The Last of Spring

Jess hated Joe’s snoring. His heavy body lulled into a deep sleep, unbothered, grumbling with every shift of the blinds or Jess’ legs. But snoring meant it was spring; he was sleeping in instead of getting up early to shovel, enjoying rest before the sun rose rather than fumbling around in darkness.

Jess believed to some extent the cooling directed all of their lives, but the cold had hit Joe the hardest. He had skipped college to be a Shoveler, sacrificing his everyday life for others, doing the grunt work no one wanted to do but had to be done. The job required early rising — always in eerie hours Jess could still consider night — physical fitness, and layers and layers of protective wear.

In their first winter nights together, Joe would fail at being quiet in a playful way, desperately trying not to wake Jess up with every one of his large and clumsy movements. She’d get up in fuzzy darkness, just being able to make out his figure once her eyes had brushed the sleep off. Every so often he’d shout whisper, fuck, as he banged into something or other, pawing around in the black before sunrise — if the sun ever came. He always kissed her cheek before he left, pulling up his gator before heading out.

Now the winters had gotten longer and the springs had shrunk into months, weeks — it was unpredictable but the world was moving toward extended, darker winters. No one wanted to know if there wouldn’t be spring at all in future, or what that would mean for all of them, already thrown into a world they didn’t quite have a grasp on but were doing all they could. With more winter came more snow, more days for Joe to wake up at some awful hour and head out into the darkness.

He’d stop caring that she was still trying to sleep. His alarms got louder, vibrating and falling to the floor, screeching against the carpet. He turned on lights, grunted, shuffled with his big man feet and slammed drawers. She could never fall back asleep. She’d lie face up in bed, staring at nothing, thinking about the days until spring when they could be happy again.

Now spring was ending again and they had less than 24 hours until the snow would come. By the end of the day they’d be locked into a long-lasting winter with no clue when the sun would warm them again. She decided to like his snoring, letting it remind her of the light outside dribbling in. She tossed off her covers and opened the bedroom window.

The air smelled of almost warmer weather and mulch and birds chirping happily. Things being reborn. It was the most bittersweet time of year, when things that they’d missed for months seemed so tangible; the summer air so close she could taste the sweat on her tongue.

Jess had met Joe in the beginning of a long stretch of the spring seven years ago. She had just started teaching and Rebecca, a friend from before she could remember making friends, had taken her out for celebratory drinks.

“To you, Ms. Jessica,” Rebecca announced. She raised her shot glass to the air. “For finally doing what we’d all thought she’d do.” Rebecca laughed with her big mouth open, the sound shaking her body so her boobs bounced in her V-neck top. She threw the drink back and grabbed her napkin to politely dab the corners of her mouth. She turned to Jess and laughed again, so fucking loud. Jess considered why she was friends with her.

Rebecca demanded that the bartender get her another drink, shouting like the wealthy, bratty girl she wanted to be, ringing a bell for her personal servant. His back was turned. He was with another customer, listening to what seemed like one of those life stories you only share once you’ve had a few in you. Common bar talk. A world of secrets that shouldn’t be spilled beyond the hazy doors; whispers turned into yells turned into fights or close bonding. Jess realized the bartender was actively ignoring Rebecca when she called not just a second but also a third time, hollering like they were at a football game rather than a local bar. The bartender’s back remained turned away, and Jess giggled when Rebecca pouted dramatically.

Rebecca called once more; she was now fully causing a scene. Jess was tired of hearing her shrill voice crack her eardrum. “Excuse me?” Jess asked, hoping her gentler tactic might work. He turned at her soft voice, revealing a wide bearded face and bright blue eyes. He seemed to welcome the change in tone and smiled at her. She returned the favor. He raised his eyebrows at Rebecca and Jess shook her head in response, grinning all the while.

It was the beginning of their unspoken language, a series of gestures communicating a sense of familiarity. He moved toward Jess, wiping a glass with a towel before putting in on the rack.

“What can I get you?” he asked. He angled his body toward Jess, cutting Rebecca off with his shoulder. He was near the rim of the bar and his large hands dangled by the edge of Jess’ napkin. She could smell his breath — minty with a bit of hops. Drinking on the job, perhaps? She didn’t blame him; she was drinking her weight just to dull Rebecca’s presence. He smiled at her, warm and endearing. She liked how easy he was to read.

“Hi, hi!” Rebecca poked in, her skinny fingers quickly tapping the bartender’s shoulder. “Can I have another martini? Straight up,” Rebecca demanded, pulling Jess away from his stare. Rebecca’s mouth shifted to a frown, her big red lips blaring over her chin. Jess was uninterested in pleasing her. She turned back to the bartender, who hadn’t stopped looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not breaking eye contact. “I asked her.” Rebecca got up and huffed in the corner, leaving Jess alone with the bartender. He smiled.

Out of the house into the spring air and the school bell singing, Jess watched her students bustling out of their seats. The last day before winter always brought a rush of excitement. They looked like jumping jellybeans. Go, she wanted to tell them, run outside in the sun before it goes. With springs getting shorter, she wasn’t sure how many warm days they’d remember.

But she was required to keep them inside until lunchtime, to continue with the regular lesson plans until the clock on the wall hit noon and signaled their break. She wanted to let them out earlier, to watch them run free on the playground and return to words and numbers when the dark came in tomorrow. But these were the rules to protect them. They’d been born after the cooling had already begun; their skin was most susceptible to the rays of the sun.

As their lunchtime grew near and they could barely stay in their seats, Jess allowed them to get their sunscreen early. They all ran to their cubbies and grabbed the white tubes with orange twist off tops, a household item during the warmer days. She set an example by reapplying her own sunscreen wherever her skin showed. This was a ritual now, something they all had to do before leaving the house. She watched their laborious process until some yelled and giggled for help, allowing her to rub circles in their smooth flesh. She watched their eyes light up as the sunscreen disappeared into their skin.

Jess had always been good with kids. The kind of good that babies smiled to her when they passed, remembered her when she went away to college and came back for the summer. She liked playing “school” when she was little. She talked to stuffed bears and lambs like pupils. It wasn’t until high school that she began tutoring, watching students grown and learn and become excited about what they were studying.

She liked teaching, but was always drawn to the youngest of students, still learning letters and understanding how numbers came together. They were so curious. They wanted to learn for the sake of comprehending something new. They didn’t think about tests or awards on their resume. They were exploring, soaking up whatever information they could get.

And they were cute. Jess had babysat throughout graduate school, becoming friends with her professor’s children, studying as she listened to babies’ soft breathing through their monitors. She held them close to her chest, warm with fuzzy heads, sang them whispered songs when it was time to sleep. The toddlers cried when she left; she felt her heart sink with their screams.

So maybe it was a bit of the love to teach and a bit more of the love for children that brought her to the head of a kindergarten classroom. The want for kids to call her own, to watch them grow from out of their home, out of control, to loving, respectful little students who knew how to play, read, and write.

She started dating Joe that same spring. Her shoulders were bare and her arms smelled like sunscreen. They walked in the park touching skin, sweaty moist hands in a union by her side. People were picnicking with blankets and cold meats and lemonade, pictures of what they all thought spring should be, what summer could be. Dads and sons played catch while a little girl ran back and forth around the baseballs, jumping with joy. Joe took her to outdoor movie theaters in his truck with the open back, a big expanse where they chose to lie close on blankets, together.

Joe was a bartender in the springs because he didn’t have to shovel. He was happy behind the bar, talking to the neighborhood and drinking as he pleased. Shoveling, on the other hand, strained his physical and mental strength. He rose early for months and put in hours of labor, returning home midday to crash on the couch with heating pads and bandaids. He had the perfect look for the work, broad in a typical manly way with heavily angled features. But he was gentle in touch, light when he held Jess’ face and never forceful.

He wasn’t smart like in Jess’ books. He didn’t understand the classic readings or the difference between affect and effect no matter how many times Jess talked about verbs and nouns. He liked reading graphic novels and focusing on the details in the pictures, or watching movies with simple humor so it was easy to laugh. They could get him out of the world they were living in. He gave her hope.

Rebecca grew to like him. Jess always wanted her approval, no matter how crazed and illegitimate it could be, and liking him was most of the way to endorsement. Jess wanted someone to share her life with. Someone to share a family with. Kids were something her and Joe had talked about so early Rebecca had teased them when they just started dating. He’s tying you down! She had laughed loudly. Watch out he doesn’t pull anything on you and get you pregnant— the dream! There was truth behind her jokes. He could give Jess what she wanted because it was what he wanted too.

They were married in the spring. When they first danced, she wanted to hold him from behind, so tight he wouldn’t want to get away. But she wasn’t a protector in size; her strength came from her ability to offer solutions. He trusted her with things he didn’t tell his friends. He was the extrovert in his façade, the friendly, funny one who barely let out any information about his own interior. She often wondered why he had chosen her. She wasn’t the funniest. She hated the sound of her laugh. But he asked her questions he didn’t seem to want to ask anyone else — didn’t seem he wanted anyone else to answer. What they should have for dinner, what they should do after they woke up and had some coffee. Whether he should keep the shoveling job with the winters coming ahead. Whether it was worth it. Whether she thought it was a good idea if he wanted to share a life together. He wanted the normal life plan she’d always dreamed of: a small home with a loving partner and kids, the cutest, the kindest. It was the promise of consistency in an ever-changing, unpredictable world. She loved him for it.

At noon her students burst through the doors, flying toward the playground. She watched them shock and scrape their knees, running faster every time they got back up off the ground.

They were young and curious and adventurous, absorbing the world around them as if it was theirs to take by the reigns.

Julia and Jafar were on the slide together. She didn’t like to have favorites but year after year felt drawn to some students more than others, watching them just a bit more closely in the classroom. They slid down and ran around so fast she fought the urge to tell them to stop. Jafar tagged Julia and she fell into the grass, her small knees buckling as she hit the ground. Jafar laughed; Julia didn’t echo his light-hearted response. Jess felt her heart in her chest as he got down next to Julia, his hand on her back. The picture of childhood caring, of friendship, of mistakes being made and learned from.

“Ms. Jess! Ms. Jess! Hurry!” Jafar’s voice was trembling. Jess picked up her long skirt and ran over, her sandals clicking against her heels. She knelt down next to Julia. Julia’s face was red, droplets of sadness leaking over her cheeks.

“It hurts,” she mumbled, burying her face into Jess’ lap. Jess sat up with the movement, taken aback by Julia’s urge to hide herself in Jess’ body but grateful all the same. Jess carefully reached out and stroked Julia’s face, holding her hand with her other. The trio sat in shared silence, the screams of the class faded and removed. They hadn’t noticed the commotion. It was must have been at least half a minute when Jafar grabbed Julia’s hand and rubbed her palm with his tiny fingers. With his other hand, he put his hand on Jess’ knees, connecting the three of them. She could feel Julia’s soft, quick breaths against her stomach and she pulled her in tighter. Jess wanted to protect her forever.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Julia looked up and used his hand to wipe her tears.

“It’s ok.” She separated their hands and pushed herself off the ground to stand. “Thank you, Ms. Jess.” Jafar matched Julia’s position, and she reached out to touch his arm. “You’re it!” They ran off to join the rest of the class.

Jess remained sitting, feeling the empty space expand where Julia and Jafar’s small bodies had been.

Jess insisted on seeing doctors after the first miscarriage. She had barely had time to celebrate — or even to acknowledge or process — the pregnancy. She wanted answers. It was the beginning of winter, and the baby would have come with the arrival of the next spring. They gave her hopes she wasn’t sure she deserved, telling her and Joe to keep trying before coming back in.

She found herself more emotional than she wanted to be. She and Joe either talked a lot — about babies and a future and options and setbacks — or not at all. Sometimes he just held her for hours, some TV program’s laughing track mimicking what should have been their response. Instead there were just closed mouths and hands that sometimes interlaced into weak holds.

They tried again. And again. Some days it just felt forced, mindless, something they had to do instead of what they wanted to do. But Jess would go into school and see the children and be reminded that this is what she needed, something she wanted more than anything else in the world. A child of her — their — own. Joe didn’t have that. In the winters he saw snow and the outlines of the other Shovelers. She tried to convince him to come visit the school often, to meet her class and understand why it was so important that they keep trying. In the beginning he went more, but in the winters he barely wanted to go out. By the time the afternoon rolled around and there was time for him to come to school, he was sleeping, exhausted and drained from the labor.

Jess couldn’t remember exactly when they had stopped sleeping together. For a while there were periods of nothing and then a good sunny day or light snow would bring them back. Now there was nothing to go “back” to; separation was a new norm, an emptiness pervasive in their bedroom.

Just the night before, lying on her side in bed, Jess felt her stomach’s fat give and roll onto the sheets, mushy. It was cold to the touch. She rubbed it slowly, hearing a growl that consumed the silent space. Joe shifted and rolled over toward her. Her heart began to pick up its pace, but she couldn’t tell if he was fully asleep. His eyes were closed. She watched his lips in their neutral position turn slightly upward as her stomach growled again. She kissed his face, his beard prickly against his mouth, warm. He didn’t move. She continued around his face, passing his nose, eyes, giggling as she explored his skin, traced his hairline. Finally he grabbed her face and kissed her, still lying flat on the bed. She kissed him back; his lips were cold. His hands dropped as he turned back over to his side of the bed.

Jess wanted to keep trying. She was trying. Joe would barely touch her. When he did it was to pull her close for warmth, immobile and tight. She tried to be creative, but she didn’t want to push him. Never force him. She wanted him to want it like she did. To realize how important it was to her — to him. How it could be.

“Goodbye, Ms. Jess!” the chorus of students screamed, exiting the school’s wooden with lunchboxes and art projects in hand. Their parents waited eagerly outside, flashing bright smiles and brighter eyes behind their sunglasses and hats. Julia squealed at the sight of her mother, charging toward her and falling into a big embrace, tight and warm. Jess watched them trickle out of the classroom and into their real lives, where they had families who would love them for the rest of their lives. Her teaching was just a blip of their time in the world, something they’d half remember, while she kept their names and favorite colors and reading troubles in her memory like a coveted safe. She closed the doors quickly, not needing to see the rest of the familial reunions.

Inside, she packed up her belongings, checking her watch to make sure she had enough time before the sun went down. She thought she could do something nice for Joe. They could celebrate the season before it felt like it’d never come again. They could have a good meal on their porch with the beers they liked to share and it’d be the nice kind of cold where it’s just chilly enough for a light sweater over a short sleeve. They could cuddle up next to each other on the porch swing, their empty dinner plates on the table next to them, rocking back and forth until the darkness came. It could be a happiness they carried with them into winter. She could show him they didn’t have to live in the binaries of the season, succumb their relationship to something they couldn’t control. They could keep the tenderness, the liveliness, even if the outside didn’t reflect it. She wanted to show him he wasn’t confined to the house or the arbitrary rules of the weather.

“C’mon, Joe, it’s just a party,” Jess groaned. It was the middle of one of their longer winters, and besides work and the occasional trip to the grocery store, Joe hadn’t left the house in weeks. At least she took classes at the gym, moving through the tunnels to the workout space, greeted by treadmills and stationary bikes with TVs in front, screening images of spring and summer. Maybe Joe would get out some of his anger if he moved his body in non-work ways, trying kickboxing or Pilates or yoga. Jess laughed at the thought, remembering when Joe had come once to a class with all the girls and nearly fell over onto Jess. Everyone in the class had just laughed, rushing to his side to stabilize him, a war of energy.

Now he wouldn’t even leave for Rebecca’s party. Joe was on fine terms with Rebecca’s husband, Paul, but Jess knew Paul’s fiendlike obsession with intellectual discussion often caused Joe to freeze up. He didn’t like people knowing that he didn’t know things, more so that they made it known to others. Of course Jess didn’t want to see Joe get hurt, but it was Friday and they’d have nice food and drinks and dancing. They could move while the snow was quiet outside, warmed by a fire, by her head against his chest.

“It’s just a party.”

“You’re right. It is just a party. So why does it matter so much if I go?” Joe changed the TV channel. Jess stepped in front of the screen.

“Because we haven’t been out in ages.”

“We went to Rebecca’s a few weeks ago.”

“She came here. To see me,” Jess crossed her arms in front of her chest. She could feel her heart pumping.

“Haven’t you seen her enough?”

“Haven’t you sat here long enough?”

“I don’t want to go,” Joe said, firmly. A silence. Jess didn’t move. “Can you please move away from the screen?”

Jess picked up her keys and slammed the door behind her.

“Do you think he doesn’t want kids anymore?” Rebecca asked her an hour later. She had pulled Jess aside at the party, fiercely — perhaps Jess still had a mark on her arm — when Jess had entered in what must have been an emotional frenzy. She thought she had hid it well, but Rebecca had unfortunately known her for years.

Not want kids or not want her? Jess swallowed her wine down the wrong pipe. She coughed, hard. Was this the end of their family or their marriage, too? When Joe would talk about what he wanted his kids to play and what she wanted them to read and what holidays they’d celebrate. When they debated who’d light the candles and who would help cook the brisket.

“I don’t know what he wants.” Jess felt her face strain. Even though they were alone, she didn’t want to cry in front of Rebecca. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction that Paul, even in the shortest of moments, could be better than Joe.

“Do you think he’s sleeping with someone else?”

“When would he?” Jess retorted, angry with Rebecca for pulling anxious thoughts back into her head, things she had tried to bury away. She had considered it. Joe never left the house besides work. He had all male work friends, and didn’t seem to be talking to anyone else — where would they meet? Did they hook up when she was at school? Did he fuck her on the couch then stay there for hours after she left, waiting for Jess to return and make him dinner? Did she scurry away from their fleece blankets like the little rat she was, hoping not to be seen?

Jess started to cry, her face barely shaking as tears moved down her face, sliding rapidly.

“Jess,” Rebecca put her hand on Jess’ shoulder. “I didn’t mean it. He’s not. And if in some weird world he is — weirder than the one we’re in now — I’d kill him for you. Gone without a trace.” Rebecca reached over and wiped a tear off Jess’ face, scratching her cheek with her fake red nails. No one had stroked her face like that for a while. She couldn’t remember when. Had it been weeks? Months? She just wanted to hold his hand, make him remember how his palm felt against hers, fingers holding on. She wanted to ask him what had gone wrong. Where she had messed up. They had moved from a version of wonderfulness to a disintegrated memory of what happy could be. So far removed Jess often questioned how they had even fell into it. Love. It was like she had been basing a lifetime on unsolid ground, and for the first time she was realizing it was shaking.

Jess heard the familiar click of their gate behind her as she shuffled into their house with a loaf of bread and groceries in hand. She’d told Joe to put a chicken in the oven, but hadn’t told him she was going to make chicken parmesan — his favorite. She’d thought it’d remind him of days he seemed to like. She smelled the chicken and her body exhaled with relief. With it in the oven, she’d cook quickly and they could sit down in an hour. They’d have time.

“Joe? Joe…are you here?” she asked, poking in and out of each room. “Chicken smells good, honey.” She put her school bag around the bottom of the staircase. “Thank you!” She walked into the kitchen and saw him sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other, arms wrapped around in front.

“I was waiting for you.” His demeanor reminded her of the winter to come: his eyebrows creased down, his breathing heavy. A bouquet of flowers was thrown out on the table, the stems tangled.

“Where?” She pried. “I went to get some bread for dinner right after school.” It was a weak attempt to explain. “Thought we could do garlic. ” She tried to maintain a casual exterior, but felt like she was treading on ice, knowing it would break but unable to determine where.

“I was by the school. Saw all of your students leaving with their parents.” He lifted the open beer bottle from his hand and drank slowly, eyes closed. One of their preferred brands, but she said nothing as he placed it onto the table with a thud.

“I left a little early,” she confessed. “I went out the other way. It’s closer to the grocery store.”

She had gotten too emotional to even make sure all of her students had left safely and gone out the back entrance to avoid them and their families. She had missed him. He had tried for her — finally, again. She had let him down because of her own feelings. This was her fault.

“I’m sorry.”

“I waited and you left me.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated through her teeth.

“Thought we could have walked home together while it’s still nice.”

“Let’s just go now,” Jess coaxed, gently. He was silent; she was afraid.

“The chicken is cooking.”

“I’m sorry. We can eat something else — ”

“No, now it’s more than a goddamn half a year. For what? Two weeks?” He stood up and pushed the chair out from under him. It turned over and hit the wooden floor, shaking the ground.

“Let’s go,” Jess pleaded, standing up to follow him. She could fix this. She could get him to try again. They would have dinner and walk and she could show him how the springtime was good to them but how things could be good in the winter. How love wasn’t confined to the seasons, how they could still have their future. How there was still hope.

She followed him to the front door and reached up her hand to touch his shoulder. He shrugged her off and slammed the door behind him.

She turned back to the kitchen and put the flowers in water. The chicken was burning.