Man Tracks

For a time between finding a log cabin in the mountains of New Hampshire and living in a nondescript motel on the Massachusetts border, we lived in a small town in Maine, just slightly north of the sister cities of Kittery and Portsmouth.  Neighbors were few and far between and in the winter when the snow drifts reached the window sills and travel turned into an expedition, we bundled up, hunkered down, and went ice fishing.  The cold was mind and body numbing but the solitude and serenity were priceless.  We often saw deer just beyond the tree line and sometimes their tracks led all the way to the back door - it was a small herd of sleek, graceful animals, very nearly tame and when hungry, bold enough to feed off the deck - so gentle-eyed and beautiful to watch that they often took my breath away and made me want to cry.  The family of raccoons that took up residence in the shed was another story - there were two adults and three babies, all fat and sassy despite the lean winter pickings - we heard them chirping and foraging at all hours, watched them comically make their way through the snow, scampering and tumbling over each other like midget circus clowns.  They were fearless little creatures with their bandit eyes and agile paws, curious as kittens and not a bit quarrelsome with the deer, even tolerating the chipmunks and random rabbits who dropped by.  All nature seemed to be in harmony that long, cold, country winter - I'd found a permanent position at the UNH bookstore and my then-somewhat-sober husband worked at a nearby veterinary clinic - we were able to leave and come home together each day and spent very little time apart.  There were times when I felt more like a jailer than a wife, a little lonely and a little isolated, sensing that allowing anyone too close would risk exposure, but mostly I was able to keep the evil thoughts of relapse at bay.
I badly wanted to be happy and became very good at turning a blind eye to the danger signs.  It was my second marriage and I hated the idea of admitting to a fatal mistake.

It all came apart the second winter when I had longer hours to work for the January bookrush.  A fast moving storm hit the coast with a vengeance, downing telephone lines and closing roads and bridges with very little warning, stranding me on the Portsmouth side of the border while my husband was trapped in Maine.  It was two days later when I finally got home and discovered several sets of man tracks leading to and from the back door and into the woods.  Curious why he'd have gone out in such a nightmare storm, I followed them and discovered a small clearing littered with green plastic trash bags half buried in the drifts.  I didn't have to look to know what they contained - the raccoons had found them first and torn them open - scavenged empty beer cans had spilled out and lay randomly abandoned in the snow, the stale smell of Budweiser was strong and violent and sure as I knew the sky was gray, I knew the peaceful country winter was over.

It was idle speculation but I wondered where he'd kept all the empties while waiting for the opportunity to dispose of them.  I wondered where his stash of full ones might be.  I wondered how I hadn't seen it and what to do about it.  For several minutes I thought that hate and rage at being being taken for a fool - again - would suffocate me.
For another several minutes, I let the hopelessness and despair of reality take over.  I felt sick and defeated, betrayed beyond words and fatally sad.  And, I realized, standing in this freezing beer can graveyard, bitterly cold.  Not bothering to conceal my own tracks, I walked out of the woods, back into the gray afternoon light, and into the house.

He was ready for me.

There would be no excuses, no apologies, no lies or illusions.  He wouldn't even make the pretense that he hadn't been drinking but instead stood by the kitchen window with his face in shadow.  I sensed the coldness, the stubbornness, and the sheer defiance and rather than lock myself in another useless and painful confrontation, I walked the few steps to the bedroom, shut and bolted the door and began to pack a suitcase.  When I was done, I put the cats in carriers and slipped quietly out the front door.  There was no question of his following - sober, he might've made some effort to engage me, but after a two day drunk he was all self righteous indignation.  There was no danger here.

It wasn't the first time I'd left and it wouldn't be the last.  I didn't know it then but each time I gained a little strength and a little conviction until at last, several years later, I was strong enough to let go and make my own tracks.