The junk shop on South Lamar yielded the first treasure: a magenta sheet set in softly worn cotton. A permanent fixture yard sale by the side of the road had a quilt she was sure was handmade, a rainbow of brightly colored squares in bold prints. The woman said fifty dollars when asked the price but quickly halved that, and with a few more words, came down to ten.
In a tiny shop on Sixth Street she found a Matisse print on foam board, ragged around the edges but perfect for the bedroom wall. The light through the window would bring it to life.
At the bakery next door she ordered coffee and a sticky bun and sat outside in the sun. Grayson’s gallery was not far away, but she pushed that thought out of her head and got a second coffee to go.
Last stop, the dollar store for a bright blue throw rug. She blew the last fifteen dollars on candles.
Back at home she made a burrito with beans and cheese and ate it standing in the bedroom. It took fifteen minutes to put the sheets and quilts on, hang the poster, and set the candles out. The late afternoon sun streamed through the window and illuminated Matisse just the way she’d imagined.
Down the hall, the old refrigerator creaked and shimmied as the ancient motor turned. Other than that it was quiet. There were no city sounds, nothing to bump up against when her mind went still.
All she wanted was the low crackle of Grayson’s tires on the long drive, the hum as he sang the remains of whatever song was on the radio when he switched the engine off.
The sound of his voice wrapping around her name.
When she checked email, there was nothing. His name, Grayson Ward, did not slide into her inbox as she’d come to expect, which surprised her. The lack of contact after making love. He was breathless when they parted, said he couldn’t bear the time until they met again. But there was nothing.
The phone at the gallery went straight to voicemail, so she dialed his home number, torn. Whose voice did she want to hear? His, full of lust, or hers, which by then had surely lost hope? She couldn’t imagine his wife still not knowing, she must have sensed his disloyalty.
When his wife answered, cheerful, the hello bursting forth like the chirp of a bird, it was startling. Why was she so happy? What had happened to make her that way?
The Jaguar was not in his driveway so Wendell glided by the house three times. In daylight she saw his wife’s car, a dove-gray SUV, big, with tinted windows, and imagined her packing it with children, a dog, lunches and books and canvas bags filled with toys. Her love for them. The family, what they added up to, all together. And yet Wendell still wanted Grayson.
The gallery was quiet when she walked in. A quiet ping in the back announced her arrival, and he came out. Loose brown slacks, shirt tucked in, hair mussed over the edge of the collar. He looked annoyed, then neutral.
“Are we alone?”
He nodded, and she walked past him through the door to the office. Contemporary furniture: black desk, leather chair, small sofa and ottoman. The room felt formal and cool, not at all like Grayson. She unbuttoned her shirt and slid out of the jeans.
“You haven’t called.”
“Christ, Wendell. Put your clothes on.”
His voice was crisp. Business-like. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable in the office, in the daytime.
“Get us a hotel room tonight.”
He shook his head. “Obligations at home.”
“Then here.”
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I wanted to see you.”
He kissed her, but not with pleasure. Now he just wanted to shut her up.
“Tell me what she’s like.”
“Let’s go get a drink.”
When they left the gallery he followed her to the Cedar Door, bought two margarita shakers, handed over his skewer of olives.
“Why are you staying with her?”
“I have to go in five minutes. Here’s a twenty for a cab. Don’t drive home.”
“What’s wrong, Grayson? Why are you acting this way?”
He let her kiss his fingers. Let her dip them one by one into her drink and suck them clean of salt and tequila. But then he left. He looked back before he walked out, one small glimpse that tried to answer her question, but it wasn’t enough.
One more shaker later she called his house. She didn’t accept his leaving, that he’d said no after so many days of saying yes.
His wife answered, not hopeful, not happy, this time she was crying. “Hello,” she said. Her voice broken and ragged.
Wendell hadn’t meant to do this. All she wanted was him. But something about his wife, her voice. Partly, Wendell wanted to know her. Be known by her.
“I’m sorry.” It came out low and melodic, almost sexy, not how she’d intended to sound at all.
“It’s her.” His wife shrieked at him. “Talk to her. She’s waiting.”
Wendell heard Grayson’s footsteps, intuited the change of hands, heard his breath. He hung up.
Late in the night, after the Cedar Door closed, she made the drive home. Slowly, keeping the car between the right lines on the road, windows down but no radio, because the songs were either too distracting or too sad.
She braked for a possum, came to a complete stop for a rabbit that froze in the outer edge of the headlights’ glare, too terrified to move the few inches away to the safety of darkness.
When she got home she went straight to her bed, lit the many candles, and stretched out in the heat of the evening. She was drunk, but awake, and after a few minutes she thought she heard measured footsteps on the porch, in the living room, down the hall.
She thought briefly it might be Grayson. Or the writer of the notes, the mysterious man. Maybe it was time to meet him.
She got up and blew out all the candles, leaving little clouds of smoke all over the room. She waited. But no one came.
It was time to find that rowan seedling for Wendell. Scott knew he would have to climb to get it. He couldn’t recall what it looked like.
He had lit out of Culpeper so fast he didn’t think to check. There was a book on Virginia trees at the house. Bottom corner, left-hand side in the den. Wendell had needed it for a school project one year. That damned leaf collection. Could they tape the leaves to white paper and use a hole punch and string to hold the pages together? Could they press the leaves between waxed paper and stick them in a report folder?
Hell, no, he had to call the man that owned the hardware store at home on a Sunday night and pay him extra to open up long enough to buy the stuff to build a display case.
“All the other kids will have them,” Jess had said, “and if you’d been here when you were supposed to be you would have had time to get this done before now.”
She was standing behind him in her kitchen while he got Wendell a drink of water from the sink. Wendell was crying over the display case she didn’t have.
“Jess, couldn’t you have taken care of this?” He had tried to be nice, but damn, he had just rolled into town from three months in a village where men’s heads were used as soccer balls and replaced with fresh ones without the bat of an eye. Buzkashi, they called it. A traditional Afghan game given a new spin by the Taliban.
“I got the book for her. I walked all over this town and took two Saturdays to drive to the country in search of leaves. We spent hours identifying and preparing them. And it was fun. But you’re here now, this is your piece to do.”
So he had made the call, got the supplies, built the case. Wendell watched and ate cookies Jess had sent home with her.
He was so pissed off at both of them that weekend. They neither cared nor appreciated him. His work. He couldn’t reconcile the importance of a display case for dead leaves with what he’d seen in Afghanistan.
Now suddenly this small thing seemed important. The seedling.
He wasn’t sure he could find it without that book.
He heaved a deep sigh like it was truly a pain in the ass, going back to Culpeper. But nevertheless, he turned the truck around
and headed home.
It might not go the way he wanted.
He forced himself to stop by the house. Recovered the tree book and found the picture. Rowan, aka mountain ash, pinnate leaves with white flowers and scarlet berries. Stuffed it in the mess of junk in the front seat and backed out. Gunned it just to hear the engine roar. There was something off with the piston.
Her house was twenty minutes from his if he drove slow. He bounced his palm on the steering wheel. Popped the cassette in and right back out again. Goddamn it, he was acting like this mattered.
He missed the turn to Jessie’s and wheeled around in the road to go back. The truck reared up over the curb. There was no leaving now. She’d likely already heard him. Spotted him through the window.
What to say had not occurred to him. He walked the distance between truck and front door trying to summon the right words. She had snapdragons in pots along the steps, pink and yellow. He raised his hand to knock. She liked the doorbell better.
Her face when she opened the door was like a girl’s. It had been awhile since he’d seen Jess this flustered.
“Scott. Come on in.”
He’d expected her to make him sit on the front porch.
“How’ve you been?”
She didn’t answer right off.
“Fine. I heard from Wendell. She sent an email, not much but at least she’s okay.”
“I heard from her too, cell phone. She’s in Austin, Texas.”
“Texas? What in the world is she doing down there?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”
She motioned him to the sofa. “I’ll get us something to drink.” She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of wine.
She had on sweatpants and a baggy blue T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She smoothed a runaway strand behind one ear.
“Jess.”
“I want to say something.”
She looked at him and started to speak. Her face was red.
“Jess.” He set the glass down and reached for her arm across the edge of the table. Pulled her to the sofa. She buried her face in his neck.
That’s how it started. Her breath against his skin. The shyness. All he’d meant to do was comfort her.
Neither of them said it out loud. Years of putting it off. She’d given enough of her life to Wendell. It’s your turn, Jess. He should have said it out loud but didn’t.
One minute they were kissing again, the next they pulled back, the distance measured in centimeters. Her eyelashes brushed his face and he moved slightly so his nose touched her forehead.
“I could fix you dinner later.” She slid away from him.
When he got back to Jessie’s she let him in and hurried to the kitchen. He followed. “Can I do anything?”
Her hands were in a bowl rubbing olive oil on meat.
“Could you get me a hairband off my dresser?”
He’d never seen her bedroom. It wasn’t what he expected. Plain sheets and a wool blanket. A recliner with a reading lamp. He looked on the dresser and found a small pile of elastic bands, brown and black and gold. He picked up one of the gold ones and took it to the kitchen.
“You went away earlier this week.”
“I took a drive up to the mountains.”
“Alone?”
“Solo trip.” He could have said more. He needed a goddamn guidebook what to do. He let more out. “I was looking for a rowan seedling for Wendell.”
Jess shook her head. “That was sweet, but she doesn’t need the tree. She needs you to talk to her. About Lynnie.”
She looked down when she said it. Her way of backing off something she knew would put up a wall.
His cell phone rang and he took it in the living room. Business call. Jess was still working on dinner while he talked. He heard the radio going, NPR, and layered back of that the whap of a wooden spoon against a bowl. Then the sound of a good knife slicing vegetables on a cutting board. Her voice singing a line or two from some song.
“Scott?”
He finished the call. In the kitchen she spooned something good-tasting into his mouth.
“The marinade for the steak.” She handed over a glass of Scotch. Neat, the way he liked. Single malt. He was sure she bought it for him.
They laughed at something on the radio while she simmered vegetables. Handed him the platter of steaks and sent him out to the deck to grill them. No instructions, no hovering, just him and the grill.
The huff of gas and flame. The sizzle of meat. He saw her through the window. Her hair fell forward and she waved and smiled.
After dinner she looked at him funny and he realized she meant for him to go home.
Neither of them knew how to say goodbye. He stood by her front door like an idiot while she fiddled with a flower in the vase by the door.
“You want to get lunch tomorrow? One?”
She nodded and he left.
It felt good to drive the truck. Stones playing, windows down. The slight whine in the left rear axle muffled his favorite guitar riff.
The house was lonely. He grabbed a beer and the TV remote. Nothing on, so he checked email. No word from Wendell. Several from work. One from a woman he shouldn’t have given his email address to. He deleted it and then got pissed off. He’d deleted it because of Jess.
He clicked over to Firefox, then eBay. Typed in hunting knives. Found a good one, stainless steel blade, hand-carved hardwood handle, leather case. Fancy. Clicked the Buy It Now button. For some reason this made him feel better. He typed in something else. Collectibles. Antique compass in rosewood box. Pewter and wood photo album. Full of photographs of a woman that reminded him of Lynnie. Or Jess. Or both. Gettysburg Hotchkiss shell.
Before he knew it he’d Bought It Now to the tune of eighteen hundred bucks. And discovered that not only could you buy gear on eBay, you could buy the goddamned animals, Texas Hill Country Hunt Trip, $4000. Bison, deer, boar, anything you wanted. Guaranteed kill. Discounted taxidermy.
Why was it the models for the hunting gear were always women? Holsters strapped to bare thighs, lipsticked mouths slightly open. Legs spread, damn. He clicked over to the chat room he’d sworn off and then closed the laptop.
Like a coyote circling, he wandered the empty house. Walked out and got the mail. Bills, catalogs. Grabbed another beer and flipped through William-Sonoma while he finished off an entire package of salami. Another belatedly addressed catalog for Lynnie. How the hell did he get her name off mailing lists of catalogs that didn’t even exist when she was alive? Fucking pots and pans. He almost tossed the catalog, but then the Wüsthof knife set caught his eye. Jess would love that. He folded back the page and then threw the catalog across the room.
This was what had happened when he met Lynnie. She got in his head and he couldn’t get her out again.
Three a.m. and he was wide awake. Not unusual. He woke every hour anyway to do his routine auditory scan. Ice maker dumping ice. Hoot owl in the side yard. When he couldn’t get back to sleep he read and watched movies. Sometimes cleaned hunting gear, which almost never got used any more, but he liked it ready anyway.
He watched the first ten minutes of Blackhawk Down and did the most difficult crossword puzzle in the book. Logged in to the board and buzzed it up with the guys. Lifted weights. He was still wired. Outside, the night air smelled good. A run might settle him.
He jogged down the middle of the road. There was no one out, except maybe the paper carrier. He’d hear the truck a mile away. His left knee ached a little but it was worse without the exercise.
It was dark when he stopped to wipe the sweat out of his eyes with his T-shirt. He took a breath and started running again.
If he timed it right he’d see the sun rise behind the roof just as he got home.
Jess was all dressed up when he got to her house. She had her hair pulled back again. The soft angles of her cheekbones were more exposed.
He’d never stood by the front door li
ke this. He put his hands in his pockets and waited for her to direct him to sit down.
She had her purse and they just hovered there together.
He was close enough to notice the fine thin lines at the outer corners of her eyes. Her bottom lip had a vertical crack in the center. She hadn’t covered it with lipstick, but pulled a tin of something clear from the purse and put it on with her index finger. It smelled of mint and made him want to lick her lips.
She lingered in the doorway and held back a little. He’d forgotten this part. You had to keep starting all over again when you were at the beginning. You lost ground in the absences. If she was this shy in so short a time, what would it be like when he was gone six months?
He spoke. “I didn’t sleep last night.”
Her eyes cut off to the side. “Me either.”
He slid a hand down her arm. She relaxed a little and asked, “Are you hungry?”
Not really. What he wanted was to figure this out. What it was they were doing. But he nodded and they walked out to the truck.
She laughed when she opened the door. “Scott! You cleaned it out.”
He shrugged but liked that she noticed.
They had lunch in the overpriced restaurant in town. The one with linen napkins and too much silverware. Then stopped by the library and checked out books on her card. She touched his hand when they walked to the ice cream shop. Offered her cone to him and wiped a smudge of chocolate off his chin.
Back in the truck, she asked if they could stop by the grocery store. “I need a few things for dinner,” she said.
He followed her along the store aisles. He wished he was pushing the cart. She looked back at him once and smiled. “Should I get more ice cream?”
“Maybe we’ve had enough for today.”
He put her bags in the back of the truck.
“Jessie!”
A woman’s voice from a few cars down caught them before they could get in and pull away. Jess looked at him with a warning. Be nice.
“Ellen, hi.”
The woman looked older than Jess but he suspected it was someone she’d known for years. They hugged briefly and he held out his hand to Ellen.
The Meaning of Isolated Objects Page 11
