Jack sat on his porch, bundled in an old, malodourous duvet he had dragged from the dusty attic. Christmas had been two days ago, he supposed everyone was sleeping off their excesses. He needed this quiet emptiness. Something to absorb the noise in his head.
Enormous snowflakes the size of a child’s fist floated and flittered through the chilled air. Under the weak cones of the streetlights the flakes looked like dancing moths drawn to the flame. At one flaking corner-post, hanging from an ancient, rusty nail, a battered thermometer showed a temperature below freezing; the number barely visible through its cracked, yellowed lens. He was warm enough, comfortable in several layers of clothing and the heavy duvet. A bright red Santa hat protected his ears, the pointed tip and attached bell collapsed forlornly against the side of his head.
At 4AM the street was blissfully silent. Jack watched individual flakes as they ghosted to the ground. Some vanished; others joined the dirty greyish ruts of slush along the street and sidewalks. Even the briny road was slowly turning a virginal white. Hundreds of multi-coloured lights glowed through the gloomy murk, blurry shapes of homes lining the street. The neighbourhood light displays created glowing kaleidoscope streaks as the snow tumbled down; like the Northern Lights were falling from the dark sky. The complex and ever-changing patterns held him captivated for several minutes.
Only a few rebellious flakes threatened his position on the porch. Delicate, exquisite shapes, each unique, a delight to catch on your tongue. He finally caught one, the flake melting with a short, arctic tingle. A schoolboy grin cracked his features, remembering hurtling toboggans, epic snowball fights and day-long boisterous street hockey games.
Across the wintry street, fluorescent light flickered to life in a small upstairs window. Jack watched as muted shadows danced across the misted windowpane then disappeared. Bathroom, he thought, probably too many drinks. He smiled to himself, the heavy glass of Scotch sitting untouched at his side. It was a small victory that he quickly embraced, needing even the lift of the tiniest podium. In celebration he took a long first pull at his drink, perfectly cooled by the outdoor temperature. The light blinked out. He was alone again, the abrupt blackness of the window pane made him feel even more solitary.
Movement caught his eye, a black and white cat, silently stalking its prey along the low stone wall that fronted the Adams’ place. Whether it was someone’s pet moggy or just a lone, hungry stray Jack couldn’t be sure. It seemed oblivious to the falling wet snow. Mysteriously, the cat halted, sensing his presence then slowly turning its head. Even at this distance the glowing emerald green eyes seemed to leap across the space. Jack felt the shiver of the devil dance down his spine. In the darkness of the hour the feline’s shimmery eyes had given him an unnerving alarm. Just to be safe he drew a rough cross in the air, his Scotch glittering like a golden chalice even in the limited light. He took another long draft, in honour of the feline hunter, having an affinity with all things of the night. Silently the feline padded into the darkness.
Inflatable Santa Clauses and snowmen were scattered here and there along the street, wobbling to and fro. They looked like jovial drunks; from the snow-covered lawns that had more than one inflatable figure Jack could almost hear the chinking of glasses and happy laughter. Briefly he contemplated joining them, raising a glass with his new companions. He shook his head with scathing self-scorn, imagining his neighbours watching him cavort with their snowmen and Santas. He could almost feel the red and blue flashes of the police cars that would follow, skidding to a stop to deal with yet another holiday drunk gone askew. Perhaps they offered a better prison.
Plumes of smoke curled from neighbouring chimneys, disappearing almost instantly in the darkness. There wasn’t even a hint of wood smoke; in this area fireplaces had been long abandoned. The ghostly vapours reminded him of holding on to things that can’t be held. His eyes swept back along the street. Snow, sticking to bare branches gave the frail city trees a strangely threatening appearance. Jack’s world was slowly turning into a bleached, silvery canvas.
He wondered if it would snow until morning; anticipating how the whirling patterns might be coloured by the weak glow of dawn, barely discernible through the falling snow. In the feeble light of a tired winter sun and the murky snowstorm there would be no shadows. It would be as though we had all lost a part of ourselves. Jack envisioned a city full of disoriented shadows, sliding over fresh snow in search of their owners. His shadow was the only one visible, a vague, lumpy silhouette created by the overhead porchlight. It was reassuring, Jack was still whole, he existed. He felt a sudden urge to scream his presence into the soundless night. The silence was too loud.
The sudden blue-white flash of headlights sliced onto the deserted avenue; from the cross street a dark sedan swished quietly through the slush, tires hissing, louder then quieter again. Damn it! The spell was broken.
It was no use. She flooded back into his thoughts.
