Rather than that, than the bruised boxes sitting under the tree, she would have life the way it was. Even though it was hard. Fresh snow, the felt hats of seasonal shoppers, the tumble of her children, and nothing in her hands, just the ability to catch and hold, first Irma, then Caroline, as they ran fresh-faced into her embrace, their little-girl gestures as they wiped the melting snow from their faces. Lester’s voice mingling with the sidewalk sounds as he untangled himself from Simon. I got you. No you didn’t. I got you. I got you.

12

It is February, and dark inside Simon’s windowless room as well as out, when Simon wakes to see Split smoking his last cigarette. He puts the battered tin coffeepot on the hot plate, and plugs it into the tattered and taped extension cord that lies dead on the dank cement floor. Simon looks over at the clock. The bent hands rock beneath the scratched plastic cover and phosphor faintly in the dark. It is 4:30 A.M. Split staggers around the room hunting for clean cups and powdered creamer. Simon squints and turns away when Split pulls the light chain. The single dusty bulb moves back and forth like a censer as it throws out its pitiful light.

Simon pulls the ragged wool blanket closer, trying to dive back into the cocoon of sleep, trying to recapture his delicate silhouette of warmth.

Split stubs his feet into the slop bucket and swears. He stumbles and catches himself on the sink. Simon hears more rummaging and the clink of spoons in cups. The bed folds as Split’s weight hits the middle of the sagging mattress. The enameled tin cups tumble on the floor and the spoons clang on the cement.

“Jesus,” sighs Simon.

“Sorry,” mumbles Split, coughing around his cigarette as he bends to retrieve the cups and spoons.

Split leans over and places them next to the hot plate on the table, whose Formica top is peeling from the particleboard like a snake shedding its skin. His weight settles back down on the bed and he sucks on the cigarette as Simon tries to ignore the weight and smell of him.

The coffee begins to perk and the bed jumps back to its usual shape as Split stands and rubs out the cigarette with the empty toe of his battered salt-split boot.

“Come on, Simon. Rise and shine.”

“Go away, Split.”

“But we gotta go. Coffee’s ready.”

Simon sits up with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Split stands unsteadily in the center of the cramped room and drinks from Simon’s bottle of mouthwash. He glances at Simon over the slope of the bottle and sets it down sheepishly. Simon shakes his head.

“What’re you doing here? Christ, you smell worse than you did in jail.”