by Otto Penzler
She imagined Larry coming home, outside a different kitchen window, climbing out of his cruiser. She imagined her sons calling him Daddy, and the thought made her blush. The fantasy was almost blasphemous, but it made her tingle at the same time. Larry loved the boys, and they loved him; she sometimes stopped at the station house, and Larry would take them for a ride in his cruiser. His marriage to Emily might be different if they could have children of their own. Jenny wasn’t supposed to know—no one did—but Emily was infertile. They’d found out just before moving into the new house.
Wayne shut off the engine. The light was out over the garage, and Jenny couldn’t see him any longer; the image of the car was replaced by a curved piece of her own reflection in the window. She turned again to putting away the dishes. I think he’s bringing presents, she heard her mother say. Danny answered this with shouts, and Alex answered him with a yodel.
Jenny thought about Wayne coming in the front door, forgetting to stamp the snow from his boots. She was going to have to go up and kiss him, pretend she didn’t taste the cigarettes on his breath. He would sulk if she didn’t. This was what infuriated her most; she could explain and explain (later, when they put the kids to bed), but he wouldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He’d brought the kids presents—he’d probably bought her a present. He’d been moody lately (working long hours was what he’d told her), and—she knew—this was his apology for it. In his head he’d worked it all out; he would make a gesture that far outshone any grumpiness, any silence at the dinner table. He’d come through the door like Santa Claus. She could tell him, The only gift I wanted was a normal family dinner, and he’d look hurt, he’d look like she slapped him. But, he’d say, and the corners of his mouth would turn down, I was just trying to—and then he’d launch into the same story he’d be telling himself right now—
They had done this before, a number of times. Too many times. This was how the rest of the night was going to go. And the thought of it all playing out so predictably—
Jenny set a plate down on the counter. She blinked; her throat stung. The thought of him made her feel ill. Her husband was coming into his house on Christmas Eve, and she couldn’t bear it.
About a month ago she’d called in a trespasser while Wayne had the kids at a movie in Indy. This was risky, she knew, but she had gotten weepy like this, and she and Larry wouldn’t be able to see each other for weeks yet. She’d asked if the sheriff could come out to the house, and the sheriff came. He looked so happy when she opened the door to him, when he realized Wayne was gone. She took him upstairs, and they did it, and then afterward she said, Now you surprise me, and so he took her out in the cruiser, to a nearby stretch of road, empty for a mile ahead and behind, and he said, Hang on, and floored it. The cruiser seemed almost happy to oblige him. She had her hands on the dashboard, and the road—slightly hilly—lifted her up off the seat, dropped her down again, made her feel like a girl. You’re doing one-twenty, Larry said, calm as ever, in between her shrieks. Unfortunately, we’re out of road.
At the house she hugged him, kissed his chin. He’d already told her, in a way, but now she told him: I love you. He’d blushed to his ears.
She was going to leave Wayne.
Of course she’d thought about it; she’d been over the possibilities, idly, on and off for the last four years, and certainly since taking up with Larry. But now she knew; she’d crossed some point of balance. She’d been waiting for something to happen with Larry, but she would have to act even sooner. The planning would take a few months at most. She’d have to have a place lined up somewhere else. A job—maybe in Indy, but certainly out of Kinslow. And then she would tell Larry—she’d have to break it to him gently, but she would tell him, once and for all, that she was his for the taking, if he could manage it.
This was it: She didn’t love her husband—in fact she didn’t much like him—and was never going to feel anything for him again. It had to be done. Larry or no Larry, it had to be done.
Something out the window caught her eye. Wayne had the passenger door of the Impala open and was bent inside; she could see his back under the dome lamp. What was he doing? Maybe he’d spilled his ashtray. She went to the window and put her face close to the glass.
He backed out of the car and stood straight. He stood looking at her for a moment in front of the open car door. He wiped his nose with his gloved hand. Was he crying? She felt a flicker of guilt, as though somehow he’d heard her thoughts. But then he smiled and lifted a finger: Just a second.
She did a quick beckon with her hand—Get your ass in here—and made a face, eyeballs rolled toward the rest of the house. Now.
He shook his head, held the finger up again.
Jenny crossed her arms. She’d see Larry next week; Emily was going to Michigan. She could begin to tell him then.
Wayne bent into the car, then straightened up again. He grinned.
She held her hands out at her sides, palms up: What? I’m waiting.
1970
When Wayne had first told her he wanted to blindfold her, Jenny’s fear was that he was trying out some kind of sex game, some spice-up-your-love-life idea he’d gotten out of the advice column in Playboy. But he promised her otherwise and led her to the car. After fifteen minutes there, arms folded across her chest, and then the discovery that he was serious about guiding her, still blindfolded, through waist-high weeds and clinging spiderwebs, she began to wish sex was on his mind after all.
Wayne, she said, either tell me where we’re going or I’m taking this thing off.
It’s not far, honey, he said; she could tell from his voice he was grinning. Just bear with me. I’m watching your feet for you.
They were in a woods; that was easy enough to guess. She heard the leaves overhead, and birdcalls; she smelled the thick and cloying smells of the undergrowth. Twice she stumbled, and her hands scraped across tree trunks, furred vines, before Wayne tightened his grip on her arm. They were probably on a path; even blind she knew the going was too easy for them to be headed directly through the bushes. So they were in Wayne’s woods, the one his parents owned. Simple enough to figure out; he talked about this place constantly. He’d driven her past it a number of times, but to her it looked like any other stand of trees out in this part of the country: solid green in summertime and dull gray-brown in winter, so thick you couldn’t see light shining through from the other side.
I know where we are, she told him.
He gripped her hand and laughed. Maybe, he said, but you don’t know why.
He had her there. She snagged her skirt on a bush and was tugged briefly between its thorns and Wayne’s hand. The skirt ripped and gave. She cursed.
Sorry! Wayne said. Sorry, sorry—not much longer now.
Sunlight flickered over the top of the blindfold, and the sounds around her opened up. She was willing to bet they were in a clearing. A breeze blew past them, smelling of springtime: budding leaves and manure.
Okay, Wayne said. Are you ready?
I’m not sure, she said.
Do you love me?
Of course I love you, she said. She reached a hand out in front of her and found he was suddenly absent. Okay, she said, enough. Give me your hand or the blindfold’s off.
She heard odd sounds—was that metal? Glass?
All right, almost there, he said. Sit down.
On the ground?
No. Just sit.
She sat, his hands on her shoulders, and found, shockingly, a chair underneath her behind. A smooth metal folding chair.
Wayne then unknotted the blindfold. He whipped it away. Happy anniversary! he said.
Jenny squinted in the revealed light, but only for a moment. She opened her eyes wide and saw she was sitting, as she’d thought, in a meadow, maybe fifty yards across, surrounded on all sides by tall green trees, all of them rippling in the wind. In front of her was a card table covered with a red-and-white checked tablecloth. The table was set with dishes—their good ch
ina, the plates at least—and two wine glasses, all wedding presents they’d only used once, on her birthday. Wayne sat in a chair opposite her, grinning, eyebrows arched. The wind blew his hair straight up off his head.
A picnic, she said. Wayne, that’s lovely, thank you.
She reached her hand across the table and grasped his. He was exasperating sometimes, but no other man she’d met could reach this level of sweetness. He’d lugged all this stuff out into the middle of nowhere for her—that’s where he must have been all afternoon.
You’re welcome, he said. The red spots on his cheeks spread and deepened. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, then her wedding ring. He rubbed the places where he’d kissed with his thumb.
He said, I’m sorry that dinner won’t be as fancy as the plates, but I really couldn’t get anything but sandwiches out here.
That’s fine. She laughed. I’ve eaten your cooking, and we’re better off with sandwiches.
Ouch, he said. He faked a European accent: This kitten, she has the claws. But I have the milk that will tame her.
He bent and rummaged through a paper bag near his chair and produced a bottle of red with a flourish and a cocked eyebrow. She couldn’t help but laugh.
Not entirely chilled, he said, but good enough. He uncorked it and poured her a glass.
A toast.
To what?
To the first part of the surprise.
There’s more?
He smiled slyly, lifted his glass, then said, After dinner.
He’d won her over; she didn’t question it. Jenny lifted her glass, clinked rims with her husband’s, and sat back with her legs crossed at the knee. Wayne bent and dug in the bag again, and then came up with sliced wheat bread and cheese and a package of carved roast beef in deli paper. He made her a sandwich, even slicing up a fresh tomato. They ate in the pleasant breeze.
After dinner he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. When they’d first started dating, she thought he did it to be funny; but really, he did it after eating anything larger than a candy bar. She was willing to bet he’d been doing it since he was a toddler. It meant all was well in the land of Wayne. The gesture made her smile, and she looked away. Since they’d married he’d developed a small wedge of belly; she wondered—not unhappily, not here—if in twenty years he’d have a giant stomach to rub, like his father’s.
So I was right? she asked. This is your parents’ woods?
Nope, he said, smiling.
It’s not?
It was. They don’t own it anymore.
They sold it? When? To who?
Yesterday. He was grinning broadly, now. To me. To us.
She sat forward, then back. He glanced around at the trees, his hair tufting in a sudden gust of the wind.
You’re serious, she said. Her stomach tightened. This was a feeling she’d had a few times since their wedding—she was learning that the more complicated Wayne’s ideas were, the less likely they were to be good ones. A picnic in the woods? Fine. But this?
I’m serious, Wayne said. This is my favorite place in the world—second favorite, I mean. He winked at her, then went on: But either way. Both my favorite places are mine, now. Ours.
She touched a napkin to her lips. So, she said. How much did—did we pay for our woods?
A dollar. He laughed and said, Can you believe it? Dad wanted to give it to us, but I told him, No Pop, I want to buy it. We ended up compromising.
She could only stare at him. He squeezed her hand and said, We’re landowners now, honey. One square mile.
That’s—
Dad wanted to sell it off, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it going to somebody who was going to plow it all under.
We need to pay your parents more than a dollar, Wayne. That’s absurd.
That’s what I told them. But Dad said no, we needed the money more. But honey—there’s something else. That’s only part of the surprise.
Jenny twined her fingers together in front of her mouth. A suspicion had formed, and she hoped he wasn’t about to do what she guessed. Wayne was digging beside his chair again. He came up with a long roll of paper, blueprint paper, held with a rubber band. He put it on the table between them.
Our paper anniversary, he said.
What is this?
Go ahead. Look at it.
Jenny knew what the plans would show. She rolled the rubber band off the blueprints, her mouth dry. Wayne stood, his hands quick and eager, and spread the prints flat on the tabletop. They were upside down; she went around the table and stood next to him. He put a hand on the small of her back.
The blueprints were for a house. A simple two-story house—the ugliest thing she had ever seen.
I didn’t want to tell you too soon, he said, but I got a raise at the bank. Plus, now that I’ve been there three years, I get a terrific deal on home loans. I got approval three days ago.
A house, she said.
They were living in an apartment in Kinslow, nice enough but bland, sharing a wall with an old woman who complained if they spoke above a whisper or if they played rock ’n’ roll records. Jenny put a hand to her hair. Wayne, she said, where is this house going to be?
Here, he said and grinned again. He held his arms out. Right here. The table is on the exact spot. The contractors start digging on Monday. The timing’s perfect. It’ll be done by the end of summer.
Here . . . in the woods.
Yep.
He laughed, watching her face, and said, We’re only three miles from town. The interstate’s just on the other side of the field to the south. The county road is paved. All we have to do is have them expand the path in and we’ll have a driveway. It’ll be our hideaway. Honey?
She sat down in the chair he’d been sitting in. She could barely speak. They had talked about buying a house soon—but one in town. They’d also talked about moving to Indianapolis, about leaving Kinslow—maybe not right away, but within five years.
Wayne, she said. Doesn’t this all feel kind of . . . permanent?
Well, he said, it’s a house. It’s supposed to.
We just talked last month. You wanted to get a job in the city. I want to live in the city. A five-year plan, remember?
Yeah. I do.
He knelt next to her chair and put his arm across her shoulders.
But I’ve been thinking, he said. The bank is nice, really nice, and the money just got better, and then Dad was talking about getting rid of the land, and I couldn’t bear to hear it, and—
And so you went ahead and did it without asking me.
Um, Wayne said, it seemed like such a great deal that—
Okay, she told him. Okay. It is a great deal. If it was just buying the woods, that would be wonderful. But the house is different. What it means is that you’re building your dream house right in the spot I want to move away from. I hate to break it to you, but that means it’s not quite my dream house.
Wayne removed his hand from her shoulders and clasped his fingers in front of his mouth. She knew that gesture, too.
Wayne—
I really thought this would make you happy, he said.
A house does make me happy. But one in Kinslow. One we can sell later and not feel bad about when we move—
She wasn’t sure what happened next. Wayne told her it was an accident, that he stood up too fast and hit his shoulder on the table. And it looked that way, sometimes, when she thought back on it. But when it happened she was sure he flung his arm out, that he knocked the table aside, that he did it on purpose. The wineglasses and china plates flew out and disappeared into the clumps of yellow grass; she heard a crash. The blueprints caught in a tangle with the tablecloth and the other folding chair.
Goddammit! Wayne shouted. He walked a quick circle, holding his hand close to his chest.
Jenny was too stunned to move, but after a minute she said Wayne’s name.
He shook his head and kept walking the circle. Jenny saw he was crying, and wh
en he saw her looking, he turned his face away. She sat still in her chair, not certain what to say or do. Finally she knelt and tried to assemble the pieces of the broken dishes.
After a minute he said, I think I’m bleeding.
She stood and walked to him and saw that he was. He’d torn a gash in his hand on the meaty outside of his palm. A big one—it would need stitches. His shirt was soaked with blood where he’d cradled his hand.
Come on, she said. We need to get you to the hospital.
No, he said. His voice was low and miserable.
Wayne, don’t be silly. This isn’t a time to sulk. You’re hurt.
No. Hear me out. Okay? You always say what you want, and you make me sound stupid for saying what I want. This time I just want to say it.
She grabbed some napkins and pressed them against his hand. Jesus, Wayne, she said, seeing blood well up from the cut, across her fingers. Okay, okay, say what you need to.
This is my favorite place, he said. I’ve loved it since I was a kid. I used to come out here with Larry. He and I used to imagine we had a house out here. A hideaway.
Well—
Be quiet. I’m not done yet. His lip quivered, and he said, I know we talked, I know you want to go to Indy. Well, we can. But it looks like we’re going to be successful. It looks like I’m going to do well, and you can get a job teaching anywhere. I’ll just work hard, and in five years maybe we can have two houses—
Oh, Wayne—
Listen! We can have a house in Indy and then this—this can be our getaway. He sniffled and said, But I want to keep it. Besides you, this is the only thing I want. This house, right out here.
We can talk about it later. You’re going to bleed to death if we don’t get you to the emergency room.
I wanted you to love it, he said. I wanted you to love it because I love it. Is that too much to ask from your wife? I wanted to give you something special. I—
