Snowbound

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Devlin is already rubbing her eyes. It’s nine o’clock, late for a six-year-old. She stands on her tiptoes and hangs the last ornament on the tree—a clear glass cactus. Her parents are sitting on the couch, sipping hot toddies—Arizona-style: fresh-squeezed orange juice, hot water, Grand Marnier, honey, dash of cayenne.

It’s a warm December night. Devlin climbs onto the sofa between Rachael and Will.

“Everybody up for It’s a Wonderful Life?” he asks.

“I’ll probably fall asleep before Harry falls through the ice, but sure,” Rachael says. Will walks over to the television set, finds the video in Devlin’s movie cabinet, pops it into the VCR. He brings the remote back with him. “Will, I’m cold,” Rachael says. “Would you get my sweatshirt?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about touching that hideous thing.”

She grins. “Back off my alma mater.” Will had gone to law school at Carolina while Rachael was finishing her undergrad work at Duke. The schools were only seven miles apart as the crow flies, but a more malicious rivalry you could not find in all of collegiate America. The sweatshirt was a badly faded navy blue, the letters—D-U-K-E—having long since peeled away, leaving only a less faded palimpsest of the word.

Will retrieves it from the sweater chest in their bedroom, brings it back into the den.

“Thanks, honey.” He sits down with his family, presses PLAY. His dark-haired girls snuggle up on either side of him, and whether it’s the holiday or this movie that always makes him cry, Will is briefly overcome, keenly aware of what he has. There is only the small white lights of the Christmas tree, the glow of the FBI warning on the television screen. And for a moment, before the movie begins, the house is so quiet, they can hear the wind blowing out on the desert.