hyperactive, almost clownish. She liked the kitschy chalet with the big fireplace. She liked the enormous bed, and the snowy domes of the mountains just outside their balcony. And she liked what she felt most guilty about—the sex with Bryan, on the bed, on the pile carpet in front of the fireplace.

Dana didn’t want to be the sort of woman who would stay with a man because he was good in bed—which Bryan, to her shock and surprise, was, and had been from the very start. His long, knobby body fit hers, somehow. In bed his earnestness, his willingness to please her, had definite advantages. And he was so overjoyed to be with her that, for the first time since she’d lost her virginity, she felt she was good at sex. She enjoyed telling Bryan to hold still, to lie back and let her take care of things. She liked the look he got on his face, stunned and worshipful.

And then, too—after sex with Bryan she felt differently about everything. She liked the smell of his skin. She’d laze in bed with him, her head in the crook of his shoulder, and feel what she could only call contentment. She understood what she had always made fun of her girlfriends for insisting: that a man could make her feel safe. Lying next to Bryan, naked and drained, she was able to think about her grades, about paying her bills, about her coming job search, and not feel overwhelmed.

Whenever she thought she had to be done with him, that she couldn’t listen to him talk about the Fed for another minute, her mind would circle back to one of those tranquil, still moments, and she would wonder: Is that what love is?

And so, after he told her he loved her, Dana could only reply, I don’t know, Bryan. I’ve never been in love before. I don’t want to say it if I don’t mean it.

Okay, he said, looking down. That’s okay, Dana.

And there—she hurt for him. He turned away from her, naked and suddenly not so glad about it, and she wanted to hold him.

But not to tell him.

She said, Just give me time, okay?

He nodded and put his face against her shoulder.

When they were dressed he said, Let’s go to dinner. The two of us alone.

Sure, she said, brightly. That’ll be nice.

He drove her up and over Fremont Pass, to a little place in Leadville—he had, it turned out, made reservations for them earlier in the day. He’d never doubted she’d say she loved him, too. They had expensive steaks. Dana drank a lot of beer. Bryan, when he said anything, spoke with an edge of panic.

Halfway through dinner snow started coming down hard, and the proprietor—a small, sideburned man with a belt buckle shaped like a buffalo—came over to their table and said that if they wanted to get back to Breckenridge tonight, they’d better get a move on.

Outside snowflakes pricked at Dana’s cheeks. The sun had set during dinner, and the wind cut and hissed out of almost total darkness; the storm clouds blocked even the glow of the moon. She looked at the highway, already whitened, and felt a twist in her stomach.

Farther up the pass the highway was thickly covered, but Bryan’s Cherokee did all right, grumbling along in low gear. They saw only one other car, taking the switchbacks about a half a mile ahead and upslope, its taillights blinking on and off through the trees. Bryan’s lips were tight. She felt awful for him—but that wasn’t the same as loving him, was it? She wondered whether or not she should sleep with him when they got back to the chalet. What that would make her, if she did, or didn’t.

At the crest of the pass the winds rocked the Jeep; the back wheels started to shimmy. The snow seemed to jump out of the dark at the windshield. And then, slowing to ease around a sharp hairpin, Bryan said, Shit. Oh shit.

What? she asked. He was going to say they were through; she knew it, tensed for it.

Bryan pulled the Cherokee over to the side of the road. The other car, he said. I’ve been following its tracks. Look.

In front of the Cherokee’s headlights Dana could barely see the tracks the other car had left, approaching the hairpin. They led straight ahead—too straight. She understood: the car hadn’t turned. Ahead on the bank was a broken section of guardrail, and above it, just visible, was a black window where the pine branches had been shaken naked of snow.

Then the wind picked up, and the whole road was lost in whiteout. Bryan might not have seen that curve either.

The Cherokee rolled to a stop, where it sat unevenly on a plow drift. Call 911, Bryan told her, handing her his car phone. Then he opened his door. Dana dialed as he stumbled through the snow. She told the operator where they were.

We’re sending someone, the operator said. Is anyone hurt?

I don’t know. My boyfriend is trying to get to the car.

Bryan looked over the edge of the road, then turned back to her, stricken.

When Dana hung up she climbed out of the Cherokee and tried to follow Bryan’s tracks to the edge. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, and the snow hit her face like flung sand. Dana could just hear a noise over the wind, though: a scream—a woman’s—harsh and scraping.

In high school Dana had worked as a lifeguard. She tried to recall her CPR training—but now she couldn’t think of what to do, only of how nervous she’d been on the job. What would she do, if anyone really needed help? If someone down below in the water stopped moving? If someone started screaming? Dana had never seen anything truly awful in her life that was not on television. She paused in the snow. This was it: this was the emergency. Someone wouldn’t scream like that unless she was in agony. This was going to be blood and bone.

Hurry! Bryan shouted, and dropped off the edge of the road.

The slope fell away steeply; Dana remembered from the drive in that the drop was hundreds of feet, down to a twisting riverbed. But in the snow and dark she could barely see anything—except for the headlights of the wrecked car, still shining, maybe fifty feet below. The trees were sparse near the road, and then thickened farther down. The snow on the slope was unbroken. The car must have gone airborne—ramped off the road and then gotten caught in the trees. Now it was turned over on its roof, jammed against three pines grown close together, like a wall.

Bryan blundered down twenty feet ahead, plowing a trail. Dana followed him. Off the road the wind was a little quieter. But the screams were louder: Dana thought she could see dashboard lights through one of the car’s side windows. She could smell gasoline, exhaust—they stood out, here in the clean, cold air.

Bryan was sliding down the steepest part now on his hip, and then he was at the wreck. Dana followed, faster, heart thumping in her throat, snow finding its way beneath her clothing, next to her skin. The underside of the car—a sedan—was hissing. Clumps of snow fell onto it from the tree branches overhead and sizzled and smoked. This close, the smell of gas was heavy and moist, like something she could spit whole from her mouth.

The sedan’s passenger window faced uphill, and was broken; this was where the screams were coming from. Bryan knelt down and looked inside. The wind caught his hair, tufting it. And then—just when he called out, Hello?—the car caught fire.

The flames bloomed out, black and blue and orange, from the rear of the car, like the petals of a flower opening up. Dana stood transfixed by them—by the shifting colors, the way the insides of her body seemed to move with the flames. For a moment the warmth felt good. But then the fire blazed, hurting her eyes, following lines across the car’s underbelly, toward the people inside. And Bryan.

The woman screamed louder. Bryan shielded his eyes, sat back on his haunches and made a deep wordless sound, as though he’d been startled awake. The flames were only a few feet from his head. The tree trunks had lines of fire on them now, like glowing vines. Dana flinched back, moving crablike up the slope. The skin on her face tightened. She could barely think. She saw Bryan in outline next to the car, rocking forward and back with his arm flung up, the fire making a noise now, that familiar whoosh and mutter over the howling of the wind, the trees all around gaining outline and shadow and everything moving.

And Bryan bent forward. Dana wanted to scream, No, but she couldn’t. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the narrow broken window until only his legs were visible.

She should have moved forward. She remembered wanting to—not to save the screaming woman but to save Bryan, to grab his legs and pull him back out. He was going to die, she knew. She was watching a man die. And understanding this was awful—she had never been more frightened of anything in her life. The woods and the flames loomed. She could not feel her body anymore—she was somewhere between herself and Bryan, somewhere up in the air.

Bryan’s knees twisted and dug into the snow. The fire was inside the sedan—she could see its glow on the dashboard past Bryan’s shadow. The screams intensified; Bryan grunted, then shouted, Pull it! Pull! You have to! The trees were catching, the branches crackling—underneath the snow, the wood was still kindling dry from the past summer’s drought. Sparks fell down over the car in little firework showers.

And then Bryan wriggled out. He was smoking; his arms were smoking. He ducked as the fire licked over his head, into the front wheel well. Then he knelt again and reached into the car and pulled out the woman. Slowly, slowly.

The woman was burning. She wore a ski jacket, and it was on fire. Her arms beat at the window frame, at Bryan. Bryan heaved and she came free, legs trailing uselessly. She was shrieking like an animal. Bryan kept dragging her. His face twisted away from the burning woman, his cheekbones glowing a ghastly yellow.

Bryan’s own jacket caught flame. He gave the woman one last heave, then wrapped her in his arms and rolled both of them into the deep snow.

Dana! he called, his voice torn, a screech.

And that moved her. Her limbs came unlocked. Bryan was alive.

Dana floundered across the slope to him, threw handfuls of snow on his back and arms. He was trying to take off his jacket, which was smoking, flaming. Dana grabbed hold of one of the sleeves and pulled. A new smell was coming out of the car—like meat cooking. Someone was still inside, was burning, was dying. The smell was coming off of Bryan, too, off of the woman. Parts of Bryan’s jacket had melted and clung in strands to his arm and shoulder. His hair was smoking. Dana felt a horrible searing pain on her own forearm, where his jacket was twisted around her arm. She jammed it deep into the snow until she felt the cold seep into the pain.

The woman wasn’t screaming anymore. Dana looked at her, even though she would have given anything not to. The woman had blond hair, now streaked with blood, burned away down to the skull on one side. Her face was a mess: rust-red where it wasn’t blackened. She was awake, Dana saw, her mouth opening and closing, panting almost. The woman’s eyes—the whites were shockingly bright against her swollen cheeks—kept rolling from side to side.

Come on, Bryan said.

He couldn’t use his right arm. Dana’s own arm hurt, but she put her hands under one of the woman’s arms, and Bryan put his good hand under the other, and they pulled her up the slope, away from the burning car, the blazing stinking white fire of the burning tires, the smell of the man burning inside—her husband. They found this out later. Her husband. They were locals. He’d been drinking and going way too fast.

He’d died before the fire, Bryan told her that night, in the hospital. He spoke during a brief period of wakefulness, before they medicated him into oblivion. He lay very still, his arm bandaged up to the shoulder.

Bryan whispered, His neck was broken. I checked.

As though she was worried he might not have rescued enough people, as though she was angry at him for having failed. Dana was glad the man had been dead. If he’d been alive, Bryan would have gone back in for him, and both of them would be dead now. She knew that.

Is she all right? Bryan asked. His lips were swollen, cracked.

She’s in intensive care. They don’t know if she’ll live.

But the woman had lived. Her back was broken, and she was horribly scarred, but she was still alive, living now with a sister in Colorado Springs. She and Bryan exchanged Christmas cards.

Bryan had nodded, then closed his eyes.

Looking back, Dana wasn’t sure when it happened—when the moment that changed everything truly fell. Before the crash she had been ready to leave Bryan. But sitting next to his hospital bed, she felt she’d rather die than lose sight of him again. She felt . . . peaceful: the same sort of peace that had always settled around her after making love to him, as she curled against his long, thin body. But she couldn’t say what had happened to make it so. Bryan had done a wonderful, courageous thing—had done it without thinking. And when he had gone into the car, Dana had lost herself—a part of her had come unmoored, and waited for Bryan to come out alive before drifting back to her.

Dana leaned forward. Her insides seemed to pull her down to him. She whispered to Bryan, I love you.

And saying it to him felt good, true.

Bryan smiled up at her, even though she knew it must hurt his mouth. His good hand brushed hers. Then the painkillers caught him, and he drifted away.

 

NOW, IN THE CAR, Dana dozed, too. She dreamed, as she often did, about the accident. Sometimes she had nightmares—she was the woman trapped in the car, screaming to Bryan, who paced outside in the snow, deciding. But sometimes they didn’t frighten her at all. Tonight she dreamed that she never got out of the Cherokee, that she watched the whole thing on a television, inside, knowing how it was going to turn out.

Honey, Bryan said, shaking her. We’re home.

She was all the way into the house before remembering she’d kissed Jimmy.

Bryan walked with her into their bedroom, his hand on her waist, as though she might fall over. He pulled back the bedcovers and she lay down on the cool sheets, stretching herself. She started to bend her knees, to reach down for a heel, but he stilled her with a hand. She closed her eyes: Bryan was going to undress her. Her blood surged. If he made love to her now she would forget Jimmy. She’d feel the familiar rub of her husband’s stomach, his hip bones—how could she have forgotten that?

Bryan slipped off one of her heels, then the other. He reached up under her dress to grab the waistband of her hose. She let him lift her hips. His fingers curled under the fabric, next to her skin. The fingers on his left hand were soft, the ones on his right a little rough and bumpy, from the scars. She liked the feel of her hose sliding down her thighs, and off.

Are you awake? he whispered, leaning over her. Mm-hmm.

Turn on your side. I’ll unzip you.

No, she said. She opened her eyes and curled her bare heel around the back of his thigh. His loosened tie fell into a jumble on her collarbone. She used it to pull him in closer, between her legs.

Bryan said, Huh—but he let himself be pulled. I thought you were sick, he said.

She kissed him, tightening her calves around his rear end.

Sick of the party, she murmured. That’s all. She lifted her hips and dropped them and lifted them again.

Honey, he said.

They hadn’t made love for a long time after the accident. The first time was in the summer. Bryan had taken a semester off, staying at his parents’ house in Columbus. His family flew Dana out from school to see him on weekends. Once the bandages were off, Bryan had been nervous about letting her see his scars. But one night, while his parents were out, Dana undressed him, insisting.

It’s awful, he told her, not meeting her eyes. I won’t blame you if—

Nothing about you could ever be awful, she said.

His arm and his chest looked bad—worse than she’d imagined, the tissue there the color of baked ham—but she didn’t let it show on her face. Instead she leaned down to kiss him on his ribs, found the scars dry and hard under her lips. The sensation wasn’t bad—she was reminded of touching a friend’s pet boa, finding the scales dry and smooth. Can you feel that? she asked. No, he whispered. It’s all right, she told him. She had seen terrible things, and Bryan’s arm was not one of them. His hips were fine and his thighs were fine. His lips were still soft and gentle, the touch of his good hand light. His hair had grown back out. His penis was fine, silky and untouched. Rocking, she watched his eyes, which were lovely and brown and kind.

He cried when they were done, holding her against the soft left side of his body. I love you, he said, hoarse. I love you, too, she said. I will always love you. That he loved her, that he had looked at the fire and chosen to suffer it, both seemed to come from the same place in him. He had seen, each time, what she hadn’t been brave enough to see. She sighed next to him, traced his nipple with her fingers, touched his scars. She would not let herself be repulsed by him.

But ever since, he preferred to keep his shirt on all the same.

Now Dana loosened his tie, pushed it over his head.

Honey, he said, as she started to unbutton his shirt. Honey.

Yes?

What are you doing?

I think you know.

You lied to me, he said, smiling.

A little. Come on.

I have to get back, he said. You know that.

Not yet.

Later, he said. I’ll be back in two hours.

Bryan . . .

He rolled on his side, away from her. Just two hours. Sleep until I get back. He saw her face. Look, he said, people need to get home. I promised I’d drive some of them. You don’t want them out on the roads, do you?

He could be condescending when she’d been drinking.

I won’t be awake in two hours.

He sighed. I appreciate the gesture, I do, but . . . I can’t just abandon my post. I’m a boss, I’m working tonight.

Jesus, Bryan. Dana sat up and let out breath.

He kissed her hair. It’s my job.

She knew what she was doing to him. He couldn’t stand her being upset. He’d be frantic until he could get back to her.

Go, she said.

No. Look, I can stay. Let me call—

Bryan, go, she said. The moment’s passed, all right?

Two hours, he said. Not even that.

She thought he looked relieved.

When he was gone, she undressed and slid under the covers. She looked at her own arm on the bedspread: pale, spotted here and there with moles. Her one scar twisted up and around her wrist. They’d had to pull some of Bryan’s melted jacket off her skin, like a piece of taffy stuck to its wrapper.

She was a terrible person. Why was she dissatisfied with anything? She wasn’t as scarred as Bryan; Bryan wasn’t as scarred as the woman he’d pulled from the car, who was hideous. And the woman was alive—her husband was not.

Poor, drunk April had been half right: Dana was lucky.

But she thought of Jimmy anyway, the card he’d slipped her. She remembered the way he had kissed her, the feel of his hand on her rear. She thought—she couldn’t help herself—of his smooth, muscular stomach. Of bare, unscarred skin under her hands. He’d be quick, inconsiderate. He would not tell her he loved her. But he’d be good. Dana pictured April with her back arched, Jimmy’s blond head turning between her thighs.

 

AT THREE THIRTY Bryan came home. Dana pretended to be asleep, listening to him undressing with great care in the dark, sliding gently into bed next to her. His arm crept across her waist. She felt a gentle kiss on her shoulder. He was still sorry.

Wake me up, she thought. Touch me.

But he didn’t. He curled next to her, and soon he was snoring, his arm limp and heavy across her hip.

In the hospital in Denver, Dana had insisted on sitting next to Bryan, after the doctors cleaned and bandaged him. She was told at first she wasn’t allowed, but one of the paramedics who brought them in had told the story: that this man was a hero. Dana heard the nurses whispering to each other about it. Dana, bandaged herself, wouldn’t let go of Bryan’s good hand. His right arm was bandaged thickly to the shoulder. His hair was burned on one side; his right cheek was blotchy and blistered. He stank. A nurse put her hand on Dana’s shoulder, and said, He’ll be under soon. We’re giving him painkillers.

Can I stay until he sleeps? Dana had asked.

Bryan watched her with glazed eyes, murmuring senselessly—they’d given him plenty of drugs already.

After a long sigh the nurse said, All right. She bustled around the dark room. Bryan closed his eyes, let out a long, whistling breath.

Then Dana saw the nurse was looking at her, smiling hopefully.

Is it true? the nurse asked. What he did?

It’s true, Dana said. She wasn’t surprised when the nurse embraced her.

When the nurse had gone, Dana leaned over and kissed Bryan, pressing carefully, softly, against his swollen lips. Bryan murmured again. His breathing was so gentle she had to keep very still in order to feel it. She uncovered his good arm from beneath the sheet and traced it with her fingers. She whispered to him that she loved him. She told him about the wedding they would have, the names of the children they would have. She let herself go, into every dream she’d ever dared have.

When that car burst into flames, she and Bryan each had time for one decision, one thought. Bryan, in a second, had dived forward; he had saved the woman’s life. That was the sort of person he was. Dana had thought about this at the hospital, her hand on Bryan’s wrist, her mouth close to his ear—and had decided what she was, too. She hadn’t cared if the woman in the car had lived or died. Her thoughts, the entire rest of her life, had reached out and attached to Bryan, followed him twice into the burning car, until her future depended on whether he came out again. And he had.

But what had Dana done tonight, with Jimmy? What had she chosen? She had kissed Jimmy, had pushed him away, had kept his card—and these actions seemed not to have come from any conscious thought at all.

She thought of Jimmy’s number, crumpled in her purse. The flat muscles of his stomach under her palm. The way he’d looked at her.

More and more these days she was remembering: when the fire started, she’d had one other thought.

Her heart had gone to Bryan, yes . . . but just before that, for a long moment, she had thought of nothing, seen nothing, but the flames. They’d bloomed across the underside of the car: deep black, then a lovely shifting blue, then curling orange.

And she was the sort of woman who could be filled up by them, whose body could sway to them. Because they were so strange, so beautiful. Because, in that terrible wind and cold, she had been so grateful for their heat.