by Sharon Shinn
Feeling woozy as a drunk, I follow him into the living room. I’m so unsteady that I stumble and slam my hip against the table at the door. “Be careful,” I say, clinging to the door as he pulls it open. “Come back to me.”
“Always and always,” he says. He bends down to plant a rough kiss on my mouth, holding it for a second longer than I anticipated. He has not said so, but I am suddenly certain of it. He does not want to go. He is, for this brief moment, anyway, furious at the fates that have fashioned his strange existence. “You give me something to live for.”
And then he’s gone.
I sleep so late the next day that what wakes me up is the postal carrier dropping mail through my door slot a few minutes before eleven. For a while I just lie in bed, feeling the blank disorientation that usually holds me in thrall any morning I’m not wrenched from sleep by the hateful buzzing of the alarm clock. It takes me a moment to remember what day it is and reconstruct all the little details of the day before. Halloween party, Christina, trick-or-treaters…
Dante.
Smacked by revelation, I come fully awake, though I don’t leap up from bed or even sit up. Was he really here last night? Did I dream his presence? I glance around the portion of the room I can see while still lying flat on my back, but there are no physical reminders…no dropped pieces of clothing, no extra glasses of water on the nightstand, no exotic gifts left where my eyes will see them first thing in the morning. I roll to one side and grope for the phone, but since the Caller ID is on the fritz, I can’t even reassure myself that he called.
Surely he did. I pull the covers to my chin and imagine I can catch his scent in the cotton fibers of the sheet. My body remembers the lovemaking. I stroke my hand down the corrugated slope of my rib cage, the curved saucer of my hip. When I step out of bed, when I examine myself in the mirror, will there be marks on my skin—bruises the size of a thumb on the inside of my wrist, the faint indentation of a bite at the join of my throat and shoulder? Will there be any proof of his visit except my conviction of his existence?
I curl into a tight ball, still clutching the covers beneath my chin. Is there ever any more proof than that? Isn’t my unreasoning faith in him the only reason he exists at all?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Once I manage to pull myself out of bed, I discover that the first day of November is as beautiful as the last day of October was miserable; it is the Cinderella to Halloween’s ugly stepsister. It is replete with sunshine, generous with blue skies, and it tempts me not to stay inside and clean the house as I ought to. So, when Beth calls ten minutes later and proposes that we go to St. Charles for the day, I gladly agree. I barely have time to shower and dress before she and Clara arrive in a big blue SUV, but I’m out the door before she’s cut the motor. I hear the house phone ringing, but I don’t even look back. It won’t be Dante calling; anyone else can wait.
“Sunshine!” I exclaim breathlessly as I climb into the front seat. “Who knew such a thing existed?”
“I want a hot dog,” Clara says from the backseat.
“Coming right up,” Beth tells her. “Well, in about thirty minutes.”
We head for the historic district of St. Charles, an old community right on the banks of the Missouri River, and spend a couple of hours strolling up and down Main Street. Most of the stores have already started putting out their holiday decorations and merchandise, though the full-scale Christmas programming won’t start until closer to Thanksgiving. Main Street is paved with uneven red brick and lined with two- and three-story buildings, most of them well-preserved examples of the town’s eighteenth-century roots. I love the ambiance of the place, though I rarely purchase any of the candles, dolls, crystal light-catchers, and other tchotchkes for sale; they don’t really fit my stripped-down decor. Beth buys a pattern in Patches, the quilt shop, and I pick up a novel at Main Street Books.
“Big spenders,” Beth comments as we head back to the SUV. Clara has gotten tired and cranky, so Beth is carrying her while I push the stroller, empty except for our purses and our two small packages.
“We’ll have to come back before Christmas and see the carolers,” I say.
“I mean, I can’t believe it’s less than two months away,” she replies.
Clara stops whining long enough to say, “I want an American Girl doll for Christmas.”
Beth smiles at me over her daughter’s head. “And so it begins.”
It has just now occurred to me that I can buy presents for Lizzie. That will make the upcoming holiday season even more fun. Maybe I’ll buy some on Dante’s behalf, too, so I can get twice as much stuff. “Next thing you know she’ll want cell phones and navel rings.”
“What’s a navel ring?” Clara asks.
Beth gives me a mock scowl. See what you’ve done? “Something you won’t have any knowledge of until you turn eighteen.”
Clara turns her head on her mother’s shoulder so she can look at me. “What’s a navel ring?”
I reach over to flick her little nose. “Jewelry for your belly button. Doesn’t that sound cute?”
“I want one,” she says instantly.
“We’ll get you one when we go for your tattoo,” I say.
“Maria!” Beth exclaims.
I shrug. “Hey, aunts are supposed to be bad influences.”
We’ve reached the car by this time, and Beth hands me Clara so she can unlock the door. “I never heard that before. Sydney’s not a bad influence.”
“She’s just sneakier than I am. She’s bad when you’re not around to see her.”
As Beth snaps the seat belt in place, Clara announces, “Aunt Sydney lets me drink champagne.”
“What?” Beth demands, while I succumb to uncontrollable laughter.
“I like soda better,” Clara adds.
I’m still laughing as Beth and I climb into the front seat and she pulls out of the parking lot. “This is why you were lucky you never had a sister,” Beth says.
“Oh no,” I say. “This is why I’m lucky I had you.”
It’s close to three before I’m back in the messy house and I begin a halfhearted cleaning effort. I have forgotten to check my answering machine for messages, and not until the phone rings thirty minutes later do I remember that it was also ringing when I left with Beth. The erratic Caller ID system decides to reveal that Ellen is on the line.
I have a sudden dark premonition that whatever reason she has for calling will not be good.
“Hey, Ellen,” I say as I pick up. “What’s going on?”
“Ritchie’s dead,” she says in a flat voice.
For a moment I am absolutely blank. “Ritchie?”
“Ritchie Hogan. Kathleen’s husband. He’s dead.”
I press my hand to my heart like an actress in a community theater production. “What? What happened? How did you find out?”
“I don’t know the details. She’s hysterical. She called Marquez and he called me. He’s with her now, but he says I shouldn’t come over, she doesn’t want more company.”
The phone cord is long enough for me to reach the living room and sink onto the couch. I’m still in shock, still not processing information. “But—what happened? Did he have a car accident?”
“I don’t think so. It might have been a heart attack. Apparently he was running in some park—he was training to be in a marathon—and that’s where he collapsed. Some park rangers found him.”
“A heart attack? But—he’s so young. And he was in really good shape.”
“Well, I’m just guessing about that. Maybe it was something else. I guess he could have had an aneurysm.”
“Or an allergy attack. Maybe he’s allergic to bees or something, and he got stung. She wasn’t specific?”
“Marquez said she wasn’t too coherent.”
“This is dreadful. What do you want me to do?”
Ellen sounds tired, she who has boundless stores of energy. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I can do. I hate feeling so fuck
ing helpless. This was not the call I was expecting from Kathleen’s house, you know? I always figured she’d be the one who was dead.”
“Maybe she killed him,” I say, morbid humor forcing its way past my imperfect sentinels of compassion and decency. “Put poison in his coffee this morning and it didn’t take effect till he was out of the house.”
“I’d be okay with that,” Ellen says. “I mean, I don’t think it’s a terrible thing that he’s dead but, holy God, Kathleen does not seem entirely equipped to take care of herself.”
“Does she have family in the area?”
“I think the closest relative is a sister in Little Rock. Marquez said someone was on the way and he planned to stay there until this person arrived.”
“Well, we can take shifts—if she’s willing to have us there. I could go over tonight or tomorrow or—anytime, really.”
“Yeah. I think I’ll go over tomorrow, no matter what Marquez tells me. I won’t stay if it seems like she wants me gone.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“Yeah,” Ellen says on a sigh. “Might be easier on everyone. I’ll pick you up at eleven, how does that sound? We can bring her some lunch.”
“See you then.”
After we hang up, I sit on the couch for another ten minutes, just staring at my interlaced hands. That’s the phone call I always dread, always expect, the information brought by indifferent strangers. Ms. Devane? I’m afraid I have bad news. We found a man dead this morning, I’m sorry to say, and he had your name and number on a piece of paper in his pocket. Would that call come to me or would it go to Christina? Is she filled with twice as much fear, worried over two brothers, both of them constantly exposed to risks that they do not bother to try to mitigate? Did she resign herself long ago to the idea that their lives would be short, their ends probably brutal? Is she amazed they’ve survived this long, grateful for every additional week or month or year that she can turn around one unexpected morning and find them standing on her front porch, hungry and gaunt and edgy, but alive?
I cannot get to that place. I cannot surrender myself to fatalism where Dante is concerned. I cannot endure the knowledge that his condition practically guarantees an early death—may, in fact, lead to him dying alone somewhere, far from me, in a spot where his body is never found. So he might not just die, he might vanish from my life, simply fail to show up again, and I will never know what happened to him. I will first be frantic, then despairing, then lost, lost, lost in a deep well of impenetrable darkness, and I will never know. Did he starve to death? Lose a battle with a vicious opponent? Simply wear out, his body too depleted by unnatural stresses to maintain itself another day?
Decide he did not love me after all? Might he be alive still, back in human shape, but tired of my nagging or my possessiveness or my unimaginative personality?
“If it happens, Dante, if you fall out of love with me, just tell me,” I pleaded once a few years ago, when I had become a little obsessed with the topic of Dante’s death. “Break up with me—I’ll make it easy for you, I won’t cry and beg—just don’t leave me wondering. I’d rather know that you’d fallen in love with someone else than think that you’re dead when you’re not.”
He had rolled his eyes in exasperation. “All right, I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ll send you an e-mail. ‘Hey, Maria. Babe! Tired of you, girl, so I’m dumping you now. But don’t worry. I’m fine. Not dead yet.’”
He was being facetious, of course, but I answered, “It would be a comfort.”
He’d pulled me into his arms and dropped a rough kiss on the top of my head. “It’s not going to happen anytime soon. You’re more likely to dump me.”
I’d stared up at him. “You must be joking.”
“Hey, you put up with a lot more shit from me than I do from you,” he said. “You’re the one who settled. I’m the one who got lucky.”
I patted him on the cheek. “You keep on believing that.”
“I always do.”
I don’t entirely put my faith in that declaration, but I do believe that he will keep his promise; he will let me know if he plans to abandon me. So I am back to a single fear, but it’s monstrous: One day he will be gone from my life. One day he will die.
There is nothing I want to do less than go to Kathleen’s house the day after her husband’s death. I spent the morning making spinach lasagna and dividing it into freezer containers to create handy single-serving meals. Food is a cultural substitution for love, and cooking offers a hedge against an overwhelming sense of helplessness, but in my heart I know my efforts are wasted. Kathleen will likely never want to eat again.
Ellen arrives a few minutes late in her red Miata, and we head to Kathleen’s in almost total silence. Once I’ve asked, “Any more news?” and she’s replied in the negative, we don’t have anything else to say. I am relieved to see two cars already in the driveway, one of them belonging to Marquez, one with Arkansas plates. We will not have to attempt to carry on conversation with Kathleen, just the two of us. I can’t think of anything to say to her, either.
Marquez answers the door, and instead of berating us for coming over uninvited, he embraces us one at a time. He makes it a real hug; I find it comforting to be momentarily squeezed against his soft, substantial frame.
“How is she?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not good.”
“Who else is here?” Ellen wants to know.
“Her sister and her husband arrived about three in the morning. They’re both sleeping right now.”
“You planning to go home anytime soon?” she asks him.
“When her sister gets up, maybe. She seems to like me to be here, so—” He shrugs.
I glance around the house, which I have only ever seen from the outside. The front door leads directly into the living room, which is furnished in a sort of amped-up country style—lots of ruffles on the curtains, lots of blue hearts patterned on everything from crockery-style flower vases to stenciled lamp shades. To my right I can glimpse a darkened hallway leading toward what I assume are bedrooms. The hallway walls are hung with framed family photos that appear to cover generations. There is a sweetness that pervades the whole setting; it is possible to imagine Kathleen happily choosing each flounced valence, each stitched doily, each separate mat and moulding. Something inside my chest twists with pain.
“Where is she?” Ellen asks.
“In the kitchen. I was trying to convince her to eat something, but she—” Now he shakes his head. “I don’t think she’s consumed a thing since yesterday morning, and I know she was throwing up last night.”
“We’ll get her to eat something,” Ellen says, striding purposefully down the hallway to our left. “That I can do.”
The kitchen is small and bright, decorated with copper molds of roosters and cheery yellow accents. Kathleen is sitting at an oak table, her arms lax before her, her hair lank, her face a ruin. She looks up when we step in, but I can’t read any expression. She’s not angry we’re here, not surprised, not grateful. She simply doesn’t care.
Ellen marches over, bends down, and takes the limp body in a hug. “It’s so terrible that I don’t even know what to say,” she says, “so I’m not going to try to make stuff up. Maria and I came by just to help you fill the time. We’ll sit here for a little while, and then there will be another two hours gone by.”
I see Kathleen sort of nod over Ellen’s shoulder, then Ellen releases her and I step in to offer my own awkward embrace. I know it’s impossible for anyone to lose significant weight overnight, but somehow she feels like she is nothing but bones, jostling against each other inside a thin bag of flesh. “Hey,” is all I have to offer. She nods again.
Ellen turns brisk. “So what would you like to eat?”
“Nothing,” Kathleen manages in a faint whisper.
Ellen rests her fists on her hips. “Well, you’re going to have something before I leave today, so you’d better figure out what you’re most
likely to keep down.”
“One of the neighbors brought over some chicken noodle soup,” Marquez tells her.
“And I brought spinach lasagna,” I say, though even I realize someone who’s been throwing up all night will not be interested in pasta.
“Oh, can I have some?” Marquez asks. “I’m starving.”
“Anyone who wants it can have some.”
“I’m just going to heat up some of this soup,” Ellen says. “Where do you keep your pans?”
In a few minutes, the four of us are seated around the table in an uncomfortable travesty of one of our workweek lunches. But perhaps the familiarity of the ritual, the group of friends, works benignly on Kathleen’s mental state. She takes the bowl of soup from Ellen and obediently begins spooning up the broth. She also drinks half a glass of 7UP that Marquez has poured for her. I can’t help but think of these as “sick foods,” since they’re part of the diet my mother would always prepare for me when I had a stomach flu. Then again, I suppose Kathleen has fallen ill with one of the most calamitous diseases there is—grief—and she will be a long time recovering, if she ever does.
Kathleen, while she might be managing food, is not up to conversation, so Ellen and Marquez and I talk softly on the most neutral topics we can identify. I mention my trip to St. Charles yesterday. Marquez tells us he saw a movie Friday night with friends. He wouldn’t recommend it, though; too many plot holes, not enough action. Ellen says her tomato plants are still yielding fruit. “One year I was getting tomatoes almost through Thanksgiving, but I can’t imagine that will happen again anytime soon,” she says.
We have been sitting there for nearly an hour when Kathleen suddenly begins to speak. “I didn’t want him to go yesterday morning,” she says in a soft, exhausted voice. She is not looking at any of us; she’s watching her hands crumble one of the saltines that Ellen insisted she eat along with the soup. “I said, ‘It’s such a pretty day and there’s so much work to do in the yard. Go running when it’s cold and cloudy out and I don’t feel like working in the garden.’ I said, ‘You’ve still got a cast on your arm. What if you trip? You’ll really hurt yourself if you fall.’ But he wanted to go.”
