WHEN JOHN CAME UP FROM THE SUBWAY, THE SNOWFALL filled the air. It alighted on his coat in momentary puffs of white before it melted. It didn’t stick on the ground either—it had been too warm the past few days. At best, the snow would survive as a charcoal slurry of slush, soot, dirt, and whatever particulates the flakes pulled from the air on their way to the street to be trampled by too many people and too much traffic. Only a couple of hours upstate, they projected two or more feet of accumulation, but some atmospheric effect blunted the storm’s impact on Manhattan.
Wet grime covered his shoes by the time he reached his building. Snowmelt pasted his hair flat. The doorman, Calvin, stood underneath the awning by the door and ignored John as he entered the building. On the elevator to his floor, John wondered if he could get a job as a doorman. How long before people figured out who he was? Good morning, Ms. Smith, he would say. Is it true? Ms. Smith would ask. And that would be the end.
When John reached his apartment, he stopped, keys in hand. The kids’ laughter pealed through the door, followed by Jane screaming, “I’m going to tickle you!” John touched the door lightly with his fingertips, like the apartment were a helium balloon that might float away. The laughter resonated through the door, buzzing through to his fingers. John was warm and light all at once, weightless as if he were in a hot bath. It was different from this side of the door. If he could burrow into the walls like a rodent, maybe he could live next to their light without dampening it, maybe it would be a way to carry on, stealing from their warmth and laughter, coming out at night to scavenge the crumbs of joy they left littered in the corners.
They were cavorting so loudly that they didn’t hear him use his keys to unlatch the locks or open the door. Unadulterated by the plaster of the walls or the wood of the door, their laughter broke over him like a storm wave, an unstoppable mass shoving him off his feet, filling his eyes and lungs such that he couldn’t see or breathe or find his feet to stand. None of this joy was his, and all of it was in spite of him. They couldn’t see him standing in the small entrance hall from the living room. If he backed out of the doorway, retreated to the elevator, and never returned, the three of them could go on laughing like that forever.
But he stepped through, and an unthinking flick of his hand swung the door easily closed behind him. Jane and the kids looked up as he walked into the living room, laughter immediately dead on their lips. She was sprawled on the couch, Hunter and Brennan piled on top of her. John stopped for a moment. Jane put a hand on each of the children’s shoulders.
“Daddy,” Brennan said, pushing her hair out of her face, “we thought you were working.”
“I was fired.”
John left them there and walked through the room to his office, shutting the door behind him. He sat in his chair, coat still on. His desk was bare, except for the old brown leather blotter. He knew the surface of it better than the topography of his own hands, worn to a hard sheen in the center, scored with the ghosts of indentations from his writing, the edge stitching frayed on the border closest to him, and utterly purposeless. The desk, too. There was no job he would ever hold that would require him to have a blotter, desk, chair, or office.
Still, he stared at the blotter, reading the shallow trenches of old pen marks like a shaman casting bones, but there was no augury in them.
Jane entered the office, closing the door behind her, and then leaned against it—not unlike Jess that last time he’d seen her in Cathy’s apartment. Whatever resolve she had when she slipped through the door softened as she regarded him like a sculpture. He saw himself through her eyes—wet with snow, disheveled hair, slouched down in his chair. Their eyes met, and he tried to articulate to her with his, I’m sorry. If she only understood that he couldn’t put his remorse into words that might take days to recite and still not capture all of the things he didn’t understand and didn’t know but felt woven into every cell. Even if she understood the depth of his regret through some divine empathy, how did that heal her own pain, sadness, or anger, or assuage the hidden guilt she carried that she had failed him?
He couldn’t make her happy, and not only that, his presence chained her to the burning wreck of their marriage. Their promises to each other, duties to their children, condemned them to sorrow—whether he found another job or not. He searched her eyes for some other truth, but there was none. His eyes began to burn as tears rose in them, so he looked away and saw the answer in the snow driving against the window.
Be brave, he told himself.
He turned back to Jane, resolved.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just want you to be happy.”
Jane shook her head. He’d said the wrong thing—if there was even a right thing to say. Maybe he should have said nothing—they could have stared at each other for a while longer.
“I should go,” he said. “This isn’t working.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She wasn’t asking him to stay either.
“But it’s what we need to do.”
Jane wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. They were both good at avoiding tears.
“What are we going to tell the kids?” she asked.
“You’ll figure out something later. For now, tell them I went to look for work.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“I don’t think I should wait. I still have my coat on.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’ll figure something out. I may take the car.”
She looked unsure. John needed to get moving. As he approached the door, Jane stood aside so he could open it. When he reached her, he paused briefly, then reached out and squeezed her hand. It was like he remembered. He imagined that she squeezed back before he let go.
Brennan and Hunter looked up when he came out of the office. They lay on the floor reading. John tried to smile at them and hoped it was convincing.
“I have to go out,” he said.
“Okay,” Hunter said.
John walked over and scooped him up into a hug. Hunter squirmed as John whispered to him, “I love you.”
After John put him down, Hunter stomped to the couch and threw himself onto it to continue reading. John turned to Brennan. He knelt and kissed her on her forehead. She threw her arms around him. He pressed his cheek into her hair and said, “I love you, darling.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
“I’ll see you again.”
He turned to leave, Brennan already sinking to the floor to continue her book. The door to the office was still open, but Jane hadn’t followed him out. She stood just inside, back to the living room, waiting for him to leave.
Silence shrouded the apartment as John pulled the door shut behind him.