The Widow’s Husband

by Sheila Evans

  “Oh, come on. How can you tell that?”

  “He’s on the make, trust me.”

  The fellow she indicates is about thirty-five, thin and fit, nicely tanned. He wears a pale blue long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs turned back to show well-shaped forearms. His jeans are tailored, dressy. He wears boots, not flashy and new like a dude’s, but well polished, expensive-looking. Draped on the back of his chair is a blue-gray tweed jacket. Jeans and tweed: my heart turns over—Emmett had worn such a combination, sexy, rakish.

  “On second thought,” says Amy, “he might be gay. Gay guys are the best dressers. If his jacket were leather, I’d know for sure.”

  “Amy, that’s stereotyping. Besides, it’s too hot for leather.”

  “Not if you’re gay. Those guys love leather. Stereotyping, yes. So what’s stereotyping? Just stating proven generalities in specific terms.”

  “I don’t agree. Stereotypes are generalities we want to be true because we’re lazy thinkers and can’t be bothered with the facts. But to say that guys who wear leather—”

  “Shh, Mom … here’s our lunch.”

  The waiter arrives balancing a tray with one hand, wielding a pepper mill two feet tall in the other. “Care for a grind?” He ogles the front of Amy’s shirt.

  We wave him off and begin to eat. I wonder if Amy and I had been on the verge of a quarrel, and would that have been good or bad? I think about Amy’s analysis of the diners, how she’d focused on the men, whereas I’d seen only the couples. To me, on first glance, the room is populated with contented pairs, men and women, mates, so happy being partnered, eating together—which seems almost an act of sexual congress after almost three solid months of eating and sleeping alone. Men and women holding hands, laughing, talking, absorbed in and with each other. Me, I’m the odd one, the sole single woman, this eccentric who will never again be paired up. But Amy is here, I have Amy with me, and Amy is single, too. However, for Amy to be single is acceptable, even preferable. The single state fits her well; it fits me poorly.

  I know I’m exaggerating, I am out of focus, out of whack, out of kilter; I am paranoid. But throughout lunch, the feeling persists: I am the only singleton on the face of the planet. The abyss yawns, it deepens; I am perilously close to toppling over when after lunch Amy murmurs, “Mom, I haven’t slept for a week,” and stumbles back to the cabin for a nap. So she leaves, and I find myself alone sitting outside on a bench in the sun, staring hungrily at happy couples, family groups.

  Just as Amy predicted, the rumpled man from the dining room is married, because his wife, hauling along a bratty kid, had joined him halfway though the meal. The family has now finished its lunch, is sitting on a nearby bench. The child, a girl about four, whines for ice cream, which the father forbids because she hadn’t eaten her food. But the permissive mother is ready to allow it. Just like we were, I think. I let Amy have her way, forcing Emmett to say no, no, no. Too many no’s on his part; too many yes’s on mine. How easy it is to see mistakes in the past, ten, twenty years beyond rectifying.

  The pit yawns deeper, nearer. I get up and head toward a trail into the woods. As I walk, I resolve, again, not to stagger through the rest of my life having every single thing remind me of Emmett, and what I now consider were my shortcomings as a wife. I take deep breaths, consciously pulling in pine-scented air, resolving not to think of complicated possibilities, dwindling prospects, my own tendency to fall off into down-heartedness. I take long strides, enjoying—in spite of myself—the soft duff of the trail under my feet, the border of ferns, the tall trees pressing in on either side of me. No, on a day like this, in a place like this, I’ll not fall into the abyss.

  Bridge Loop Trail is clearly marked, and promises to lead me to an overlook above the river in one point five miles. As if landscaped, the path is edged with trilliums, vines, ferns, nurse logs sprouting the next generation of forest. Beyond this richly textured undulating carpet is a hedge of shrubbery growing a crop of small purple berries. Then beyond that, dominating the forest, are the giants, the redwoods and other needle-bearers whose tops I cannot even see, their enormous trunks as big around as a telephone booth, as big around as Amy’s car, as our cabin. Muscular trunks of shredded bark on these monsters, hairy, as if made of animal hide.

  The green world breathes peace, a world of dappled sun; the warm and earthy smell of sawdust pulls me forward, farther into the woods. Such a palette of greens—pale yellowish green, emerald, aqua, green so deep it shades into purple. Here and there flowering shrubs with blooms like trumpets, like umbrellas, like stars, lilies. Most blossoms are miniatures, inconspicuous, giving way to leaves. Leaves as small as pennies, as big as plates. Leaves like feathers, hearts, swords, ruffled doilies, spread palms. And needles, some grouped into downward hanging bouquets, some arrowing into the sky; all sizes of needles. Enough needles to carpet this green world.

  The trail circles by a meadow that tilts down into a bog. Patches of growth here resemble vegetables—artichokes, cabbage, asparagus, ribs of celery, some as delicate as chives thrusting from the soil. The trail now squishes under my shoes. Then it turns upward, and the earth becomes firm and allows the trees to regain their footing.

  Other people are on the path. In some parts of the forest, sounds carry as clearly as in an amphitheater, so clearly, I hear every word of conversations around me, every comment, sally, joke, laugh. I overtake and pass several groups who’ve stopped to admire scenery, take pictures. A breeze soughs in the trees; invisible birds caw, whistle, sing. I catch a flash of blue, and from somewhere overhead a jay scolds. In other places, the silence is palpable.

  At last the promised bridge, a rustic structure designed to blend in with the environment. It stretches over a slow gurgle of river, now summer-drained to a mere creek that tumbles between rounded rocks. I lean on the railing, stare into transparent pools below, hoping to catch sight of … anything, really. What I see, instead, out of the corner of my eye, is a cranberry red shirt. The Silver Fox from lunch approaches on the trail, and will, in a moment, join me on the bridge.

  Flustered, I try to concentrate on the pools below. I am embarrassed, and chide myself for this uncalled-for response. After all, this man, Amy’s Silver Fox, has no way to know we’d discussed him. How absurd, how egotistical to think he’d even noticed me, me, in the dining room, how paranoid. He will walk across the bridge, he will pass me by and disappear into the forest. The path does continue into the woods beyond, although it’s called Bridge Loop Trail, and here I am, on the bridge.

  But he does not pass and disappear; he stops and leans on the railing next to me, and stares into the water below. “How was your lunch?” he says. “I saw you in the dining room with your friend.”

  I say quickly, “My daughter. She’s my daughter.”

  He looks at me, honestly (honestly?) surprised. “Daughter? By Jove!”

  “My lunch,” I say quickly, “well, over-priced. Quiche, I always forget there’re all those eggs, and three kinds of cheese. I ordered it out of curiosity, because my husband, he died two months ago, well, almost three months now, my husband had to watch his diet, he couldn’t eat such stuff. Cholesterol, you know.” I kick myself for babbling. Why am I telling him these things? I should have said, “Lunch was great.” Period.

  “Oh, heart attack. Sorry. The old ticker, it’s modern life, the stress level, the frantic pace of how we live. We don’t stop to smell the roses, spend enough time in places like this. You staying at the Inn?” He bestows on me the full effect of his eyes, which are a pretty blue. Nice with his sleek silver hair. He reminds me of some actor, James Brolin, yes, up close he’s movie star handsome. His brows and lashes are black, startling with his hair and eyes. I see dark hairs on his arms, fine dark down on the backs of his hands. Not at all like Emmett’s golden fuzz. I move away from him.

  “No, not at the Inn. We’ve got one of the cabins across the way.” I begin moving off.

  “There’s a nice little waterfall a li
ttle farther on—”

  “No, no, my daughter’s expecting me back.” I rush off precipitously, as if being pursued, although he does not follow me, and I am soon alone on the path.

  He must think I’m crazy, I scold myself. My cheeks burn with a sense of vulnerability, of ineptitude. To bring up Emmett’s death! To wrap myself in it, my bulletproof cloak! To say I was curious about quiche … would he think I’m curious about other things I’ve been doing without? Men do hear those things, they think along those lines. Yeah, he’d hear that as an invitation, a come-on. Had it been an invitation? No, I don’t think so. Besides, sex has nothing to do with me. Sex and Knott’s Berry Farm: all false fronts and slick advertising. Another Mexico.

  Then I’d compounded my miserable performance by running off as if he were Jack the Ripper, Freddy, and Jason all rolled into one, and this is a mews in London on Friday the 13th,, in low swirling fog. Then I think, Do I care about any of this? I’ll never see him again … and I’m surprised at the pain this gives me.

  However, back at the Inn’s sunny portico, I become diffused with a sense of victory. After all, I made myself walk the trail, I spoke to an attractive man, I offered to take a group photo for a bunch of people on the path, an offer they accepted. I joked with them about a “Kodak moment,” one of Amy’s lines. I’m functioning.

  Then too, I have to allow for it being late afternoon, a time of falling off, when the light goes. A time when I still find myself waiting for Emmett to come home and share his day, his spirit, his mere presence. If I were at home now, I’d fix tea to go with the news, providing the news isn’t too grim. If it’s all destruction of the environment, wars breaking out, overpopulation, and grinding poverty, I’d switch over to AMC and watch Doris Day protect her virtue from Rock Hudson; or David Niven and Deborah Kerr circle each other in their sexless English way; or sleepy-eyed Robert Mitchum seduce Jane Greer in a wild caper across Mexico. I’ll watch any movie from back when life, and the movie, was guaranteed to turn out okay. But here I am in this strange place, marooned without my safety net, a nice place, true … well, a very nice place. I square my shoulders, raise my eyes from the path, and tell myself I’m going to be fine. Just hunky-dory fine.

  In a spirit of celebration, and in defiance, I march into the Inn’s gift shop and buy a small tree-finder book. Then, remembering the whiny kid who’d bugged her folks for ice cream, I saunter up to the ice cream counter and order a double scoop, pistachio nut and peppermint, the two flavors in Mr. Purdy’s freezer. Nice Mr. Purdy, a good neighbor. And Frieda, too, who’d asked me to Bingo Night at her BPW meeting—although I didn’t go, hadn’t wanted to go, would rather go in for a root canal or an IRS audit than attend such an event. Still, it’s nice that she asked.

  Outside on the porch, I sit in what’s left of the sun and eat my ice cream. I think about Amy, my daughter, whom I love dearly. Poor dear Amy who is suffering in spite of her élan, her brave front—if that’s what it is. I no longer know. I do know that if there’s rejection, if anyone leaves, Amy prefers to do the rejecting, the leaving; she wants to deal out the punishment, and not suffer it—like all of us, I guess. Amy needs me right now, and I will do my best for her. I rotate my ice cream, licking drips from the sides of my waffle cone, and I realize that I am happy tonguing my pistachio nut into the peppermint. I am happy, right here, right now.

  Just then, Amy appears. She looks cross and sleepy. “Mom! You’re eating ice cream? You’ll ruin your dinner!”

  “No, it’s okay. Good ice cream, Amy. You want one?” When Amy shakes her head, I bite into the waffle cone, my favorite kind—the real reason I’d dropped a five-dollar bill on ice cream. The smell of baking waffles permeates the whole area, impossible to resist. “Even if I do ruin my dinner, it’s worth it.” But my defiant voice reminds of that bratty kid pleading for ice cream, and the parents who’d said no. Have Amy and I changed places? Have I become the spoilt child to Amy’s responsible adult? My mood collapses. Now feeling nettled, I say, “Don’t worry ’bout it, okay? I can eat what I want. And when.”

  “I know, Mom, I’m sorry. It’s just that the food’s great here. Family style. The antipasto—artichoke hearts, mushrooms, melon slices, pickled peppers, this yummy eggplant thing. I know you’re not crazy about eggplant—”

  “I like eggplant. It was your dad who didn’t like it.”

  “Whatever. You’re going to love the way they do it here. Then spaghetti, salad, garlic bread you can’t believe. I’m looking forward to it. I wanted you to, too.”

  “I am, I am. I’ll be ready.”

  But I’m not. There’s a stomach-churning amount of food offered. The small tables from lunch are pushed together into seating for eight, and each table groans with heaping platters of chicken, and spaghetti, and a tomato something or other under a coating of melted cheese, and wooden bowls of mixed salad, and baskets of bread. The very air, lit now by the candles in the horn chandeliers, is caloric, freighted with tomato, garlic, and onion. And with the scent that the woman next to me wears, a sweet and heavy scent, like Cody’s Emeraude.

  Amy and I share our table with this heavily perfumed dowager (that’s the only word for her), and her husband; and a husband and wife with their two teenage children. The eight of us work our way through the meal while playing a game assigned and explained by the dinner organizer. We are to tell four things about ourselves, only one of which is true. Table-mates are to guess the true from the false. Amy’s “true” item: she’d once been a model, which makes my mouth drop open while she kicks me under the table. But what difference does it make? If a lie helps her enjoy herself, let her tell it. After my own embarrassing turn in the spotlight is over—they guessed quickly that I work as a temp—I find the game benign enough, even enjoyable. The older man is a retired minister; his wife, the one with the perfume, does needlepoint. The youngish couple had worked at home with their computers, a dot.com enterprise that they’ve converted to a lawn-mowing business. Their son is a skateboard enthusiast; their daughter collects Barbie dolls.

  Seated at another table is the Silver Fox. His back is turned, but we see him talking with his companions. At yet another table is the good-looking guy who’d worn tweed with jeans at lunch. He’s talking to a pretty girl with dark hair.

  After the overload of food, the wine’s glow wears off, the meal flattens, then becomes interminable. The congenial hubbub of small talk, plink of silver, clatter of dishes seem to falter, then die, as if the air is being sucked out of the room. Finally, small silver dishes of a yellowish ice cream appear, with almond-flavored cookies.

  Sated, stuffed, struck dumb with food and drink, people begin yawning, gathering up possessions, leaving for their rooms. Amy becomes testy, just this side of rude. She rises, brushes crumbs from the red dress she changed into for dinner, and announces she needs a crème de menthe in the bar. At first I demur, but then I realize that Amy feels cheated, restless, annoyed at having wasted her presence, and her best outfit, on the likes of our table-mates—Amy is afraid of nothing happening.

  I follow her into the bar, a paneled den-like room with a fireplace. We pick out a pair of barstools, and order drinks. Amy studies her red-painted nails for a second, then murmurs that she has to go to the john. When our drinks arrive, it’s me who digs for the money, puts a couple of bills on the bar.

  “I see you don’t usually pay a bar tab,” says a voice at my shoulder.

  “What?” In spite of myself, I hope it’s the Silver Fox. But no, it’s just an ordinary guy, an anonymous fellow of an indeterminate age. He has a long thin face, red-veined nose, pale blue bloodshot eyes. He squints in such a way that I suspect he usually wears glasses. I imagine them on him, horn-rims, with clip-on shades, that flip up or down like sun visors. When he lowers his head, I see a bald spot as big as a saucer. What hair he does have is sparse and gray.

  “Anyone who’d order two crème de menthes and put out two one dollar bills doesn’t usually pay the bar bill.”

 
; “How much do these things cost?”

  “Let me buy your drink.”

  “No, really … how much are these things?” I look around for a price list. After all, the ice cream shop had one.

  “They don’t post prices,” he says.

  “So how are you supposed to know … you could wander in here and not have enough money to pay your bill.”

  He laughs, showing white even teeth but too much of his gums. “An upscale place like this, price is not supposed to be a factor.”

  “How cozy. I’ll remember that, for next time. You must think I’m out of it, don’t you.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s appealing, really.”

  “This upscale place,” I italicized the words, “you come here often?”

  He laughs again. “Hey, I’m supposed to say that. Matter of fact, I do.”

  “My daughter—”

  “If that’s her, she may not be back for awhile.” I glance in the direction he indicates, see Amy sitting in a booth with the tweed-and-jeans guy from lunch, the one who’d talked to the pretty dark-haired girl. “That’s the way they are, these kids. They leave you. Is this a family affair? Your old man here with you?”

  “No, I’m alone. Well, with my daughter. But I guess I’m … alone.”

  “Like I said, these kids leave you. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Oh, why not. You have children?”

  “Sure do. They’re grown and gone, like yours over there.” At that instant we hear Amy’s theatrical laugh, a cascading tinkle of appreciation, of gratitude, and I know this fellow has it right: Amy’s gone, at least for the evening. He holds out his hand. “Stan Ewing here.”