The Snow Globe Is Ugly And I Want A Divorce

“I need … grit,” the frustrated young woman with scarlet hair slurred, a pencil clasped firmly between four pearly incisors. 

Tara Carter glanced up, away from the grotesque Christmas gift her husband had mailed her, and toward the rattling window. She could only think of one thing as her hand ran over a blank sheet of paper: I really need to write that letter. The unconfident procrastinator pouted, contemplating the alleged helpfulness of gritty affirmations. Her therapist had recommended the "I need grit" one last month and she reluctantly adopted it, though Tara doubted three simple words could change her life. The pale yellow Ticonderoga bounced up and down, half sticking out of her mouth, synched with the lyrics of a catchy song buzzing on the radio. The FM signal became annoyingly faint—just in time for the chorus. 

A garbled and distant Beyoncé was the only drawback Tara could pin on the intensifying storm. Comfortably seated at the oak desk facing the window, she continued humming and directing the staticky song with her improvised baton. Tara was perfectly content admiring the Snow Show (as her grandfather used to say) from the cozy second-story Study. Of course, this was her idea of a perfect Sunday—minus the letter-writing.

I wish it snowed all year, she thought, as pelting waves of ice assaulted the old single-pane glass. Tara sighed, flicking a few strands of hair away from her eyes before stating the obvious: “I wish I had moved here sooner.” 

The only downside of the recent address change was a misplaced iPod. It had been MIA for two weeks. Tara leaned closer to the portable Bose and turned it off. She noticed her Dell notebook resting on a pile of books nearby and wondered if she should set up that Friendster profile someone had told her about. Maybe later, she thought, when I’m done with the letter. Distracted by the howl outside, Tara remained mesmerized by the whiteout, her mind wandering very far from the vital task at hand.

It's such a beautiful soundtrack, she thought, unashamed that winter was her favorite season and feeling a little guilty that her pop star crush just got outranked by nature. Tara reluctantly retrieved the pencil from her mouth and began in the top left corner. It seemed natural to start with the date: December 17th, 2003. You have to start somewhere, right? Then she moved on to the greeting.

Dear S.C.—

CLUNK! 

Tara jumped, almost tipping back the chair. Something hit the window. 

“What was that?”

The mystery object was dark and heavy, or so she thought. And it was quick. 

“Huh, that was loud ... for a bird. Unless it's a reindeer.” Tara grinned, though she wasn't sure why a bird would be outside in these conditions. She also couldn't remember ever seeing one in a snowstorm before. Tara took a deep breath and cautiously approached the window. There was a smear, albeit barely noticeable. It was dusk, and visibility was poor. 

Must’ve been a blind one, she decided, though the bird hypothesis sounded silly. Still, Tara figured it was the only thing that made sense. After all, this was the country—a rural area west of Boston that was mainly fields, farms, and woods. 

The house seemed much quieter after the bird strike, and Tara noticed goose pimples tingling at the back of her neck. Shuddering, she buttoned the top wooden button of the hand-knit sweater before heading toward the hallway. With a quick twist of the old round metal thermostat, she hoped adding a few degrees would fend off the chill. Tara quickly trotted back to the bookshelf-lined room her grandparents had dubbed The Study, which was brighter and warmer than the dim hall. 

And a tad less creepy. 

Tara sat down again. Rededicated and inspired by recent events, she tried to write something funny about being scared in an old house during a storm. But after rereading her cheesy attempt at humor, Tara cringed. 

She flipped the pencil to the rubber end, vigorously erasing.   

Tara felt like giving up. “I thought this would be easier,” she said out loud, disheartened at her lack of focus and the environmental distractions. But Tara’s most significant source of angst was not the perilous weather or creepy hall or a missing iPod, it was the inability to explain what she honestly wanted.

Which was nothing new, at least when dealing with Sam.

Her therapist told her she needed to stop being afraid of everything.

Her last remaining friend told her she needed better friends.

Everyone she knew said she needed a divorce.

Tara recalled living with Sam and going days without talking. The atom-splitting tension would inevitably build and build until the mute standoff advanced to a full-blown war. The fight usually concluded with making up after making out, accepting apologies and promises that would dissipate as quickly as a fluke St. Patty's Day snow. The toxic cycle was always the same: Sam pretended to work on his temper if Tara stopped being so "critical and mean."

But that was Old Tara. 

Pre-grit Tara. 

Before the therapist, the new job, and the grand country house she inherited.

New Tara detected a line of deep bite marks in the number two wood and an unpleasant metallic taste. Repulsed, she loosened her jaw and let the pencil fall to the desk, fretting about ingesting toxins. 

“Dammit,” she moaned, thinking about how she always caved, relented, and glossed over what she needed to say. She remembered the therapist. And the mantra. Fuming, Tara knocked Sam's tasteless gift (a snow globe featuring a perverted snowman with red eyes and a misplaced carrot) off her desk and swore. "The sick sonofabitch doesn't control me anymore!" she yelled, which felt surprisingly good.

Not that Sam's actions made breaking up easy. 

Verbal communication went from strained to non-existent. And the past six months were severely limited and subject to monitoring. “Lots of nosey ears here,” Sam would say, cutting her off whenever she tried to bring up anything meaningful over the phone. Email and texting weren’t options either. That just left snail mail.

Suddenly, Tara decided to take action. It was easier now, without the ridiculous reincarnated Sam staring at her from a protected bubble.

She revised the greeting from Dear S.C. to The Snow Globe Is Ugly And I Want A Divorce. Confidence seemed to flow, suddenly, and Tara furiously gripped the pencil and scribbled down what she was thinking without overthinking (even though it was a little crude). 

Such is life, she thought, happy to finally articulate her true feelings without a filter.

She signed her first name, but the graphite tip broke on the last a.

DING! DING!

The doorbell. She jumped up again. How is that possible? Tara ran to the window. She couldn't see anyone on the porch or parked in the driveway, but it was dusk and snowing, and the house didn't have exterior lighting. Someone had unquestionably rung twice. There was no way it was a wiring issue, a bird, a miniature possessed horny snowman, or those guys from Punk’d. 

She hastily scanned the room, wondering if her grandfather left a hunting rifle around somewhere, utterly unsure of what to do. Tara was alone, in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a snowstorm, and this was exactly the kind of lead-up to most CSI murders. Don't answer it, she kept telling herself, that's how I die.

But what if someone needed help? Someone like that elderly couple that lived a half mile down the road—the Douglass’—her closest and only real neighbor. Tara decided that hiding in the old farmhouse wasn’t probably the adult thing to do. 

“I need grit,” she mumbled hoarsely.  

She pulled her face away from the foggy window, sidestepped the snow globe, and tried to laugh. “I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman,” she said, heading toward the dark hall, “I shouldn’t be afraid to check the door.” Tara descended the stairs, feeling her pant pocket to ensure the cell phone was there. Just in case, she thought.  

Tara peered through the peephole and then glanced out the narrow window next to the door, still not seeing anyone. She waited, stalling, wishing she hadn’t read so much Stephen King as a teenager. But the possibility of a hypothermic senior citizen dying outside made her do what she desperately wanted to avoid. Clearing her throat, Tara twisted the handle with one hand and swung it open. It felt like ripping off a bandage or getting stitches. 

“Hello?” she demanded roughly, much louder than she expected to sound. 

The next thing Tara knew, a snowball hit her knee. “Hey!” she screamed, falling more from the shock than the impact, for a split second even convinced someone had shot her with a gun. 

“Watch out!” retorted a familiar voice.

Tara scrambled to stand back up. 

Another snowball sailed past and hit the house. Just as Tara realized that was the same noise she had heard hitting the window earlier, the hidden man with a bright orange hat appeared from behind an arborvitae tree. 

Tara couldn't believe her eyes. “Sam!” she screamed hysterically. 

“Tara!” he screamed back. “I'm out, babe!”

“Sam?” she screamed again, trying to process something she hadn't thought she would have to deal with for at least five more years, if ever. 

“Too slow!” Sam replied, already packing another tight snowball together with his bare hands. 

Initially shocked, Tara was now perplexed. “What are you doing here?” she asked. 

“I’m out, isn't that obvious!” Sam was winding up his arm to throw another one. “Too slow, Tara!” he yelled, laughing uncontrollably.  

The reality of Sam’s unexpected arrival formed a sharp pain in Tara’s stomach, but before she could duck, Sam’s last assault was a bullseye. It hit Tara in the center of her forehead, and she fell backward with a shriek. 

The next thing Tara remembered was waking up on the couch. 

Sam was hovering over her. “Whew! Your back.” He handed her a glass of water. 

Tara took a sip. “Yeah, that … hurt.” She could sense a throbbing knot forming above her temples. Her mind flashback’d to the ER visit two years ago. 

Sam laced his fingers behind his head. “Sorry, I warned you, but you didn’t move. Like not even an inch, babe.” 

“So that’s how you greet me after everything? You knock me out.” Tara winced—the more she spoke, the more her head hurt. 

Sam snorted. “Calm down, Tara. No need to be mean. I’m just excited to see you, that’s all.”

Tara was silent for a while as Sam started walking around, commenting on the antique features of the house. 

Lovely floors, he said. 

And tall ceilings—must be ten feet. 

Holy shit, a fireplace! He threw his bright orange hat into it. And then his shirt. Tara noticed he must have been working out for the past few months. 

“Check out all these windows! Must have a sick view of the pond across the street in the summer. Right, babe?” 

Tara was groggy, not entirely listening to what he was saying, still confused about why Sam was here instead of Concord Prison. 

“How did you get out? Sam?” she asked when able to form the question. 

Sam took his head out of the fireplace—he had opened the flue. “You have any wood? Or matches? It's kind of chilly, babe.”

Tara shook her head, staring at Sam suspiciously. 

He could tell, so he smiled, tone matter-of-fact. “The parole board cut me a break, ok. I already told you. God, did your hair get even more beautiful?”

“Oh, ok.” Tara knew he was lying whenever he deflected like that.

Sam walked over to Tara and told her to rest. “You look cold. Want a blanket or something?” 

She nodded. “That would be nice.” 

“Great.” He looked around, lost. “Where?”

Tara pointed toward the staircase. “I didn't get to unpack everything yet. The room on the right, at the top of the stairs.”

“You got it, babe.” Sam leaned over, kissed her head, pushed some hair away from her ear, and then went to get the blanket. 

Tara shut her eyes and let her head hit the throw pillow. She still couldn’t believe what had happened. And then Tara thought of The Breakup Letter.

“Oh fuck,” she gasped. 

Tara was about to stand up, but the room started spinning, and she decided against it. Maybe he won't see it, she thought. But the spinning got worse, and Tara passed out. 

***

When her eyes reopened, Tara noticed a blanket on top of her. Sam sat across the room near the fireplace, face to the window. She could tell he looked mad, even from the side. The vein on his neck was popping. Tara also noticed he wore different clothes—her grandfather’s flannel shirt and Levi’s. 

“About time,” Sam sneered, turning back to the window. 

Tara said nothing, increasingly worried that something was amiss. This whole thing felt like a nightmare.

Sam was tense, arms crossed. Eventually, he spoke up. “Did you really mean all that?”

Tara heard distant sirens. “All what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

Sam ignored her; his breathing became heavier. The sirens got louder and then more distant, and that’s when Tara knew she should have never opened the door, taken so long to write that letter, or given Sam her new address. He would have never known about this house.

Sam looked paranoid and cagey. Like he was being hunted. 

Tara slipped one hand into her jeans pocket.

Sam spun around and headed for the fireplace, and that's when Tara noticed her letter resting on his hat, shirt, and pants on the grate, along with some books. He snatched the box of matches near the hearth and shook them.

"Plenty," he said, faking delight. 

But Tara knew all too well the resentful, sadistic look in his eyes. She also realized that the ugly, carroty Christmas gift was now displayed on the mantle, exactly in the center. It was staring at her again, which made her livid.

“Mean, mean, mean,” Sam recited over and over, tapping the snow globe like a puppy's head before striking a match.

Tara cleared her throat. "I just don't like it. It looks, uh, stupid. The noseless snowman."

Sam was busy admiring the flames burning his improvised kindling. “Oh, that isn't what hurts, Tara. Nope. Ugly Frosty isn't the problem."

Tara felt lightheaded. "No?"

"It's about trust. And loyalty." Sam abruptly winced and rubbed his palms together, like he was in pain.

"Are you ok?" Tara asked.

Sam looked annoyed. "Sure, Tara. I tripped in the hallway, that's all."

Tara wasn't surprised. Maybe someone was looking out for her. She thought of her grandfather, a strong outspoken man who hated the fact she had married someone like Sam. "That's where he had a heart attack. They found him up there."

Sam could care less, pointing at the embers. "I’m going to forget you ever wrote all that stupid betrayal bullshit, ok?” he said, tone low and cynical. 

Tara was terrified; he knew. 

"Who the fuck has been telling you to think like that, anyway?"

Tara tried not to cry. "I've been seeing a therapist."

"Oh, really?" Sam slowly sat back down but not before grabbing the fire iron. He clutched the ornate poker, cheeks red and jaw clenched. He tapped it angrily against the floor, repeatedly.

Neither spoke a word. 

Sam and Tara stared at each other from across the room for what seemed like an eternity, and both knew a fight was brewing, just like old times. 

But what Sam did not know was that now, Tara had grit. 

Her thumb slowly, carefully—blindly—dialed 9-1-1.