by Erin McGraw
Because she is married, which I knew right after she looked around the bar, then looked at me and said, “Neither one of us should be here.”
I told her the truth: “I come here every night. If I can’t sit in a bar, then I can’t go to parties, and then I won’t be able to go to restaurants. I won’t be able to let people come to my apartment. Before long, I’ll be curled up all alone, and then the only solution will be to come here.”
“So it’s all about choice?” she said.
“Mostly,” I said.
“Then I am choosing to sit with you,” she said. “Move over.”
Because you created choice. Because life is an endless succession of choose, choose, choose, and eventually we’re going to choose wrong, and then discover you waiting at the threshold of that wrong choice. Even till the end of time. Because your sure patience might be the most threatening promise ever made.
Because I’ve been alone so long—because I was supposed to be alone, and being alone was good for me. Because I have been purified by solitude. Because you also created a sense of humor, which has come in handy. Because I laughed when we dropped our glasses, and so did she. I laughed again when I pulled her against me, and she did not laugh then.
Because my thoughts run to her like water racing downhill. Because she is married. Because she sang along with the song on my radio, and knew every word. Because she knows how to sing harmony. Because when she was little, she had a dog named Skipper. Because she is married.
Because you are so elusive on some subjects, and so icily clear on others. Because your forgiveness comes with riders, like the contracts that used to come and that I pretended to read, but rarely get past the third whereas. Because, you will say, you forgive any truly penitent heart, but that penance must nonetheless be enacted. Because I am not penitent. Because I want to call her. Now. And now.
Because her husband’s name is Gary, and I have never met a Gary I didn’t like. Because she did not want to tell me about the accident, but I kept asking until she told me. Because people can fall from rooftops while doing nothing more exceptional than cleaning gutters. Because home maintenance can create a man who does not remember his wife’s name, but remembers how to fumble for her waist when she passes with a pile of laundry. Because at first she leaned into his grasp, thinking that his body might remember her even if his mouth could not produce her name. She leaned into him until she couldn’t lean anymore. She did not tell me this. She fell silent, her hard gaze directed at the table and her mouth soft. Because you gave her a soft mouth.
Because comfort is sometimes offered, and is a kindness. Because my heart swelled at her sorrow. Because you gave me a heart that would do that.
Because I have entered a room with only one exit, a room you allowed me to find. Because I can see the future so clearly it might as well be my past. Because people who come together out of famished need gnaw each other to pieces. It will be no time before I resent her for my helplessness before her need, as she will resent me. Because you have made the journey from joy to weariness a trapdoor drop, and because the early claims on us are the ones that endure. Because I am rushing toward my own sadness and hers, and I will not even slow my step.
Because you will be with me in my suffering. Because suffering is what you made us for. My heart will break and I will turn to you, because you are the only one to turn to. Because you made the rules. Because in the heartbreak I already feel, you will be saving me. I do not want to be saved. Because my desires do not matter. Because when the time comes, I will be looking for you, the last one I want to see.
Acknowledgments
“America” originally appeared in American Short Fiction; “Ava Gardner Goes Home” in The Sewanee Review; “Before” in A Very Angry Baby: The Anthology; “Breaking Glass,” “Dogs,” “Happiness,” and “Priest” in Image; “Cat,” “Comfort (1),” “Comfort (2),” “Job,” “Rock and Roll,” and “Sympathy” in The Georgia Review; “Cliché,” “Pariah,” “Pebble,” and “The Tenth Student” in The Cincinnati Review; “Compliments,” “L.A.,” and “Love” in Great Jones Street; “Fat” and “Haircut” in Blackbird; “Hello from an Old Friend” in Tin House Flash Friday; “Hope” in Ploughshares; “Management” and “Teeth” in Kenyon Review Online; “Nutcracker” in Five Points; “Prayer” as “A Statement from the Defense” in St. Katherine Review; and “Wedding Gown” as “Deanne Stovers” in Winesburg, Indiana.
This book would not have been born without the steady help and support of Gail Hochman, to whom I owe more than I can count. Thank you to the miraculously patient Jody Kahn. Deep and happy thanks to Jack Shoemaker and the marvelous Counterpoint team—Wah-Ming Chang, Yukiko Tominaga, Megan Fishmann, Sarah Grimm, Hope Levy, Jennifer Kovitz, Katie Boland, and Jennifer Alton. You all made it fun.
I owe particular and heartfelt thanks to readers who helped me with these stories, particularly Anna McGrail, Debie Thomas, Kathleen Blackburn, and Alyssa Sumpter. Jamie Lyn Smith Fletcher saved me from myself more times than I can count. And my husband, Andrew Hudgins, read and reread, helped and rehelped, and kept me and the book alive through the bad parts.
© Nadia Peters
ERIN MCGRAW, born and raised in Southern California, lived and taught for many years in the Midwest before retiring to rural Tennessee with her husband, poet Andrew Hudgins, and her dogs. She has written six previous books—three novels and three collections of stories—along with essays and occasional journalism. Find out more at erinmcgraw.com.
