A Sneak Peek--The Opening of Dancing in the White Room
The alarm goes off at four-thirty, and I stare at the skylight of our sleeping loft. Bell bangs on the clock to keep it from singing out again. I turn my back and nestle under the blankets. It’s almost March and it shouldn’t be as cold as it is—five below last night according to the thermometer propped outside the kitchen window. The temperature inside’s not much warmer. Bell would probably say I’m the one causing the freeze. We spent the past few days fighting. I did my share of pleading and cursing. I refused to help him pack his gear.
I wait for it, the hand that comes to my waist soon enough. Bell’s long fingers caress the contour and follow up under the curve of my breast.
“Mallory, you awake?”
I try to decide if I should answer him. I try to decide whether I want to have this conversation again, the one we’ve had off and on for the last six months, ever since he let slip he would be going back to Alaska to do the glisse on the West Rib of Denali.
I’ve never been good at pretense, so I turn to face him. His face is angular in the gray light of the room. His blond hair shuffles around his shoulders. He reaches over, his arms still warm from the down of our comforter, and kisses the arch of my shoulder.
“I’m going to miss that.” His voice is as inviting as a warm bath in the winter.
It would be easy to fall into his warmth, easy to make this goodbye tender and inviting, the way our goodbyes usually are. Soft and intense, full of a kind of sweetness that can hold us, both of us, for a week or a month. A goodbye that promises a return, that says we’ll be here again, together.
Today, I push him away. I’m in no mood for sweet goodbyes. Last minute lovemaking won’t change his mind. And what I want is a mind change. What I want is a turnaround. I’m too stubborn to settle for less.
“Jesus, Mallory,” Bell says before turning his back to sit up on the bed. In the dim light, I can see the outline of the mountain tattooed on his shoulder. Denali, a view of Wickersham’s wall on the north face, a reminder of the first time he challenged this mountain, the highest on the continent. The time he challenged it and won. The first time he came home to me.
He gets up, his body a spring. Sleek and long, graceful. He moves as though he is made of pure energy. He throws his clothes on, throws a few last-minute items into his beat-up EMS pack, and looks back at me. In this light, I can’t see his face clearly, but I know what his eyes are saying anyway. He pauses, puts the pack down, and climbs back onto the bed and pulls me back into him. He smells of soap and wood smoke. I can almost taste him and I feel my body start to soften. I won’t give in to it. I break away from his embrace.
“Don’t leave it like this,” he says, an unvoiced please fluttering at the end of the sentence. A white flag, but not surrender.
“You’re the one who’s decided on this suicide mission.” I wish I were fully dressed so it would be easier to take a stand.
He’s losing patience. “Six weeks. I’ll be back in six weeks. Please quit being so fucking melodramatic.”
This is the wrong approach. I turn on my side and bury myself in the blankets. I half hope he’ll think it over again. He’ll change his mind. He’ll stay.
“Fine, Mallo.”
I hear him pick up his pack; hear his footsteps on the stairs. It’s all I can do not to follow. In a few minutes, after the door slams shut and the jeep’s gravely report from the driveway’s done, I’ll allow myself a good hysterical fit. Then I’ll pick myself up and get on with the day.
I hear our dog Chance scraping across the floor and bounding down the stairs. Chance isn’t troubled by pride. I can picture Bell bent on one knee to give Chancie’s ears a scratch. I close my eyes against the picture. I don’t want to see Bell in a favorable light. I want to nurse my anger.
Bell’s voice floats up the stairs, calmer than I expected, soft really, tinged with just enough sad to make me want to cover my ears. “Hey, Munchkin,” he says. “What are you doing up?”
It’s not the dog he’s talking to, but our four-year-old daughter Emily. I can picture her too, a miniature version of her father. Same wild blond hair, same intensity in her blue eyes. I imagine she’s rubbing them now, clearing away the dreams she’s had, and she’s wandered out from her room to see her daddy. He’s right up there with Santa and the Easter Bunny when it comes to her outright unrestricted love of the man. I imagine she’s giving him a hug. I can’t quite make out the tired little voice, but she’s telling him something.
“I’ve got to go, sweetie,” I hear Bell tell her. “Take care of Mommy for me, okay?”
Now I don’t have to wait for tears. They’re floating to my eyes unbidden. I’m up and in my robe and ready to fly down the stairs, but I hear the front door shut, and then my little girl’s on the stairs, coming up to me.
She sits on the bed, her eyes soft in the semi-dark. “Mommy, are you crying?”
“A little,” I say, because there’s no sense in being dishonest with Emily Bell. She’d ferret out the lie a mile away. She puts her hand to my knee, a small breadth of fingers.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’ll be okay.”
I gather her up and give her a tight squeeze she soon wriggles out of. I hope she’s right. I hope it will be okay. That somehow, life will be the way it was before.
She watches me, a little wary. She won’t put up with my tears for too long.
“How about breakfast?” I say, as I hear Bell’s jeep pull out of the drive.
I wait for it, the hand that comes to my waist soon enough. Bell’s long fingers caress the contour and follow up under the curve of my breast.
“Mallory, you awake?”
I try to decide if I should answer him. I try to decide whether I want to have this conversation again, the one we’ve had off and on for the last six months, ever since he let slip he would be going back to Alaska to do the glisse on the West Rib of Denali.
I’ve never been good at pretense, so I turn to face him. His face is angular in the gray light of the room. His blond hair shuffles around his shoulders. He reaches over, his arms still warm from the down of our comforter, and kisses the arch of my shoulder.
“I’m going to miss that.” His voice is as inviting as a warm bath in the winter.
It would be easy to fall into his warmth, easy to make this goodbye tender and inviting, the way our goodbyes usually are. Soft and intense, full of a kind of sweetness that can hold us, both of us, for a week or a month. A goodbye that promises a return, that says we’ll be here again, together.
Today, I push him away. I’m in no mood for sweet goodbyes. Last minute lovemaking won’t change his mind. And what I want is a mind change. What I want is a turnaround. I’m too stubborn to settle for less.
“Jesus, Mallory,” Bell says before turning his back to sit up on the bed. In the dim light, I can see the outline of the mountain tattooed on his shoulder. Denali, a view of Wickersham’s wall on the north face, a reminder of the first time he challenged this mountain, the highest on the continent. The time he challenged it and won. The first time he came home to me.
He gets up, his body a spring. Sleek and long, graceful. He moves as though he is made of pure energy. He throws his clothes on, throws a few last-minute items into his beat-up EMS pack, and looks back at me. In this light, I can’t see his face clearly, but I know what his eyes are saying anyway. He pauses, puts the pack down, and climbs back onto the bed and pulls me back into him. He smells of soap and wood smoke. I can almost taste him and I feel my body start to soften. I won’t give in to it. I break away from his embrace.
“Don’t leave it like this,” he says, an unvoiced please fluttering at the end of the sentence. A white flag, but not surrender.
“You’re the one who’s decided on this suicide mission.” I wish I were fully dressed so it would be easier to take a stand.
He’s losing patience. “Six weeks. I’ll be back in six weeks. Please quit being so fucking melodramatic.”
This is the wrong approach. I turn on my side and bury myself in the blankets. I half hope he’ll think it over again. He’ll change his mind. He’ll stay.
“Fine, Mallo.”
I hear him pick up his pack; hear his footsteps on the stairs. It’s all I can do not to follow. In a few minutes, after the door slams shut and the jeep’s gravely report from the driveway’s done, I’ll allow myself a good hysterical fit. Then I’ll pick myself up and get on with the day.
I hear our dog Chance scraping across the floor and bounding down the stairs. Chance isn’t troubled by pride. I can picture Bell bent on one knee to give Chancie’s ears a scratch. I close my eyes against the picture. I don’t want to see Bell in a favorable light. I want to nurse my anger.
Bell’s voice floats up the stairs, calmer than I expected, soft really, tinged with just enough sad to make me want to cover my ears. “Hey, Munchkin,” he says. “What are you doing up?”
It’s not the dog he’s talking to, but our four-year-old daughter Emily. I can picture her too, a miniature version of her father. Same wild blond hair, same intensity in her blue eyes. I imagine she’s rubbing them now, clearing away the dreams she’s had, and she’s wandered out from her room to see her daddy. He’s right up there with Santa and the Easter Bunny when it comes to her outright unrestricted love of the man. I imagine she’s giving him a hug. I can’t quite make out the tired little voice, but she’s telling him something.
“I’ve got to go, sweetie,” I hear Bell tell her. “Take care of Mommy for me, okay?”
Now I don’t have to wait for tears. They’re floating to my eyes unbidden. I’m up and in my robe and ready to fly down the stairs, but I hear the front door shut, and then my little girl’s on the stairs, coming up to me.
She sits on the bed, her eyes soft in the semi-dark. “Mommy, are you crying?”
“A little,” I say, because there’s no sense in being dishonest with Emily Bell. She’d ferret out the lie a mile away. She puts her hand to my knee, a small breadth of fingers.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’ll be okay.”
I gather her up and give her a tight squeeze she soon wriggles out of. I hope she’s right. I hope it will be okay. That somehow, life will be the way it was before.
She watches me, a little wary. She won’t put up with my tears for too long.
“How about breakfast?” I say, as I hear Bell’s jeep pull out of the drive.
