by Stephanie Stephan
Originally published in Patchwork Lit Mag, issue 4 – 2022
After a meal of honied ham, mashed turnip, and limp green beans, the conversation circled back around to where it began: How would they solve the garbage can issue?
Aunt South was in favor of an anonymous letter.
Uncle East was in favor of setting a trap.
And Sylvie, had not been asked.
“It’s just ridiculous. It happens maybe—I don’t know—two or three times a week,” said Uncle North.
“And he never says anything?” asked Aunt South.
“No. Just knocks them over and drives off. I’ve watched him do it. I haven’t said anything yet, but I’m getting down to my last nerve.”
“Well if you want to know what I think,” began Aunt West as she set the dessert tray on the table, “I think you should run over his cans someday. See how he likes it. That’ll teach ‘em.”
A tall blue candle burned in a sconce on the wall. Sylvie’s eyes reached for it, like balloons caught on a power line. Its warm orange flame bobbed behind the glass shade. Protected.
Several years ago, Sylvie and her cousins graduated from the kids’ table to the long glossy table in the dining room. In all that time, it had never occurred to anyone to offer Sylvie or her cousins coffee with dessert. Sylvie slipped into the kitchen to pour herself a cup. The conversation was still churning when she returned, though the problem had swelled. They no longer spoke of it as Uncle North’s issue but as a collective trial.
“Why don’t we post a complaint in the neighborhood newsletter? It doesn’t have to be directed at him. It would be a good reminder for everyone. We can do it anonymously,” said Aunt South.
A nod went around the table.
The dessert tray was heaped with cookies. Pink and green leaves sandwiched together with chocolate, crunchy lace, layered petit fours—pink, yellow, and green—pale sugared cookies punctuated with a glacé cherry. Sylvie knew not to be fooled by them. They all tasted the same. No amount of chocolate could drown out the flavor of almond and anise. She carefully selected a pink leaf and crammed it into her mouth. It turned to sand. Her eyes returned to the candle and she allowed her mind to go fuzzy and wander.
Uncle East reclined, smirking, arms crossed. “You know, if we really want to get him, we should fill your garbage can with rocks. He’ll get a hell of a surprise the next time he throws it in reverse!”
“That’ll teach ‘em!” said Aunt West.
“No! Don’t do that! Just post in the newsletter,” said Aunt South.
Aunt West rolled her eyes.
And on it went. Should they? Or should they not? And if they didn’t, they wouldn’t…but they might if they did. But then—in that case—what they ought to do might not be what they didn’t do, but what they did. Of course, not everyone would do that…
Outside, the street was dark. The streetlamp in front of Uncle North’s house had gone out along with several others, but a few orange lights could be seen in the distance. The inside of Sylvie’s coffee cup was just as dark. She pulled the dish of powdered creamer toward her and dumped a spoonful into her mug. It sat on the surface, a white mountain. Then the edges eroded, all of it swallowed beneath the surface. It did nothing to lighten the liquid.
Last year, Sylvie arrived at the family gathering, pockets stuffed with courage. During dinner she made her move. She crammed herself into the first sliver of silence available. Work, she announced, was going great. She was very happy at the company. Better still, her boss had been impressed by her artwork. Sylvie was going to be promoted—that meant more creative freedom, more responsibility, a significant raise. It was so exciting. Wasn’t it exciting?
A few people stirred, emerging from the fog. Yes, that was exciting.
“When I first started out,” Aunt South said, “I worked—pardon my language—I worked my ass off. Sure, people took notice. But that’s just what you did. I had this coworker—Beth—a real piece of work—do you know what she did?…”
Sylvie scolded herself for not trying after that. She should have tried. But somehow, nothing seemed important enough to say.
A heavy drop of blue wax slid down the candle.
Sylvie dropped another spoonful of powder into her drink. It bloomed, and faded into the black. She pressed her palms to the mug until they burned. She took a sip. Grimaced. Uncle North never cleaned the coffee pot, so each cup held the bitter remains of the previous year.
Across the table, her cousins were trying to adapt. They followed the conversation. Nodded when appropriate. Her eldest cousin sat up straight. He leaned in, opened his mouth. He hesitated for the right moment, and when it appeared, he began to interject what he would do about the garbage can issue. Immediately though, he was cut off by Uncle East, who had fresh ideas of his own.
“That’ll teach ‘em!” said Aunt West.
Sylvie took two spoonfuls this time, dropped them side by side and watched them erode, but the coffee did not change. She shivered, goose flesh prickled her arms beneath her sweater. She drew her cup closer and soaked up its heat. Perhaps it was time for her to adapt too. What would she do about the garbage can issue? Was it worth preparing an opinion? She glanced around the table. Something by Uncle North’s head glinted and disappeared. Then again. Several somethings. Tiny white specks.
Sylvie stared.
Some gathered on his mustache, clung to it as he spoke. The others hit the table and melted. Slowly, Sylvie took another scoop of creamer and dumped it into her coffee. More flurries appeared. She stirred her coffee clockwise and watched the snow follow the same swirling path around Uncle North’s head. A few flakes found their way to Aunt South’s eyelashes, frosting them white.
“Just call the police. They’ll take care of it,” said Aunt South, “Show him you mean business.”
“Well I guess I could, couldn’t I?” said Uncle North.
Sylvie smiled.
She blew a ribbon of steam from the surface of the cup, and the air grew colder. She rubbed her arms.
“Can we turn up the heat?” Sylvie asked.
The question floated away, unanswered, and Sylvie did not hesitate. She added another scoop.
The new snowflakes were larger. They didn’t melt when they hit table. Sylvie stuck her tongue out and caught one, tasted the cold, clear, blue of it. She stirred a burst of flakes toward her cousins, sugared the rims of their milk glasses, made fluffy piles on the hunched shoulders of her eldest cousin. She blew on the surface again, adding more power to her spoon, and guided the flakes back towards Aunt South. They formed a small drift by Aunt South’s hand, and every time she fiddled with the cookie on her plate she plowed a little path.
Sylvie flicked a few at Uncle East, tickling his nose.
“Well if you want to know what I think—” Uncle East said, finishing the thought with a sneeze.
Sylvie laughed, and Aunt South shot her a disapproving look.
Uncle North, who had been quiet for quite some time, pondered all of these suggestions. At last he came to a conclusion.
“I won’t say anything just yet,” he said, “but if he does it one more time, then I’ll take action.”
A nod went around the table.
“But when you do,” said Aunt South, “I really think you should consider the newsletter.”
Sylvie snorted.
Aunt South frowned, but did not make eye contact with Sylvie. “And if anyone has anything to add,” she said, “I would think they could do so without being rude.”
Sylvie thought of all the things she’d said over the years, and wondered if any of them had stuck. She thought of the cookies, always the same. The coffee, always trying and failing to catch up to the flavor of a fresh brew. She thought of her promotion—impressive, but no longer the shiny new thing it once was—and she found, for once, that there wasn’t a single thing she longed to say. Sylvie picked up the dish of powder and upended what was left of it into her mug.
“That’ll teach ‘em!” said Aunt West.
A gale thundered into the room, and with it, more snow. The candle on the wall shuddered. The furniture groaned. Sylvie could no longer hear anyone, but she could see the words leaving their mouths as thick plumes of condensation. Snow covered the table in a sheet. Fat icicles dripped from Uncle North’s nostrils, from the thermostat. The cookies were buried like summer flowers. The light from the chandelier dimmed, lightbulbs smothered with snow. Its metal arms struggled to hold the extra weight.
Sylvie squinted through the blizzard. She could not see her cousins anymore, only human shaped piles of white. She put her spoon in her cup and tried to stir the snow away, but it did not follow her. She lowered her lips to the surface and tried blowing the gale away, but it would not leave.
“Uncle North” She called.
“Well if you want to know what I would do—”
“Aunt South!”
The gale put a hand over her mouth.
The snow continued to pile, falling through the table, fingering the bare skin of her ankles, claiming sanctuary in her socks. There was a dry ring around her mug where the heat had worn the snow away. She picked it up—stiff hands, rosy knuckles—but found the porcelain veined with hoar-frost. A thin sheet of ice coated its dead surface. There was no warmth left.
Sylvie threw the coffee to the floor, brown splashed white, but the storm didn’t stop.
The gale bullied the candle on the wall, shoved the flame in one direction, then another. But the fire held fast to the wick. The glass shade filled with snow.
Sylvie got to her feet. She wrapped her arms around her chest, waded through the drifts towards the candle, one crunching step at a time. The Gale turned on her, raked its nails over her cheeks, grabbed her by the ears. Sylvie threw her arms out, shoved back, and kept moving. When she reached the sconce, she removed the glass shade, and grabbed the candle. A drop of waxy gratitude fell onto her hand. Sylvie cupped her hand around the shrinking flame and bounded out the front door.
Outside the world was quiet and dark. She stumbled through the maze of cars in the driveway and stopped when she reached the end. Her uncle’s garbage can lay on its side, its guts strewn across the sidewalk, the smell of old pizza, onion skins, and raw chicken juice muted by falling snow. The streetlamp in front of her was dark. She was quite alone.
“I should feel bad,” she said. “I should feel bad.”
But no matter how many times she said it, her feet did not move.
The flame offered no more than a drop of heat, she drank it through her fingers. Then, it went out.
For a moment all was dark.
Then the streetlamp lit up, and she saw them in the wedge of orange light. Millions of snowflakes. And beyond them, a million more. They flicked in and out of sight. Illuminated for a moment, then gone, lost forever to the heap. Sylvie watched them for a long time. To her surprise, she felt enormous.
