The Quiet

The Quiet

He managed to tear his eyes from the winter scene beyond upon realizing that the fire was dying down. He grabbed one of the dry logs that sat next to the old brick fireplace and tossed it in gently, sending a flare of sparks up into the dark. The sudden crackling of the wood as it was consumed by the flames was accompanied by a burning and smoky scent that had become as familiar to the man as any possibly could. He had been coming to this cabin his entire life, first as a child with his family and now as an adult with his own wife. He kept his gaze focused on the log as it was devoured by the climbing flames that licked and caressed it gently, as though they were as inoffensive as a gentle current sweeping along a river bed. It was only after the fire moved along, as the wood became blackened and warped after being kissed, that he managed to tear his eyes away from the fireplace. 

She sat on one of the old armchairs, knees tucked up and under her as she fiddled with the old radio that sat on a dusty end table next to her. She turned the knobs as she searched for a clear signal, and she had not had much luck thus far. The man gritted his teeth, feeling the ache behind his eyes shift and throb. The incessant white noise that strummed from the radio had been a constant companion these last few hours. The storm and the conditions outside made it difficult for anything to come through clearly over the airwaves. 

“There must be something coming through,” she was murmuring to herself. “There must be.”

He rose then, dusting his hands off on the knees of his suit, not caring that the palms left streaks of grime and dirt on the clean black trousers. He considered what to say to her, how best to respond, and found that he was unable to settle on anything of any particular value or merit. So he kept his mouth shut. 

“Don’t you think there should be something coming through?” The woman finally stopped twisting the knobs and paused to look at him. “Surely, they haven’t stopped trying.”

He shrugged his shoulders, still unable to commit to a more solid or meaningful response. What could he say? Why would the stations bother to keep broadcasting during all of this? There couldn’t be all that much left to announce or any new information that could help those listening make any sense of their present situation. He looked at the window then, watching the swirling and dancing patterns of snow against the night, illuminated by an old porch light. The forest was coated in an ever-growing coat of soft snow that glistened and shone in the moonlight. The wind tossed the branches of the pines that towered around the cabin, silent sentinels guarding the small building against the outside world. They had stood here for longer than the man knew or cared to imagine, and it was difficult for him to concede that their time had come to an end, that soon the trees too would be cast down from their proud stances and litter the forest floor. The cost of progress, he supposed. 

He pulled slightly at the collar of his dress shirt, feeling as though he were choking on a combination of his headache and his stress. Why she had insisted that they wear their best clothes was beyond him. Even if it were their last night in the cabin, the last New Year’s Eve they would celebrate as a couple, why bother with the uncomfortable formality?

“I’ve never even worn my purple dress,” she had said quietly as they had packed their things. Her gaze had been vacant. “If I don’t wear it for New Year’s, then I won’t ever get the chance.”

And so he had humoured her and put on his grey three-piece suit, though the pants had become somewhat wrinkled on the trip up to the cabin. It seemed a little ridiculous to be wearing it now with slippers on his feet, but there was only so much he was willing to put up with at this point. He wanted this small vestige of comfort as they waited out this night. The wooden planks of the cabin’s floor could be cold in the winter, and the worn slippers brought a certain comfort as the man listened to the wind whistling outside. 

His numb reverie was interrupted by the sudden slam of the radio against the end table. His wife had sent the radio crashing there in her frustration, and she wrapped her arms around her legs, the silken purple skirt sliding back towards her waist as she brought her knees up to her chest. He watched as she took in a breath and brought her face up before sending a screeching sob up towards the ceiling beams. He knew he should say something then. 

He didn’t.

“This is bullshit!” Her sobs punctuated her words, emphasizing her anger. They punctuated the quiet stillness of the cabin, the gentle crackling of the fireplace, too wild even to belong outside amongst the careening wind and whipping branches. “They shouldn’t have just abandoned us like this! They should be...Why not go out trying? Are we all meant to just lay down and wait?”

He nodded, giving her the affirmation that she needed without having to navigate a sentence. She didn’t really want him to answer. This wasn’t a conversation. It was a string of words devoid of importance and used instead to empty herself of these feelings that they all shouldered, the sense of ineptitude and powerlessness. She felt the need to scream. 

He only wanted the quiet. 

“When do you think it will come?” The question was hoarse. Her throat must be sore.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair taking her in. Hers was a face that had become gaunt and severe in such a short time. The fullness of her cheeks have given way to the anxiety of the past few days, accentuating the purple and deep hollows beneath her eyes. The skin itself had become sallow and pale with a sprinkling of small pimples covering the sharp chin. She claimed she only broke out when she was feeling stressed. Her brown eyes searched his own and he could feel her pulling, seeking some kind of answer from him that he was unable to provide. She wanted to know when it would all happen, when this story would finally crescendo into explosion and blasts. 

There was no way to know. There was only the waiting. 

“Will you sit with me?” The sobs had quieted, and her voice was a soft hiccup. 

He nodded again, dumb, and made his way to her. She scooted in the armchair, making it groan as though the shifting of her weight was almost too much for the ancient stitches and threadbare material to manage. He tested it, easing his weight gently into the seat. When he was sure that the chair wouldn’t collapse under their combined weight, he relaxed into it and opened his arms. His wife moved into the protective circle, resting her cheek against his shoulder as she breathed uneasily into his neck. With one hand, he stroked the soft silk of her purple dress. It moved slowly to her nape where it played with the curled hair that had escaped her bun. 

She looked beautiful and he knew that he should tell her as much, even if it did nothing but distract her for a moment. 

This time he managed to open his mouth before the futility of speech hit him again, causing the jaw to slacken and the teeth to come together once more. 

Instead he held her in the stillness of the room as they both watched the final logs burn in the hearth, observing the constant flickering of light and shadow. It was a soft light and a warm one. It provided a moment’s respite from his headache, from her frantic energy. 

It was enough to carry them through the final moments and keep their attention from the violent red glare that burst suddenly through the window, carrying with it an ashen blast of wind. They felt nothing as the cabin was suddenly no more and felt no heat from the fire that rained down, cresting over the pine hills like a wave. The midnight hour was suddenly alight, though the fire that streaked the sky was no celebratory firework, and the vicious cacophony that followed the light was made all the more visceral by the immediate silence that followed. 

It was not snow that fell gently from the sky, blanketing the scar that remained, though it swirled in a mist of white and grey. 

All was quiet.