Page 5 of Something Like Winter
He helped his dad get the luggage out of the back and followed him to the garage entrance. Tim expected the inside of the house to be hollow like the one they had left behind. Instead he found a half-furnished home. A dining room table without chairs was already decorated with fabric placemats and a floral centerpiece, even though no one could sit there.
The other rooms were in a similar state. The living room had curtains and a couch, but nothing else. Toward the back of the house, down a hallway and past the guest bathroom was another room with a leather sofa that smelled new. A big-screen TV dominated one wall. To the side, a built-in mini bar was just begging for someone to mix a cocktail. “Please tell me this is my room,” Tim said as his mother entered.
“Uh-uh. This is your father’s den, as he calls it.” She snorted. “Like he’s a bear.”
“So where’s my den?”
“Upstairs, first on the left.” Ella considered the walls and tsked impatiently. “The decorators didn’t hang a single thing!”
He left his mother to fuss over some frames leaning in one corner. Returning to the front of the house, Tim grabbed his suitcase and sprinted up the stairs. Everything had that brand-new feel only found in model homes. Nothing had been used yet, like all of this was part of some weird museum exhibit, forever preserving what life was like in nineteen ninety-six.
Tim checked the other rooms first. The largest was obviously the master bedroom, another had a stylish writing desk in it, and one was completely empty. Finally, Tim went to his room, feeling more excited about the move as he opened the door. Inside was a bed, already fully made, and an entertainment center/dresser combo where his TV should fit. One long window provided a view of the backyard, and best of all, he had direct access to his own bathroom. No more darting through the hall in a towel every morning.
Tim sat on the bed. For the first time in his life, he had a blank slate. He could reinvent himself, become something more. His life was the canvas now, empty and begging for lines and color, direction and depth. This room, a simple space and four walls, would be the center of his new world, beyond it a city and people unknown to him. No more familiar streets burdened with names of old friends and tired memories. Just fresh potential for him to breathe in and revitalize himself with. Tim was on the verge of something exciting and new. Life would be better, more than it had been before.Hewould be better.
Tim sprang off the bed and swung his suitcase onto the mattress. He dialed in the combination, the locks clicked open, and the suitcase opened to a whiff of air from another state. Hello, Kansas. Goodbye, Kansas. Opening a dresser drawer, he started shoveling in his clothes, taking extra care when he got to the T-shirt with the porn magazines wrapped inside. Not wanting the movers to discover them, Tim had packed them himself, but now he felt seedy unloading smut from his suitcase, like a desperate travelling salesman. Something about a long drive always made him horny, probably the constant vibration of the road. In fact, he wouldn’t mind a quick—
The door to his room opened. In one smooth motion, Tim tossed the contraband-stuffed shirt into the drawer and shut it. His mom strolled in none the wiser and gave a cursory inspection.
“I told them the cranberry comforter, not brown. Why in the world would the decorators choose brown? Cranberry would have looked so nice next to your dark hair.” Ella’s gaze swiveled between Tim and the comforter, trying to decide if they matched or not. Depending on how expensive the comforter was, Tim wasn’t sure if it would go or he would.
“Hey, where’s the basement door?” he asked. “I want to check out my studio space.”
His mother shook her head distractedly. “There aren’t any basements down here.”
“What? Why wouldn’t they have basements?”
Ella looked puzzled. “Because there aren’t as many tornados, I guess. No tornados, no need to hide in the basement like rats.”
“Well, where am I going to paint?” Tim huffed.
“We’ll find you a space,Gordito,don’t worry.”
“What about the empty room up here?”
“Don’t be silly. That’s the guest room. Your old bed is going in there.”
Tim stared at her. When did they ever have guests? His parents didn’t have friends, aside from his father’s business associates and their spouses. None of them would stay over for some sort of grown-up slumber party. He tried picturing his father having a pillow fight with some other old guy in a business suit and couldn’t.
“If they think that’s cranberry, they’re color blind,” his mother said, her attention back on the bed.
Tim spotted his jogging clothes in the suitcase and grabbed them. If he wasn’t going to find release sexually, this was the next best thing. He went downstairs to the guest bathroom, which was completely bare and should be safe from his mother’s inspections, and stripped off his clothes. After flexing his muscles in the mirror to satisfy his inner narcissist, he pulled on the navy shorts and gray Kansas University tank top. He made a note to toss the shirt in the trash later, rather than the laundry hamper. Then he sat on the toilet and slipped on his blue running shoes. Half a minute later, Tim was outside pounding pavement.
This. Oh god, this! There was nothing that made him feel so centered, so calm, as running did. Not at first, of course, but as he warmed up and his breath found the right rhythm, all his worries melted away. He’d heard people talk about endorphins, and maybe that was part of it, but there had to be more. Jogging was like meditation on the go. How monks could meditate while sitting on their butts, Tim had no clue. He needed to move, his body completely occupied, skin covered with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. Only then could silence fill his soul.
He slowed to a trot, almost unwillingly, and stopped. Between two houses was a paved trail a bit wider than the average sidewalk. In the summer dusk, he couldn’t see much except the path leading into the shadow of trees ahead. Fences lined either side, meaning it couldn’t belong to the neighboring homes. Still panting, Tim ran toward the darkness to see what he would find.
* * * * *
What Tim discovered over the next month is that the trees of The Woodlands hid more than just buildings. Winding throughout the city like a miniature network of roads were bike paths—as the natives called them—that snaked through neighborhoods, connecting everything from shopping centers to public parks.
Tim explored them with caution. The only downside to the bike paths going everywhere was that if he wasn’t careful, he could end up anywhere. Those nearest his home led to a small park—not much more than a playground and a small lake. Tim always began by jogging around this body of water, returning the same way. Each time he would run a little farther, explore the paths a bit more before retracing his steps. If he tired of a route, he would choose a different fork and begin again.
With his things unpacked, his room set up, and summer drawing to a close, Tim found himself glad that school was starting soon, if only for the chance to socialize. Exploring his new surroundings was becoming dull, and with both his parents working, Tim longed for something more.
Of course, he still couldn’t paint. A week before his birthday, Tim decided he’d had enough. He set up an easel in the guest room and grabbed a canvas he had made a rough sketch on. No one had been in this room since his mother finished decorating it. His hands shook with excitement as he squeezed paint on to the palette, but grew steady again when he dipped in his brush. Sometimes he worked cautiously, every stroke bringing his vision into reality. That had been his intention today, but as soon as the brush touched canvas, his joy was too great.
Like fevered sex after a long period of abstinence, Tim gave into instinct, letting passion dictate his every move. He started with greens, browns, and whites, thinking of the trees he’d been running past and the way light filtered through their leaves. Then he went for purple, just for the sheer hell of it, dragging it through this world of branches over and over again and creating segments, each separated by dark borders like stained glass. A forest of stained glass… stained wood. He liked that.
