“Yes, Vern, I am packing it now.” I had already taken out the prepared containers and began neatly arranging the cooled soup, meatloaf, salad, and cornbread.
Vernon sat at the table, heavily poured himself tea, added three spoons of sugar, and stayed silent. He stared at his phone screen, typing something quickly, never once looking at his wife.
I stole a glance at him, at the profile I knew down to the smallest detail. When had this begun? This alienation, this wall of ice? Before, in the early years, he would return from trips tired but happy. Now, there was only silence. Only irritation in every movement, as if I were not a wife, but a tiresome servant he couldn’t fire.
“Clean the snow this evening once it gets dark,” Vernon threw out, not looking up from his phone. “The driveway is completely buried. It might drift even more tomorrow.”
“Vernon, it is already almost dark. The blizzard is bad,” I started, but cut myself off when I saw him raise a cold gaze to me.
“I said this evening,” he cut in sharply. “You are not a child. You can handle it in half an hour. I did not have time. The haul starts early tomorrow morning. The cargo is important.”
I pressed my lips together, continuing to silently pack the containers. The old woman’s words echoed in my mind. When your husband leaves for the night, do not touch the snow.
“When exactly are you leaving?” I asked quietly.
“In about an hour. The load is already packed and sealed. The paperwork is all ready and signed.”
He stood up heavily. “I’m going to take a shower, grab my things, and head out.”
He went upstairs. I remained in the kitchen alone. Outside the window, the wind howled, and snow fell ceaselessly in large flakes. I walked to the window and looked out. The yard was drowning in white. The path to the gate was indeed almost completely buried.
