Anyone but Him

by Theresa Linden

  “I need you to remember me.” Fire smoldering in his deep brown eyes, he got up and stomped away, disappearing into the room off the front of the house. The door slammed shut. A second later, he opened it to keep an eye on me.

  He wouldn’t drop his guard.

  CHAPTER 7

  AN HOUR LATER, I finished my breakfast. Jarret had barely touched his. I scraped food into the garbage disposal, thinking of the hungry children in China and Africa. I thought of my brothers and sisters at home. We never threw anything out. Someone always wanted whatever someone else didn’t. Maybe I should’ve wrapped it and put it in the refrigerator, but Jarret probably didn’t eat leftovers. My nose wrinkled at the thought of eating something from his plate. With a sigh, I flipped the disposal on. Then I washed dishes and wiped the table to the sound of weights clanking and an occasional grunt from the room off the front of the house.

  Half an hour later, when he still hadn’t come out, I decided to explore. I did live here, right? It wasn’t like I was being nosy.

  Sunlight sneaked through the blinds on the front window in the living room, forming stripes on the leather chair and carpet. A mess of junk covered the coffee table: empty pop and water bottles, a plate, a TV remote, a pile of papers, and some of the folders I’d seen in the old box. Throw pillows were tangled up in a blanket on the couch.

  I folded the blanket and, as if by habit, brought it to my nose. The scent, a manly odor combined with musky cologne, stirred something inside me. It was pleasantly familiar. I took another sniff and placed the folded blanket on the back of the couch.

  The bookshelf had much to explore. Trinkets decorated each shelf: rocks, pillar candles, shells, and framed pictures. Between two candles and a grapefruit-sized amethyst geode, stood an eight-inch statue of Saint Catherine of Siena, my confirmation saint. The rocks probably came from Jarret’s collection. Roland had told me about it, how he even had rough rubies and an emerald. A hunk of pink quartz sat like a bookend against a set of blue books. Next to an old vase I found a vibrant bluish-green rock, and between the framed pictures, a shiny black rock, a clear rock, a gold one...

  I picked up one of the pictures and smiled. A young, teary-eyed girl held a bundled baby in her arms. As I set the picture back, I noticed two more pictures of girls holding babies. They looked like teenagers. Who were they?

  “Looking for a good read?”

  My insides jumped at the sound of Jarret’s voice. He stood in the doorway of the weight room, wiping his sweaty neck with a towel and watching me.

  “Just looking around,” I said, not sure why I felt guilty.

  “Yeah, good idea. Maybe you’ll remember something.” He crept toward me, like a man afraid to scare off a wild animal.

  “Do you remember your detective novels?” Coming up beside me, he pulled a book from the shelf and stared at it while he spoke. “Maybe the stories would all seem new.” He handed me the book, a G. K. Chesterton novel.

  I rubbed the smooth book cover. The Man Who Was Thursday. It looked new. “I read this in high school.”

  “Not that one.” He gave a weak smile, a flirty look in his eyes. “I gave you that one.”

  “Really?”

  “And these.” He pointed to a section of books, then withdrew one and handed it to me.

  I balanced it on the Chesterton and ran my hand along its glossy cover, a coffee-table book titled South Dakota Parks and Forests. While I did not remember it at all, it moved me. I loved to lose myself in photos of South Dakota landscapes. But not now. I returned it to the shelf.

  We did have a lot of books. A few familiar titles of mysteries and detective novels popped out at me. There was a section of Westerns, probably his. Archaeology and geology handbooks, also his. And a dozen coffee-table books. Mine?

  “Why don’t you read something you don’t remember? Or listen to music. Remember these old things?” Jarret slipped a CD from the top of a stack of CDs. “Here’s one you like.” The flirty look intensified as he pushed the CD into my hands.

  My face warmed. I stared at the CD, wishing he wouldn’t stand so close. Switchfoot?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed movement at the base of his neck, a rhythmic pulsing movement. For a moment, I could focus on nothing else. This really meant something to him. I meant something to him.

  He continued staring, then finally spoke. “I’d, ah, like to take a shower.”

  Relief flooded me. I took a deep breath and glanced at him. “Okay.”

  He made no move to go.

  “Go ahead.” I backed up and gestured toward the bedroom. “I won’t go anywhere.”

  “Uh, never mind. I’ve got some things I, uh, need to do first, I guess.” He slipped past me and went into the bedroom.

  Returning the CD to the stack, my gaze fell on a wallet-size photo that leaned against books: Jarret’s twin brother Keefe in the brown Franciscan habit. “Oh, that’s right...” I picked it up, remembering that after high school he’d pursued a vocation as a Franciscan Brother. That explained his absence from the wedding photos.

  Keefe and Jarret were so similar in appearance, yet so different in personality. It would’ve been strange, but I wouldn’t have minded waking up as Keefe’s wife. He was the considerate, gentle twin. Jarret had always tried to control him, making him do the dirty work of his schemes. Until Keefe broke free.

  The bedroom door swung open. Jarret came out in denim shorts and a red t-shirt. He returned to the weight room to do... whatever.

  With a sigh, I set the picture down and searched for a book to read. Hmm…maybe a Western.

  Sometime later, I woke on the couch, a Louis L’Amour book in my arms and the aroma of grilled hot dogs wafting in the air. My stomach grumbled. Where was Jarret?

  As I sat up, someone knocked on the front door. The book fell to the floor. The patio screen door slid open, and Jarret appeared in the living room.

  The knock came again. I scooted to the edge of the couch, intending to answer the door, when Jarret dashed for it.

  He shook his head. “Let me get it.”

  Jarret cracked the door open a foot or so and mumbled through the screen. Judging by the tilt of his head, he spoke to someone short.

  I slunk closer to listen.

  “No. She’s busy,” Jarret said. “What d’ya want?”

  Irritation shooting through me, I put my hands on my hips and glared. She’s not busy. She’s a prisoner stuck in a strange nightmare.

  “I noticed y’all didn’t leave for church today. Is Mrs. West sick?” said a young boy with a cute Southern drawl.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. What d’ya want?”

  “I’m selling candy bars to get money for Little League. Mrs. West always—”

  “We just went to the store. We don’t need any candy.”

  The boy didn’t respond, but he must not have gone away. Jarret sighed and leaned against the doorframe.

  “Can I ple-e-ease speak with Mrs. West?”

  “I already told you, she’s busy.” Jarret sounded heartless. Didn’t he like kids? How could I have married someone who didn’t like children? I wanted a houseful of them.

  “But she always buys candy from me.” His comment and disappointed tone pulled at my heart strings. “And I saved the peanut butter cups fo’ her. See? I only have one left, and I put it in my pocket so no one else’d see it.”

  “Mm. I’m sure she’d want that.”

  Unable to stand another second of this, I yanked the door open.

  “Hey!” Jarret’s hand shot out for the door.

  “Oh, come on. Won’t you let me talk to anybody? He’s a little boy, for goodness sake. What do you think he’s going to do?” I gave the boy with the candy box a smile and pushed open the screen door.

  An eight- or nine-year-old boy stood on the front porch. He wore cut-off jeans, a purple t-shirt, and tennis shoes with no socks, and his straw-like, sweaty hair stuck out from under a baseball cap worn backwards.

  “Hi,
what’s your name?” I said.

  “Hi, there, Mrs. West. I’m selling candy.”

  “That’s Bobby.” Jarret scowled.

  “Would you like to come in?” I said.

  “No, he doesn’t want to come in.” Jarret whipped out his wallet. “How much are your stupid candy bars?”

  “A dollah each. I saved this one fo’ you.” Bobby held up a pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

  “He kept it in his pocket,” Jarret mumbled. “Get something else.”

  “Oh, that’s my favorite.” I took the warm candy and selected two others.

  Jarret flipped three dollars into the candy box. “See ya, kid.” He reached for the handle of the screen door, but I pushed my shoulder against the frame.

  “Y’all having hot dogs?”

  “Yes—”

  “No.” Jarret drowned out my response.

  “What’s the matter with you, Jar—” I said.

  “I love hot dogs,” Bobby said, oblivious to our tension.

  “Would you like to join us for lunch?” I pushed the screen door open further.

  “He’s not allowed.” Jarret tried to pull the screen door closed, but I blocked it with my body.

  At the same time, Bobby said, “I sure would, Mrs. West,” and made a move to come in.

  Jarret cut him off. “Go ask your mother.”

  “Okay. Save a hot dog fo’ me.” Bobby hopped backwards, then he turned and bolted down the sidewalk, candy bars banging against the box.

  I smiled, watching him run. Then I frowned at Jarret. “Don’t you like kids?”

  Jarret squirmed. “Sure, I like kids.”

  “Well, you’re awfully rude to little Bobby.”

  He shook his head. “Bobby’s over here—” His eyes went wide and he dashed for the back patio. “...ten times a day on the weekends.”

  I followed. I grabbed the condiment tray and carried it outside, dodging as a horsefly zoomed past me and into the house. “So, what’s wrong with Bobby visiting us? He seems like a nice little boy. He even knows my favorite candy bar.”

  Smoke billowed from the grill. Armed with tongs, Jarret rescued hot dogs, tossing them onto a serving plate. “I don’t know. Bobby’s nosy, and he’s a big gossip.” A blackened hot dog rolled off the plate and onto the deck. Jarret snatched it with the tongs and with a pitcher’s move whipped it over the neighbor’s fence. He placed the last few uncooked hot dogs on the grill.

  I stared at the neighbor’s fence. “I can’t believe you threw a hot dog into the neighbor’s yard. Won’t they be mad?”

  He never answered, so I went back to work, setting up for the picnic.

  A bit of the weight I’d been carrying lifted at the thought of Bobby visiting. It would be a nice way to spend the afternoon and would give me something to do other than dwell on my present misery. Besides, my family always gathered with friends to relax and cook out or share a big home-cooked meal on Sundays after Mass.

  Sunday? Was it really Sunday? We’d missed Mass! Could I really have married a man who didn’t go to Mass on Sundays and holy days of obligation? “Jarret, don’t we go to Mass?”

  Jarret faced the grill and tapped hot dogs with the tongs. “Yeah, sure we go.”

  “Well, it’s Sunday and it’s getting late. When do we go? I mean the last Mass must be around noon, right?”

  Tongs in hand, he turned toward me. “We go at eleven-thirty. And, yeah, we missed it. Don’t worry about it.” He continued poking hot dogs.

  I plopped down in one of the chairs at the patio table, and my arm knocked the ketchup over. “Don’t worry about it?” What kind of man had I married? “I never miss Mass on Sunday.”

  Setting the tongs on the grill’s side table, he turned around again. One brow lifted and his expression turned cocky, as if I’d accused him of being a heathen. “Are you worried about committing a mortal sin? I made you miss Mass. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it. We’ll go next Sunday.”

  “You don’t care about committing a mortal sin?” I righted the ketchup and simultaneously knocked over the mustard.

  He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and exhaled. “It’s not a sin. You’re sick, and I’m taking care of you.”

  “I’m not sick.” I stood, flung my arms out, and glanced at my perfectly healthy body. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  He also looked over my perfectly healthy body, though at a slower pace. “If you were fine, you’d remember being my wife.”

  I slumped down in the chair.

  Ten minutes later, as I neatened the plastic forks and spoons, Bobby raced into the backyard, still carrying the candy box.

  “Hi there, Mrs. West, Mr. West.” He climbed onto the deck and flopped into the dining room chair that I had insisted Jarret carry outside since there were only two patio chairs. “I’m not allowed over till I sell all the candy.”

  Jarret gave a satisfied grin and gestured with the tongs. “Better get going then.”

  “Well, how many candy bars do you have left?” I said.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Jarret pointed the tongs at me and gave me a sharp stare.

  Bobby opened the box and started counting. “One, two, three, fo’...”

  “What?” I said to Jarret. “Think about what?”

  “I’m not buying all those.”

  “... nine, ten, ’leven...”

  “Why not? It’ll take hours if he has to sell them all. Besides, there’re only six houses on the street. Who’s going to buy them?”

  “Not us. There’re other streets. Don’t worry about him. He goes all over.”

  Bobby kept counting. “... eighteen, nineteen, twenty...”

  I glared at Jarret.

  “What?” He made a defensive shrug. “I’m not my father. You and me struggle to make ends meet. I can’t go spending twenty dollars every time Bobby has a fundraiser.”

  Yeah. He stood there in his designer denim shorts and red Armani t-shirt, saying he didn’t have the money. His father was ridiculously rich. They lived in a big castle-like house. Jarret must’ve had everything he wanted growing up, including a shiny red car as soon as he turned sixteen. I couldn’t see him ever struggling to make ends meet.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t bought myself clothes since college. Well, except for my shoes.” He looked down at his bare feet.

  “I’ve got twenty-three. I think Mrs. Bannista would buy some. Only Momma says she’s a diabetic and I shouldn’t go over there. What’s a diabetic? And maybe the Gregorich family... with all their kids, but they’re on Butternut Street and that’s pretty far. And Mr. West looks hungry. Will y’all save me a hot dog? At least one?”

  “You can have as many hot dogs as you want. Mr. West is going to buy all your candy bars, Bobby.”

  Bobby jumped up. “Really? Oh, wow, Mr. West. You hate buying candy.”

  Jarret groaned and brought out his wallet. “Here.” He flung a twenty at Bobby and it landed on the deck. “Sell the other three to somebody else.”

  “Thank you, sir, Mr. West.” Bobby retrieved the twenty and shoved it into his pocket. Then he handed the box to me. “Pick which ones y’all want. You can keep the box. I’ll put the last three in my pocket.”

  “Good idea.” Jarret rolled his eyes.

  I pulled out three chocolate covered raisins, thinking they would suffer the least from being stored in a pocket, and put the candy box in the kitchen. We could have candy for dessert.

  The chips, prunes, sardines, and sunglasses from yesterday’s shopping trip still sat on the countertop. The sardines had been tempting me all day, so I snatched them up on my way outside.

  Jarret had made a plate of food for Bobby and was making another plate. As I sat at the patio table, he stopped in the middle of scooping baked beans onto the plate. “Oh. I made hot dogs, and you’re gonna eat that?”

  “I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, I started to get up. “I’ll go—”

  “No. Sit down.” Resignation show
ed in his tone. “Eat what you want. Let’s say prayers.”

  I bowed my head, amazed that Jarret really prayed before meals. Did he start before or after we married?

  After the closing Sign of the Cross, I cracked open the sardines.

  “That looks gross, like fish bait,” Bobby said. “You really gonna eat that?”

  “Yes.”

  Bobby talked between bites and talked with his mouth full for the rest of the lunch. “Momma says Mrs. Cook’s daughter and all her grandchildren are coming to live with huh. I hope that’s true, ’cuz there ain’t no kids on this street, and I have to go all the way ovah to...

  “I heard Dad talking to Mr. Sweda about our street. Y’all know they’re gonna bring in construction trucks and bulldozers toward the end of summer? I can’t wait! Dad says they’re gonna make the street longah...

  “When I sold Mrs. Patterson some candy, she told me...”

  When we finished eating, I stacked dirty plates and utensils.

  Bobby leaned back in the chair, sipped his orange soda, and gazed at overhead branches. “Say, Mrs. West, I heard Momma and Mrs. Patterson talking. They were wondering when you’d be having a baby.”

  The ketchup and relish slipped from my hands, crashed to the deck, and the relish jar broke near my feet. I gasped and stared wide-eyed at the mess. A strange feeling overtook me. This had happened before. On some other day in the past, I’d stood in the kitchen, staring at a mess of salsa and applesauce. Frustration and misery had flooded my mind as I’d dropped down to clean it up. Then Jarret had come...

  “I’ll get it.” Jarret dashed into the kitchen. He’d said that before, but it wasn’t this house, this kitchen...

  “Momma says maybe y’all too busy with careers and don’t spend enough time trying.” Bobby kept babbling. “And Mrs. Patterson thought that was funny...”

  I picked up the bottle of ketchup, thankful that it was made of plastic, my mind still on the flashback.

  A second later, Jarret returned with a crinkly grocery bag and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll get it,” he said again. “Go sit down.”

  “Mrs. Patterson says that Mr. West—”

  “Bobby!” Jarret shot him a hot glare. “Mind your own business. You can’t go repeating everything you hear. Didn’t anybody tell you it’s not nice to be nosy?”