All eyes on Shortus, just like he wants, except for the dog, who only has eyes for me. You sip your coffee. “Just say it. Have you talked to her?”
“Yes,” he says. “Melanda called me a few days ago.”
Fecal Eyes balks and you balk too and no she fucking didn’t. She’s dead. There are rumors about her because this is an island and even at the wake, I heard a couple people whispering that Melanda had an affair with a student but I don’t care about that. Melanda is dead and dead women don’t talk on the phone. Alas, Seamus wants attention, he wants to feel special, and pretending to be a conduit to your friend Melanda is one way to get it.
Fecal Eyes picks at the cheesecake and this is what she came for: gossip. “Unbelievable.”
Shortus scratches the logo on his shirt. “She asked me to tell you and Nomi that she sends her love.”
You snort and do a good impression of her. “How nice.”
“I know,” he says. “She would have come back, but you know how it is. Everyone’s talking about her ‘inappropriate behavior’ with that kid at school… She didn’t want to steal the spotlight.”
Fecal Eyes picks up your fork, not afraid of cooties anymore. “So it is true. That woman slept with a student. I knew it, and I’m sorry, but I can’t really say I’m surprised.”
Thank God for the fecal-eyed dog or I might throw the cheesecake at the fucking wall.
Finally Fecal Eyes is on the move—You guys, I just have so much to dooo—and Shortus looks at his phone and lets out a big sigh. “Rats,” he says. “Actually, I can’t go to Seattle even if you wanted me to go. The girls need me at the store.”
I almost feel bad for him as you shove him out the door, the way he had to refer to his staff as the girls. It would be awful to be so intimidated by women, so insecure that you have to make up gossip. He can’t even look me in the eye, he just waves—Maybe a beer later?—and I nod and he manipulates you into one more Thank you as you give him a casserole to take back to the shop, as if he shouldn’t be the one thanking you.
And then he’s gone. You lock the door and come back to the table. “He means well,” you say. “But he’s doing a 5K for Phil and he put up the banner. Did you see it?”
Yes. “No.”
“Hang on,” you say. You pick up your phone and dial. You bite your lips as it rings and then your shoulders drop. “Oh, Peg, I’m glad I caught you… Nomi’s on her way there… Oh, she is? Oh good. Okay, well, I wanna thank you guys… I know, but I still want to thank you… Okay, sounds good, thank you, Peg. Bless you, Peg.”
I care and I ask the right question. “Nomi get there okay?”
You nod. “She called them from the ferry…” Your mom duties are fulfilled, and right now, you just want to bitch about Shortus. “So that banner… Seamus plastered the Narcotics Anonymous logo on it in this great big can’t-miss-it font and it really rubs me the wrong way, as if that was all there was to Phil. And Nancy…” Fecal Eyes. “She means well, but her in-laws do everything for her and Phil’s parents… they haven’t even called since they went back to Florida… Tell me to stop.”
“No. Let it out.”
You sip your coffee. “I don’t want to trash everyone I know. It’s not them, it really isn’t. I’m not even mad that Melanda didn’t call or anything. When it’s over, it’s over.” You sigh. “I think I’m just peopled out.”
My heart is racing and it’s just the two of us and I throw out my line to you, my bait. “Look, I get the whole peopled-out thing and any time you want me to leave…”
Your eyes suckle mine, kittens to the teat. “No,” you say. “I want you to stay.”
I do what you want. I stay. But I can’t make a move. You’re in mourning. I have been cautious. Respectful. No mention of Fort Ward. No Red Bed talk. I know that you did love him. I know that you did hate him. I know that permanent separation is shocking and I know that the guilt is eating you alive and I know you need to let it out.
I stroke your hair and I let you cry. I let you be. I do what none of your Friends let you do. I support you quietly, wholly, and so you are able to cry loudly, wholly, and when your phone rings—it does that too much—you see that it’s your dad and you tell me that you should probably take it but you don’t have it in you. He feels so bad about missing the funeral but he had to miss it. He had back surgery. You send him to voicemail and that’s my cue, Mary Kay. I kiss your hand. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.”
* * *
We did it. We made love in your marriage bed and we’ve been in your room for the bulk of the past twenty-four hours. It’s been fun. You worry about my cats and I tell you about the automatic feeders that dispense food and you tell me how caring I am, how responsible, and this is how you heal. This is how you learn to love me out loud, without feeling guilty about it.
You pull the duvet over our heads and I am the man of your dreams, repeatedly offering to go, and you are the woman of my dreams, bringing my hand to your legs, to your Murakami. We break the laws of physics and travel through time and slip into our future and I hold you knowing that I will hold you forever, that this is our sneak peek at Forever.
I kiss your foxy hair, tendrils all over my bare chest. “Do you want coffee?”
You run your hand through my hair and sigh. “Mind reader, Joe. Truly.”
RIP Phil never did nice things for you. No breakfast in bed, not even a fucking cup of coffee. But then you glance at one of his trash bags and you’re crying again, guilty. “I’m the worst woman in the world, if anyone knew you were here… We can’t jump into this. You know you can’t be here when Nomi gets back.”
“I know.” I kiss your head, the most patient man alive. “You want me to take some of these bags down?”
You pull away. “Whoa, slow down there.” You pull the covers over the part of your shoulder, the skin that I just kissed. “Way way way too soon.”
“I’m sorry, I was only trying to help.”
You bite your lip. You won’t let the past wreck our future. “I know, but right now I really just want coffee. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump all over you.”
I kiss the top of your head. “Don’t worry about me.”
I put on pants and a shirt—the Meerkat really could come back at any time—and bound down the stairs and I can’t fucking wait for you to get rid of this house, this albatross. You’re jumpy because you’re here. In your head, this house belongs to your dead husband. And I get it. Everything will be better when we get you out of this place, when my house becomes our house. I can already see us on the sofa, watching our cats preen under the Christmas lights that will be up all year, on at all hours. I love you, Mary Kay, and I open the freezer of casseroles we’ll never eat because these casseroles are like Phil’s trash bags, like this house. They also need to go.
I find the fucking coffee—finally—and close the door and flinch.