by james patrick kelly


    The man in the ice is wearing a blue three-piece suit. He is facing up at you
and the bright sky and his eyes are open. What does he see? Nothing. He's dead,
no? You look around the lake. None of the other skaters seem to realize that
there's a man frozen in the ice on Christmas Day. Someone could do a sit spin
right on his nose, a triple lutz from his head to his black, tasseled loafers.
Except nobody on the lake is that good a skater. Certainly not you.
    The ice is singing today. It whoops under strong light and moans when the
sun goes behind a cloud. Something to do with expansion and contraction. Beth
called the sounds whale songs. You think they'd have to be whales the size of
skyscrapers. Sometimes the ice cracks under your weight with a sound like a
gunshot, but don't worry about falling through. It's thick here, thick as a man.
     So what to do about your man in the ice? You are already thinking of him as
yours. No one is going to find him, way over here in Brainard's Cove. The
Brainards are summer people. They're in Lauderdale, waiting for the early-bird
dinner special at the Olive Garden. Is the Olive Garden open on Christmas?
You could dial 911, but it's a little late for CPR. His skin looks gray against the
white button-down shirt. One of those Escher ties, green geometric birds turning
into blue fish, tucks into the vest. Now that you're branch manager, you wouldn't
mind having a three-piece suit.
     Then why didn't you tell Beth? She buys all your clothes.
     The man in the ice isn't going anywhere and you're cold. It takes you 20
minutes to skate home.
     The house is full of Beth's absence. You should have bought a tree anyway.
Strung the damn lights. It wasn't as if you couldn't find the ornaments. They're in
the attic, behind the golf clubs. Next to the unopened presents you piled there. If
she were here, there would be sugar cookies and a turkey and the ghost of Bing
Crosby would be on the couch, drinking her eggnog.
     You try to imagine how a man could get caught in the ice like that. If he
were dead, he'd sink to the bottom. And even if he were floating, wouldn't he be
face down? When you were a kid, summering on the lake, you perfected the
dead-man's float. You actually got your grandma to scream once. Maybe your
man lies down on the ice. He's tired after a long day of selling single-premium
deferred annuities or designing large-span roof trusses or calculating the useful
lives of general fixed assets. His body is warm; he melts into the ice. Then it
closes over him.
     Maybe it's a miracle. A Christmas miracle. Yeah, right.
     Or maybe you're fucking crazy.
     The walls of your home office are the color of walnut shells. That was
Beth's favorite joke. "I see you're in a brown study," she would say. You can
picture her in the doorway, hip cocked against the jamb. How many times did
you kiss her there? The moose framed on the wall was never amused by her
joke. Neither was the otter or the winged blur you're sure is a bald eagle. Beth
gave you a digital camera for your 34th birthday. You need to repaint your
office soon. This spring, when the weather warms up. You sit at the computer
and type ice into Google. You read about black ice and snow ice and water ice
and large-grain ice and small-grain ice and cobblestone ice. There is nothing
about businessman ice.
     One of the Web pages is put up by an ice-boating fan named Steph. She
graduated two years ago from the University of Montana and is working as a
librarian in Kalispell. She collects erasers and stamps. You stare at pictures of
her wedding and her honeymoon. There she is standing next to her ice boat.
She's wearing a tight, red jumpsuit and a black and he looks very happy. Steve
and Steph. You want to send an e-mail to warn her.
     About what?
     Your bed feels very big that night, almost as big as the lake. You are lost in
it and Beth's side is freezing.
     The next morning you congratulate yourself for waking up. You have
survived the first Christmas. You walk outside to get the Globe. The paper is
heavy with ads. Take those presents back, you cheerful fucks, and buy
something new! But there is no news. Nothing ever happens on Christmas. For
example, businessmen don't get frozen in ice. Back in the house, you hover in
the kitchen. You've been hovering a lot lately—you forget what you're doing.
Breakfast, that's it. You wake up, get the paper, have breakfast. You shake
Raisin Bran into a bowl and scan the sports page. Then you notice that you are
pouring orange juice over the cereal. The phone rings.
     "Hello."
     You hear the whisper of static, but no reply.
     You say it again. "Hello."
     The phone clicks and a telemarketer says, "I would like to speak to Beth
Anstruther."
     "She's not interested." You hang up and put on your skates.
     Your man is still there, but he has moved. Yesterday both arms were at his
sides. Now he has raised his right hand as if he's waiting to be called on. He
has something important to say, something that can't wait until ice out. Or else
he's waving goodbye. You get down on your hands and knees. He's about your
size but he's older, balder, deader. The ice here is glossy and strangely
transparent. Like a lens magnifying the bottom of the lake. You see boulders and
rocks and mud. Dark oak leaves, a pale Budweiser can, the glitter of gold. The
ring must have slipped off the man's finger.
     His blue suit has thin chalk stripes. The Escher tie has come out of the vest.
Green birds turning into blue fish. His eyes are the same—fixed, frozen. The
fingers of his upraised hand are curled.
     "What?"
     The sound of your own voice scares you. You shouldn't be talking to dead
people. What if they talk back?
     You spend the rest of the morning in your living room, staring at the lake.
The lake is singing again today, but by noon only moans echo off the hill behind
your house. The sky has turned to granite. Last night Weather.com was
predicting four to six inches of snow. You convince yourself that you will stop
worrying about your man in the ice once the storm buries him.
     The doorbell rings and you bolt off the sofa, nerves twitching. Rachel, the
mail lady, is at the front door. She's holding a magazine wrapped around a thick
stack of letters and a long, thin box wrapped in brown paper.
     "Package for you," she says. "Probably a late Christmas present. Didn't fit in
the mailbox."
     You take it all from her but you can't find your voice. In the silence, you
notice that Rachel has had her nose pierced since you last saw her. There's a
drop of gold just above her left nostril. She's 32 and divorced and the boys at
the town dump love to gossip about her.
     "Looks like we're in for some weather," she says, and then she really sees
you. A shadow passes over her face. "You OK, Mr. A?"
     "The flu," you say. "Don't let me breathe on you."
     As soon as she is gone, you run to the bathroom to look at yourself. Not
good. Your eyes are like wounds. And you haven't shaved in three days. Has it
been three days already? Oh, they'd be talking about you in town, all right. First
at the Post Office, then at Lil's Grille.
     You throw Time away. You don't care who the "Man of the Year" is.
Besides, that's her magazine. Most of the letters are junk. There are bills from
Sprint and DIRECTV and three straggling Christmas cards. One of them is from
Beth's sister Margaret. It is addressed to The Anstmtber Family.
     "What family?" you say. You open the card and read,
     In this holiday season
     May your home and loved ones
     Be blessed with peace and harmony
     Underneath it she has written, "Hope you're OK, Margaret." A cramped
little greeting from the human fucking cramp.
     You open the package last. It's a present from your mom. You're surprised
she didn't call yesterday. She's probably waiting for you to call her. Like that
might ever happen. You haven't told her yet. You haven't told anyone. How can
you?
     As soon as you get the wrapping paper off, you know it's a tie. The box is
white and has a nubbly finish. You pry the top off.
     Your mother has sent you one of those Escher ties, green geometric birds
turning into blue fish. You feel as if someone is pressing thumbs into your eyes
because you know now, you know.
     You fling yourself at the stairs. You yank down the trap door to the attic and
scramble up. You pull the chain on the bare light-bulb so hard that it breaks.
You see the present almost immediately. It's the right shape. The weight tells
you everything. Red wrapping paper with snowmen in top hats. Rip, rip it. It's
cold up here. You can see your breath. Your finger feels swollen as you slip it
between the top and bottom of the box. You tear open your Christmas present
from Beth.
     It's blue, of course, with chalk stripes. Jacket, trousers, vest. Outside, the
ice is singing. To you.