“No,” you say. “I’m not falling for that trick twice.”
You nudge me and you want to know me as badly as I want to know you. “Well, I think it’s like Santa Claus.”
“How so?”
“When I was a kid, I didn’t ‘believe’ in Santa because I knew no matter how many flyers I left out on the table with the G.I. Joes circled in red… I mean my mom flat-out said, You’re not playing with dolls.”
“Oh Jesus.”
I tell you that she was a piece of work and a crow flies overhead and I wonder if she’s dead. “The thing is,” I say. “I remember that moment, you know, when you’re starting to understand the world… and you see some kid at the playground and that kid’s actively trying to be good because that kid actually believes in Santa but then you see his mom and his snacks and his brand-new sneakers and it’s like… well of course that kid believes in Santa. Santa shows up at his house. He has reason to believe and I guess I always had reason to question things.”
You link your arm through mine. You don’t care about anyone seeing us, not anymore, and you don’t push me for all the gory details about my shitty childhood. You know that I need your warmth and you give that to me and then you sigh. “For me it was Glamour Gals.”
“I saw those dolls on your Instagram.”
I love that I can say this to you, that there’s no implication that I’m stalking you and this walking, this talking, this is my reward for being a good man even though the world wasn’t good to me when I was a boy. You’re telling me about Glamour Gals, the worst dolls you can imagine, no jobs, just ball gowns and big hair, and then your grip on my arm tightens.
“So here’s one nice thing about my husband.”
Ex-husband and this is our date not his but you are you. Always thinking. Always yeah. “What’s that?”
“Well, that shack with the roof. Nomi wanted it for Christmas and she wouldn’t let it go and we told her we can’t steal a roof and it was driving me nuts all month because I kept asking her what she wanted and it’s the roof the roof the roof and Phil’s kinda checked out all month but then Christmas morning, he drags this giant present out of our shed. I mean the man had never touched wrapping paper in his life… and there it was. Nomi’s roof. He had the grass, he even planted a few tiny flowers on it. And it wasn’t just a present for her, it was a present for me.”
My heart is turning white and it used to be red and this is our date and you’re staring at the sky when you should be staring at me and I can’t go back in time and build Nomi a fucking roof and she’s too old for that now and you take a deep breath. “Okay,” you say. “I know that was weird just now.”
“It’s not weird.”
But your arm isn’t linked through mine. You stop walking and you’re stiff. You’re going to tell me you can’t leave him because of one nice fucking thing he did a hundred fucking years ago on a holiday, which doesn’t even count because everyone gets off on doing nice things on holidays, glorified fucking Sundays when men get trophies for emptying the dishwasher or building a dollhouse as if one good deed makes up for being an INVISIBLE NONPRESENT SELFISH DRUGGED-UP ASSHOLE every other day of the goddamn year.
But then you take my hands. “Joe, I can’t pretend he doesn’t exist.”
You pretended I didn’t exist. “I know that.”
“And I don’t want to make him out to be the bad guy or anything.”
He is. “Absolutely.”
“And I don’t want to check myself every time I think about him because… you know, one of these days… in theory… you’ll meet him.”
Already did! “I know.”
My heart is pounding and RIP Melanda is in the Whisper Room in the sky and your husband is not. He really is here and I really will have to meet him and I really do need to tell you that I already did meet him and at least, if I tell you right now, you can’t run away because we’re alone in the woods, on a trail.
“And all my stories, well this is the weird thing about us. I made up this other version of myself the first time we talked on the phone, when I talked about me and Nomi, about our life… I erased him. But most of my adult life… he was there or he was nearby. He’s a part of all my stories and I don’t want to lie to you anymore. And I don’t want you to shut down on me every time I say his name.”
Most marriages end in divorce and most women don’t want to praise their vile ex-husbands, but you’re not most women. You’re sensitive. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mary Kay. You guys have a lot of history together and I get it.”
You kiss me. “You are fucking amazing, Joe Goldberg.”
Yes I am! Phil ruined enough already and this day is ours and we’re walking again, lighter on our feet and I smack your ass and you jump. You liked it. I tease you that this is hardly what I’d call a hike, and you tell me the hill is gonna get steeper and I tell you I don’t believe you and you’re flirting up a storm and then my phone buzzes. Fucking Oliver.
You glare at me. “Come on, really?”
“It will only take a second.”
“I turned off my phone before I got out of the car, Joe.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, that’s why I like to hike because for me, you turn off the devices and are just in the moment, you know?”
I turn off my phone and you smile—good—but then you pull a Polaroid camera out of your purse and I tell you that you’re cheating but you are a sly fox. “This is different,” you say. “It’s not a communication device. Say cheese.”
I hate having my picture taken and Melanda is in the trough in the backdrop and the world is full of murder podcast people who want to think the worst of people and I see a headline from hell. ACCUSED MURDERER SAYS CHEESE IN FRONT OF THE SPOT WHERE HE BURIED LOCAL FEMINIST.
But I didn’t fucking kill her, I really didn’t, and you snap a picture and whistle. “Now, that was a real smile.”
Life is for the living—it’s a well-known fact—and on we go, and you are my tour guide, telling me about the origins of the bunkers that are right around the bend. “They built a base here over a hundred years ago. It was the last line of defense for the Bremerton naval shipyard.”
“Pressure much?”
You smile like a teacher intent on finishing her lecture. “This was a lookout and soldiers watched for any warships entering the sound. And then it was a camp for needy kids…” And then it was a place for us to fuck. “And then it was a camp for sailors…”
You glimmer at me the way you did that day when you were pushing Murakami on that old man and I want school to end. Now. “You really know your Fort Ward, Mary Kay.”
“No questions just yet,” you say. “See, it really gets interesting in 1939. This was a radio base where they intercepted messages about the war, trying to protect us from an attack… but then they shut all that down in the fifties.” You scratch your head in your head but you make eye contact to make sure that I’m in there too. And I am. “Well,” you say. “That concludes my lecture but I just… I love it here because it reminds you of how things change and don’t change all at once. I mean look at these fucking bunkers!”