An Introduction to Winter

The captain announced our descent, rousing me from a fitful sleep. The Fasten Seat Belt sign came on, and I groped around for mine, only to find that I hadn’t unfastened it. As the captain’s carefully trained mumble about “our approach to the greater Portland area” continued, I gave the airflow nozzle above my head a twist, and a blast of Arctic air had me sitting up straight for the first time that day. I turned it off but it had done its job, as irreversible as a wake-up call. Soon, painfully soon, I was going to have to start coping. Almost shyly I looked out the window, wondering if I could spot any landmarks. Nothing looked familiar but the night, a Maine winter night with pockets of ground light here and there, lost to each other. The plane bumped onto the runway, fine wet snow streaking the window.

In years past I would have had to walk through the snow to get to the gate, feeling the hairs of my mustache stiffen and freeze. It was an initiation ritual, a sharp order to get a clue, bud, you’re in Winter Wonderland now. These days, of course, we all walked through an accordion sleeve directly into the terminal, clutching or wheeling or dragging our carry-ons. So it wasn’t the weather that struck me at first, but rather the bleakness of wistfully-named Portland International Jetport—bigger than it used to be but no busier, at least not on a Tuesday night in mid-winter. The only people I saw were from my flight, all of us moving in unison, as if we were on a field trip together, past the empty departure lounges toward Baggage Claim.

When we reached the luggage carousel I broke away from the group, and used a courtesy phone to call for the shuttle that would take me to my rental car. I got my bag and shuffled through the automatic door to wait and smoke on the sidewalk. The airport was close to the city—I recalled the LOW FLYING AIRCRAFT signs posted along the Veterans Bridge—but from here there was nothing to see but a parking garage, which was new, and some outbuildings, giant tin-roofed sheds. A hush filled the air as fine snow drifted down in no hurry. It was sharp and clean, that air, and my much-abused lungs absorbed it like a memory. I tasted snowflakes on my tongue, as if I were still five years old and running around with my mouth open to the sky.

The man who drove the shuttle-bus reminded me of my father, Lee: wiry and hail-fellow-well-met, particularly good with strangers. He died when I was seventeen; he never had to learn that both of his sons were gay. (It was a matter for speculation what, if anything, my mother ever learned. The homosexuality in the family was never spoken of, ever.) This man, the shuttle-bus driver, cheerfully hefted my suitcase onto a rack and rubbed his gloved palms together, savoring my presence as if I’d won a sweepstakes and some of my luck might rub off. The little bus chugged along the access road, skidded to the right—there were about two inches of fresh snow on the street—then right again.

The car rental office might have been one of the sheds I’d seen earlier, it looked as if it had been slapped together overnight. The clerk behind the counter was a fellow in his late teens, not unattractive. Cheerful, too, as he looked up my reservation, tapping two-fingered on his keyboard. He asked if I wanted a map of the area, and slid one across to me. There was a sketch of greater Portland on one side, and a more detailed street map on the other. On my last trip to my mother’s house, almost ten years ago, I hadn’t ventured into Portland proper at all; so it was many years, fifteen or more, since I’d had to make sense of these place names—Fore River, Libbytown, Deering Oaks. It was as if some lost territory of my mind had suddenly appeared on shiny paper, shrunk to unfathomable scale. Claw-shaped Portland thrusting into Casco Bay, neatly pincering up Back Cove: it didn’t mean a thing.

“Tell me where ya need to go and I’ll help ya,” the young man said, and I found myself gazing into his frank hazel eyes. Whenever I heard a Maine accent in a movie or TV show I tended to cringe, and had said to my partner, Ralph, more than once, “That’s horrible, nobody really talks that way.” But the shuttle-bus driver, the rental desk clerk—they did talk that way. It was like discovering that the moon really was made of green cheese. I couldn’t wait for the young man to say more, but instead of prompting him I just stared, trying to smile so he wouldn’t think I was having some kind of seizure. He was broad-shouldered, on the stocky side, and in addition to his frank eyes he had a beard. A first beard, a little too sparse and curly, but a good start just the same, announcing a full set of hormones and other juices just raring to go. I doubted he could sense I was gay, and doubted even more that he was gay himself, or even leaned in that direction; still, I wanted him to like me. It took some effort to break my reverie long enough to glance out the window, at snow falling through the parking lot light, nothing but darkness beyond. I had places to go and suffering to do; there wasn’t time to slake my thirst for a friendly encounter. I looked at the young man again, held up a finger, turned aside and pretended to sneeze while actually speaking—“My mother’s dying”—smushing the words together so he wouldn’t know. I faced the counter again and said I needed to get to Danforth Street.

In no time I was out in the parking lot, making use of the brush-and-scraper that he had handed me along with the key. The little white compact looked like a snowball till I had the windows cleared. The car responded like a dream as I slewed around toward the main road and turned right. Why had I asked about Danforth Street? That wasn’t where I needed to go. Maybe it was the first name that popped into my head. No doubt there would be more surprises like this: I didn’t know what I knew, couldn’t predict what I’d remember. The main thing was that I was on Congress Street now, and if I followed the forks in the road correctly, it would take me to the Western Promenade, where my bed-and-breakfast lay awaiting me on a side street called Neal. Traffic was light, and in spite of the snow the visibility was good. I liked the compact’s tall windshield, and the way the car fit my body. I might even be able to parallel park this baby, if it came to that.

Sooner than I expected, the thousand bright windows of the Maine Medical Center loomed ahead, and I knew I was truly in town. I crossed St. John Street and struggled up the hill to find Neal Street about where I thought it would be. The car, relieved to be horizontal again, scooted amiably through the dark blocks of somber, narrow-eyed Victorian houses. I drove till I was sure I’d gone too far, and then turned around in someone’s freshly powdered driveway. Wherever the Pomegranate Inn was, it didn’t have a lighted sign out front. Again I drove till I was sure I’d gone too far. Missed it twice. Damn! I stopped the car and got out. My sneakers were none too steady in the fresh snow of the street. It coated my glasses, my breath steamed. Dimly I made out a large building with a canopy: that must be it. But no, as I got closer I saw it was an old school building that had been converted into apartments—pricey ones, no doubt. I backed toward the opposite street corner, turned and a saw a squat bush strung with white lights, a wooden sign hanging from gingerbread trim: Pomegranate INN. I shuffled back to the car, which was farther away than I thought it would be, the streets here seeming to be elastic, stretching and constricting at will. Seeing no other place to park, I pulled up against the curb in front of the house. A street sign warned against parking on this side of the street on Sunday nights, or during a snow emergency. This night was no emergency, judging by the number of other cars parked around me. I got out my carry-on bag and popped open the trunk for my suitcase.

The owner of the Inn had told me that, since I’d be arriving late, there’d be no one to let me in: she would leave a key for me in the mailbox. Sure enough, in the black box beside the door lay an envelope with my name on it. I wouldn’t be staying in the main house but in the carriage house. Directions on the envelope led the way back to the sidewalk, across the driveway, and down a narrow alley between the house and a church. I was ready for warmth and comfort, and the room was promising: not large but cozy, its centerpiece a full double bed with frilly throw-pillows, flowered wallpaper glowing warmly by the bedside lamp. An antique dressing stand, two small but comfortable armchairs, a few old books and magazines placed carefully about; a corner devoted to a glassed-in fireplace with gas logs operated by remote control: I was dialing up a glow before I even had my coat off. Large curtains opened onto glass doors that probably led to a patio, but I was content to leave them closed and peel off my travel duds. The bathroom was a treat, almost as large as the main room, all marble and scatter rugs and eye-catching fixtures, an elegant old towel-stand, and lots of room for my ever-growing supply of health and beauty aids. I luxuriated in walking around naked without feeling chilly, knowing that snow was still coming down beyond the four exterior walls. And it was quiet—I didn’t know what to do with so much quiet.

I turned on the small television on the dressing stand and found a local newscast. Gone were the staunch, lantern-jawed New England types that had populated these shows when I was a kid. Now there were smart goobers in designer eyeglasses and double-breasted suits, mouthing the unaccented newspeak they learned in graduate school. This was too much like being in Anywhere, USA, but I stayed tuned for the weather, an eye-popping video-ganza of radar screens, galloping clouds, and winterscapes zooming in and out. Again I thought of those forecasts of old, the nerdy-looking guys slapping crude snowflakes on a magnetized map. They weren’t kidding, those snowflakes: a winter storm was always at least as bad as they said it would be. If the weatherman predicted a foot of snow, we could be sure we’d get that much, and probably more. A lot was part of the meaning of the word snow; and later in life, when I lived in different parts of the country, I’d find it hard to take their winter weather seriously. What they called snow in New York or Kansas City was only a dusting, no more than a sprinkle of powdered sugar on a pound cake.

I turned the TV off, having finally learned what I needed to know: there would be no storm—not tomorrow, anyway. Then, restless, I turned the TV on again. Turned it off. Suddenly the roar of the gas logs got on my nerves, so I clicked the fireplace off also. So far today I’d been traveling in my own little world, through the odd fears and startling synapses of my mind. Now it was time to let others in. I had to call Louise and tell her I was here. I touched the phone that sat on a darling little table between the armchairs, took my hand back, touched it again. It was not only time to talk to Louise, the aunt I had always been closest to, but approaching the time when I would actually see my mother. My brother, who still lived in Portland, would be fitting into the picture, too, at some point. How many movies had I seen where some scientist-adventurer broke the time barrier, traveled to some unimaginable place, and barely lived to regret it? Now I began to know the remorse of the irreversible flight, of taking time and distance into my own hands. What had I done?

“Oh, it’s you,” Louise said, her voice flat and spiritless, as it tended to be these days. She had been through a rough several months, taking care of my mother during her decline.

“It’s me,” I said, “and I’m here in Portland.”

She perked up a bit. “Here? Where?”

“I’m staying at a bed-and-breakfast up on the Western Prom. Got in about an hour ago. It’s called the Pomegranate Inn.”

“I heard of that place. There was a write-up in the paper when it opened.” Then, “Pretty fancy?” she asked in an accusatory way.

“It’s all right,” I said. I didn’t tell her about the key-in-the-mailbox thing; she’d think I was feeble-minded for staying in such a place. This from a woman who believed everything she read in the National Enquirer. “I came today,” I said, “because Dr. Brown called me at work this morning and said I’d better get here as soon as possible. She didn’t think Friday would be soon enough.”

“Yeah, well….” She sighed. “Sometimes you go in now and your mother doesn’t even know you’re there, or she opens her eyes for just a few minutes, you know, and then she’s out of it again. Of course they’ve got her on a lot of drugs now. Morphine.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, and then “Uh-huh, uh-huh” again and again, until it was time to say goodnight.

For a few moments I stared at the phone in my hand, then set it back on its base and got up to look for my dopp kit. The bathroom’s marble floor was cold, even through the rugs and my thick socks. My conversation with Louise—her end of it, anyway—was far from over. Her words kept coming back as my bedtime chores bumped along on auto-pilot. A lot of the time she doesn’t even know you became the rhythm to which I brushed my teeth; morphine-morphine-morphine was the cheerleaders’ chant to which I forced floss between my molars; you wouldn’t even recognize her fouled me up as I tried to count pills, my Tagamet and anti-depressant. This was something my aunt had been saying for months, as my mother became more and more bed-ridden, shedding pounds at an alarming rate. You wouldn’t know your mother if you saw her. I cleared the bed of the possessions already scattered there, the odds and ends from my tote bag, the crinkled city map which I’d apparently sat on. Honest to God, Wayne, you wouldn’t recognize your mother. You’d pass her right by on the street, you’d think she was somebody else. I turned down the bedclothes, found my travel clock and set it for 7:00. Louise was wrong. Take my left hand, for example. It could be mutilated, burned, or painted purple, but I’d still know it was my left hand. The same was true of my right hand, or right nut, or any other part of me. It was what any relationship came down to, a kernel of knowledge impenetrable to outside eyes. I could picture my mother ravaged by illness, I could unleash the overactive imagination I’d always had; but even as a skeleton, even as a bit of ash clinging to a white sheet, she would still be my mother, recognizably so.