“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Yes,” she says, “you said that.” She waves, hand down by her hip. “I’ll see you later, then, Donny.”
“Sooner,” he says, and she is gone. Her car door slams and an engine starts. Someone in the lot hoots and calls, “Where you runnin’ off to, mama?”
Donny raises his glass, drinks, and slams it on the table. “That was Judy.”
“I guess it was.”
“You know Judy?”
“Donny, you just introduced us.” I take a drink and the bourbon is smooth, now, not at all like when I first started drinking it, that first time, when it tore at my throat and burned my chest. A few more swallows and the glass is empty and Donny fills it up again. I push it away and try to steady my head.
“Ain’t she somethin’? Ain’t she beautiful?”
“Beautiful.”
“Emily, she—Judy and me, we’re—we’re artists, the two of us. One mind between us. Our connection, it’s spiritual, and no one can understand.”
“Beautiful, yes, you’re both very deep,” I say, and, “Do you miss Emily?”
“Naw,” he says. “Naw, I don’t want to talk about Emily. Judy—she, well, I ain’t nothin’ next to her. Brilliant. Genius! You ought to see what she does. Painted a landscape like a dream, like the dream that ain’t over. Like the song.”
I don’t know what song he means, and I don’t care. “Landscapes already exist.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Judy, she takes somethin’ like that and makes it new, is what I’m sayin’.”
“What was she saying about her sister?”
“The story’s none of your business, but she’s stayin’ for a while, and when she’s gone I get the room. Me and Judy’ll be roommates.—Just roommates, you know. Nothin’ like—now, what’s that face? I’m a married man.” He smiles. “Naw, but yeah. Just two friends, two artists. We bounce ideas.”
“That’s good.”
“You should come, too. I’ll ask. You can live there, too.”
“No, thanks.”
“Naw?”
“I already live somewhere.”
He flips his hand. “Whatever you want. But you should see her art. Beautiful, like her. You want to know an angel? Judy. The truest angel there ever was. Real smart, that one. Real talented. A natural talent.”
“Mm.”
“Sun’s goin’ down,” he says.
“I think you love her.”
“What’s that?”
“Judy. I think you love her. But make sure you only get married ‘cause of love. No other reason. Not war, not a—not anything.”
“What? I got a wife. You talkin’ ‘bout Judy? Course I love her! Not like that, now. I love—she’s—I love her spirit, is what. She’s somethin’ else. An angel. Kind of like how I love you.”
“Right.”
“I do.”
“Donny, just—I wasn’t trying to get you to…just stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop saying you love me.”
“Hey, now. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“I can’t say I love you, now? All the sudden?”
“Say whatever you want. I’m just sitting here.”
“Don’t just sit there, then. Drink up.”
“Can’t.”
“Hell. Wish she’d stayed, then. Look at you, ready to pass out.”
“I want to go home,” I say.
“What for?”
“I want to go home.”
“Now, don’t—it’s all right. It’ll be all right. I’ll get you some water. You just need a breather from it. I know. You listen to me, do what I’m tellin’ you, all right? Donny’s here.”
I close my eyes and hear stumbling and banging, and when I open them the water is in front of me and Donny watches me from across the table.
“Okay?” he says.
The water’s coldness makes my throat ache.
“Will you call Lionel for me?” I say.
“What d’you want me to call him for? You’re all right. You’re okay. You just sit there and wait. Listen to Donny.”
________
Something bangs, scrapes, and I open my eyes and the room is dark, the door closed. Outdoor lamplight bleeds through the window and makes a dim square on the wall, and a broken nylon thread from the bed’s polyester comforter scrapes my drool-wet cheek. Too tired to shift, to care, and a dark figure moves toward me, then passes by, and I close my eyes.
Later—minutes or hours or days—fingers in my hair and against my scalp, soft, gentle, stroking, down to my shoulder, my arm. “Everything’s goin’ to be all right,” he murmurs. “Doctor Donaldson says so,” and then he is snoring, his hand lying limp on my waist. I pull his arm around me and press my back into his chest and sleep.
MAY 7, WEDNESDAY
Bass pounds out in the lot, vibrating the bathroom walls. I finish being sick, flush the toilet, and wait for it to quiet before opening the door. Donny is still asleep in his shirt and jeans and socks. I slip off his glasses and set them on the nightstand before leaving.
________
“Stanley and Kellerman. How may I direct your call?”
Lowered blinds keep out the bright blue sky and aspirin hasn’t reached my headache. It hurts, some, to say, “Hi, Olivia.” Behind the blinds the window is closed, but humidity still finds a way in. Under the door, through the walls.
“Well, hi, hon! How can I help—Oh, listen to me, will you? That’s what happens when you call me at work!…Anyway, sweetie, what can I do for you?”
My hand sweats around the phone. “I—”
“I can’t speak for very long—so busy, today, for a change—but I can call you back at lunch, if you’d like.”
“No, I—I just wanted to ask you—”
“Oh, no…You saw the news last night, too? I’ll tell you what, hon, if another…”
I hold the phone away from my ear. When I listen again I catch only the end: “…and I can’t believe it. Isn’t that terrible?”
“It is, it is,” I say. “Terrible.”
“Tsk,” she says.
Brakes squeal outside and I turn the handle on the blinds to open them. A rusted, blue car parks in front of the house across the street and honks.
“Are you there, hon?”
“I’m here,” I say. “I’m just—you know—taking a second. Thinking about what happened.” The car honks again and a girl steps onto the porch and opens a pink umbrella. “A parasol?”
“What’s that, hon?”
“Nothing.”
“Well,” she says, “I know how you feel. That poor—”
“Actually, Olivia—sorry to interrupt—I’m just…in light of all that…see, I seem to have lost Jake’s email address—his new one, I mean—and I’m, well, I’m just frantic to get a hold of him. Do you have it, by any chance?”
“Well, why. . .? What do those poor children in Oregon have to do with Jake?”
“Children?”
“Yes. The ones that mother was keeping in cages as if they were little more than…”
I wait it out. I’d thought it would be about the war. Her bad news has always been about the war. “Well,” I say when she finishes, and, “It’s a bad place, the world. Or, I mean, it can be. You know. I guess—I guess I just want to talk to him to reassure myself that there’s some good in it all.” I switch the phone to my left hand and wipe my palm on my shorts. “You do have it, don’t you?” I close my eyes.
“Of course I do.”
The pulsing thickens in my head, so I lay my face on the table. “I thought you might.” The veneer is cool on my cheek.
“Don’t you have it on your computer? Doesn’t it save in your address book?”
“My hard drive crashed last week,” I say. “I lost everything.” When the spinning comes, I raise my head and look out the window. Softer n
ow, the pulse, so maybe the aspirin is working.
The car across the street pulls away from the curb, and a hand pokes through the half-open driver’s side window to drop a piece of trash.
“Oh, no. Well, let me just get to my address book…” Rustling. Fingernails clicking on keys. “Here it is,” she says and gives it to me. “I’m so happy he’s emailing you now. He asked me not to tell you, back when, because he thought it was just another thing that would help along any worrying, but I told him. I said he should—”
“Thank you,” I say. I hang up.
The monitor stays blank through seven cigarettes and I am nicotine sick. I get up and mix a strong drink and sit back down and light another cigarette and set it in the ashtray. Smoke drifts past the monitor.
I type, Jake.
Today is William’s funeral and the lighter lies buried in a bowl.
I wonder if Denise will look, if the casket is open. I wonder if I will look inside Jake’s open casket.
Jake sent an email on a Thursday the week before he deployed. It’s saved, number one. Long day, but longer when I think about you and how many hours until I can come home. Can’t wait to see you naked! Lather on some peanut butter. —Moi When he walked in after work, he had the face. It was not a day for joking about peanut butter, or for the lingerie I felt half sexy, half awkward wearing. I put on my robe while he told me.
When Denise comes back to Tennessee, I’ll invite her over, listen to her talk about William and about Brian and we’ll drink a bottle of something strong and I’ll ask her why she never mentioned email.
We’ll have a nice dinner.
But the only food in my cabinet is a box of macaroni and cheese, and I’m out of butter.
I type Bastard and delete it.
Surprise.
Delete.
I can’t be mad, can I? I don’t get to be mad. You’re at war, after all. Anything I feel is inconsequential.
Delete.
I could be at your funeral. You could be flat in your casket regretting that we didn’t communicate as much as we could have.
“Hypocrite,” he would say.
Delete.
Hi, Jake, and nothing more.
Send.
Eight o’clock, his time. I mix another drink and sit back down and wait.
From where my desk sits, the view outside is of trees and rooftops, and all of the street sounds are scattered mysteries. A car door slams and mutterings drone unintelligible and low, the words’ possibilities unending. I pretend the slamming door belongs to a taxi and that down on the street, where I can’t see, Jake pays the cabbie. The taxi pulls away and Jake shouts at my—our—widow. “M!” he shouts, and I get up and cross the room. I look down. He stands in the lot in all of his gear. The duffel bag hangs on his shoulder. He smiles. He spreads his arms wide, the way he does. Like a boy. And emails don’t matter, anymore, because he is here, the secret was kept to protect this surprise, and I slide up the window and yell, “I’m coming down!” and—
The computer speakers chime.
My touch brings back the screen. In bold letters, ‘CW2 Jake Lakeland,’ Jake’s name right there on the screen, just now sent from where he sits at his own computer, linked by—whatever it is that links us—and it’s almost—almost—touching, like being across from one another in the same room, immediate, now, talk-typing, and I don’t even read his before sending my own, I’m here I’m on now and no time to punctuate or to sign before sending.
I stare at the screen and breathe, breathe, drink, light a cigarette. Tug back my hair and wipe my face and wait, wait, until the shaking stops and the cigarette is out, but nothing. Nothing comes.
I open his message.
To: [email protected] 7 May / 2034
Subject: Hi, there!
Hi, M. You found me! I’m glad. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but my mom probably explained why. I figured Denise would have leaked a long time ago, so she’s better than I thought. Can’t write much because I’m just on a short break. It was so good to see your name, though. Really - so good. I’m okay and things are fine, considering, and I’m safe and relatively comfortable. I love you, you know. More later, I promise. –J.
“You’re going to go bald!” comes through the floor, a muffled yell. I listen for more, but whatever it was is over.
How many times a week, I wonder, does he wait in line for a computer, sit down, and spend the time to write his mother? I wonder who else he emails who isn’t me.
Safe and comfortable. Well, good.
To: [email protected] 7 May / 11:39
Subject: Re: Hi, there!
I’m glad you’re glad I found you. And I’m glad you’re fine. Glad glad glad. Thanks, by the way, for asking how I am. So. How long have you had email? Do you have any idea how much better I would have felt to get notes from you letting me know you were okay? How could you not tell me? You call your mother, you email your mother, you probably send her a scented, handwritten, kiss-ass letter every day. You secretly want to fuck her, don’t you? You know what? It’s all been about you. You you you. Fuck you, Jake. Don’t bother writing back.
Send!
My face heats and I can feel and hear my heart. I click on the ‘Outbox’ folder, but there’s nothing there. The message is already gone, moved to the ‘Sent’ folder.
Smart would have been to write it on paper, first.
Five more cigarettes burn to the filter while I wait for a response.
To: [email protected] 7 May / 12:29
Subject: Sorry
I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, Jake. I swear. I was just mad. Do you understand? Please write me. I know you just care about me
But, I don’t send it. I replace the message with, I didn’t mean ‘don’t write back.’ You know I want to hear from you. Love, M. and send that, instead.
I follow it with another.
To: [email protected] 7 May / 12: 30
Subject: One more
I do care about you and don’t really think you don’t care about me. –M.
To: [email protected] 7 May / 12:31
Subject: Last one, I promise
I’m really, really sorry about what I said about you and your mother. That crossed a line. Please don’t hate me.
To: [email protected] 7 May / 12:32
Subject: Last and final
But I am mad. Just so you know. Write me as soon as you can. Love, Mia
The glass is empty—already—so I mix another and sit in front of the monitor until my back hurts and I’m drunk and out of cigarettes and there’s nothing left to do but lay my head on my arms and pass out.
MAY 8, THURSDAY
I turn the speakers high in case I leave the room for something, and check the internet connection every few minutes.
By noon, my back hurts from sitting at the computer. Chancey sleeps behind the keyboard.
By seven, I’ve written and deleted twenty-three messages and closed out four e-cards mid-creation.
By midnight, he’s still sent nothing.
I write Please know me and click the send button.
MAY 9, FRIDAY
Safia’s gnarled-twine mat says ‘WELCOME’ in black. I knock and start a count to thirty.
Music made of bells and chimes and a twanging string instrument filters into the hallway. I inhale a strong, spicy odor that won’t confine itself to her kitchen, and I can’t identify it beyond good. Laughter—Safia’s—follows jumbled muttering, gets louder as she nears the door, and is just ebbing when she opens it wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, her hair nearly white from over-processing and hanging in two straw-like braids from underneath a backward-facing baseball cap. Over the fitting-strap, a yellow embroidered message reads, “Happy Life.”
“You are here!” she says waving me in. Before I reach the dining area, she’s handed me a glass of wine.
Tea candles flicker in tinted votive holders and a blue and green bubbled glass chandelier hang
s over the table in the eating cove. Paul gets up from his chair and adjusts the dimmer switch until a round of “Better!” and “Good!” gives approval to the turned-down bulb. I count heads—seven—and am glad I decided to have a drink or two (three) beforehand. Dull twinges of anxiety linger, but nothing that won’t be killed with the wine in my hand.
“Everyone,” Safia says, leading me to the table and making me stand there while she motions for Paul to search for an extra chair, “this is my upstairs neigh—my friend,” she nods at me, “Maya.”
“Mia,” I say. I take a long drink and my nose flairs from the bitterness. I’ve never agreed with red wine.
“Mia,” she repeats. “I am so sorry. Mia, this is…” She introduces the table. Names like Neil and Kelly and Nina and Joan and Charles, but not necessarily those names. I won’t remember them, so I don’t try. They nod and smile and murmur “Mia” and “nice to meet you” and then fall silent while I stand over them with my empty glass. Have I emptied it already? I cover the bottom half with my hand.
“Oh,” Safia says and reaches for it. She pours to the rim, then hands it back. “Careful,” she says and laughs. Everyone else laughs with her. From a back room, Paul calls to Safia, “Hey, Doll? Have you seen that yellow chair?”
“In the closet,” she says.
“Nope. Not here.”
She touches my shoulder. “He will find it. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, no problem.” My face is hot, red. With luck the light is too dim for them to see it. I look around the table and meet their stares, smile, and wish I’d never come.
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