Husband Material

by Emily Belden

  How could anyone understand or even believe something so

  ridiculous could happen? But Brian actually knows about my

  past, so I don’t have to catch him up or censor myself.

  “I brought the urn with me to the client dinner and it fell

  out of my bag midmeal. Caused a bit of a ‘scene,’ some might

  say.”

  “I guess that is a snafu, huh? I take it the big boss lady didn’t know Decker was back?”

  “She didn’t know I was ever married. So, yeah. She wants

  me to take some time off to collect myself. Or, at least, that’s the politically correct version of how the company is responding to what happened last night. And now here we are. They

  even blocked me from my work email and our Slack channel.

  I’m totally off the grid.”

  “And how does that feel?”

  “Why? Are you my therapist now?” I ask, mentally not-

  ing that all that’s missing are his clipboard and stethoscope.

  “Sorry, sorry. Asking probing questions is just a pesky bed-

  side habit. But look at it this way. Maybe it’s not such a bad

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  thing to take some time off and clear your plate a little bit, you know? I mean, how’s it going with rehoming the urn and all?”

  “I’ve got the Google search result for some five-story mau-

  soleum breaking ground on Gower Street pulled up on my

  computer. Other than that, Debbie showed up at my apart-

  ment trying to steal it back last night.”

  “She what?”

  “Yes. You heard that correctly. Casey said Debbie found

  her way into the lobby of our building and was harassing the

  doorman, wailing about Decker. In fact, that’s what made me

  bring the urn to the dinner in the first place. If she wasn’t so insanely invasive, maybe I could have actually felt comfortable leaving him behind for a few hours.”

  “Well, what did you think was going to happen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like if she made her way to your apartment. Little five-

  foot-nothing, midsixties Debbie Austin was going to barrel

  your door down and tackle you for the urn?”

  I can’t tell if the question is rhetorical.

  “I wouldn’t sweat it, Char. Remember, grief works in mys-

  terious ways. I’m sure it was just a little one-time flare-up.”

  Even though Brian’s not one to judge, I honestly was ex-

  pecting him to bandwagon hate on Mrs. Austin. But his re-

  sponse is actually rational.

  “So, let’s move forward. What can I do? How can I help?

  Surely there has to be something. What’s one task related to

  this whole urn thing that you don’t want to do? Like, at all.

  That’s the one I’ll take off your plate.”

  “You’re about a day late and a dollar short. The part I didn’t

  want to do was tell Debbie and clearly that’s been checked

  off the list.”

  “Perfect! That’s out of the way then. What’s next?”

  Brian’s always had an extreme go-getter mentality. Some-

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  times I look at how a guy like him—kind of loud, always

  eager, a little too in your face—could ever even be friends

  with a quiet, methodical, reserved guy like Decker. But they

  had a good dynamic. Someone had to the buy the keg, some-

  one had to pump it.

  Brian looks at me wide-eyed in a way that indicates he

  won’t take “No thanks, I’m good” for an answer. While I

  want to—and insist that I will—do the heavy lifting myself,

  what’s the harm in outsourcing the cringeworthy lifting?

  “Call Robert Hancock,” I say, as if he’s Siri.

  “Happy to. But who’s that?”

  I grab the letter the insurance agency sent with the urn and

  slide it across our bistro table. “I want you to ask them what

  they think I should do.”

  Brian is focused, like it’s a med school midterm, as he reads

  the letter over. I can bet that he wasn’t expecting my task

  would be to call the urn people, and I’m waiting for him to

  put the paper down and explain to me how this is really some-

  thing I should do. But after he finishes scanning, he promptly takes out his phone, dials the number, and says, “I’ll put them on speaker.”

  “It’s a stellar morning at Robert Hancock Insurance Bro-

  kers. My name is Kenya. How may I assist you?” The rep is

  very clearly reading a script because I can’t imagine anything

  could be stellar about the job she has.

  “Yes, hi,” Brian says, then clears his throat. “I’m calling on

  behalf of my…client?” He looks at me and I shrug my shoul-

  ders. I have no clue where he is going with this.

  “Yes, my client,” he continues firmly. “Her name is Char-

  lotte Rosen and her late husband’s remains were delivered to

  her apartment last weekend.”

  “Yes, sir. This is in regards to the Pala Mausoleum fire,

  correct?”

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  “Yes, exactly. That’s the one.”

  Was there another?

  “How can I help you?” Kenya asks.

  “Well, we… I mean she…was wondering where the best

  place to send them back to might be?”

  At this point, I’m nervously chipping off my peach-colored

  gel manicure, which is leaving behind flakes on the ground

  all around me, including in the fur on Leno’s back.

  “I’m afraid I can’t speak with you about this without the

  consent of Ms. Rosen herself.”

  “I’m here,” I blurt out. “This is Charlotte speaking.”

  I spatter off my Social Security number and mother’s maiden

  name and soon enough Kenya accepts my identity.

  “Thank you for confirming, ma’am. It’d be my pleasure to

  connect you to a grief counselor at this time,” she says. “As a reminder, they are standing by free of charge for your benefit

  for the next two weeks.”

  I grab the phone from Brian’s hands and say loud and clearly:

  “I don’t need a grief counselor.”

  Debatable, I know. But another agent standing by to read

  another flowery script won’t be of any help to me. I need real

  advice. It’s go time.

  “Well then, how may I assist you exactly?”

  “I want to know where I’m supposed to put him now. Now

  that the mausoleum has been destroyed and I sort of thought

  this whole thing was a done deal five years ago, where else can he go?”

  “Um, uh…” It is evident that Kenya is about to go off

  script for the first time in her career. “Ma’am, the mausoleum

  burned down. So where you store your husband’s remains at

  this point is a personal decision. One that would be entirely

  up to you and your loved ones.”

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  “So there’s no backup mausoleum that you guys have a con-

  tract with or something like that?” Brian asks.

  “No,
there are no other mausoleums we are working with

  at this time. Just the complimentary grief counselors. Are you

  sure you don’t want to be connected?”

  “Yes,” Brian and I say at the same time.

  Kenya reads her exit script and the line fades to dark.

  “Okay, so don’t panic,” Brian says in his signature casual

  tone. “This isn’t a dead end. Besides, who says you have to

  figure this out right now? What about keeping him at your

  place for a while?”

  “I don’t know about that, Brian. I mean, he’s in there.

  Whatever is left of Decker is in there. ” I point to the urn to drive home the “this is weird” point. “It’s not a vase of flowers, for crying out loud. These are bone fragments. ”

  “Okay, fair enough. I can respect the science going on

  in there. So, here’s a thought: How about you, willingly of

  course, return him to his mom?”

  I want to spit my latte across the patio at the mere men-

  tion. While I know that solves the “not in my house” prob-

  lem, I’m not leaning in the “her house” direction either. The

  truth of the matter is if I could trust that Debbie would make

  a more practical decision with the urn this time around, then

  there’d be a chance I’d drive the thing back over to her place

  right now. But part of the whole reason I think Debbie chose

  to put Decker in Pala in the first place was so that she could

  pull some rank. It was a move that made it nearly impossible

  for me to spend time with him the way other widows can just

  visit a grave site with flowers anytime they want. The trek to

  Pala was just a cheeky little jaunt for her. She doesn’t work a regular job and the Austins have a driver. A two-hour chauf-feured trip in a Wi-Fi-enabled Bentley was nothing for her.

  Clearly her visits must have tapered off in the recent past or

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  she would have known what happened to the mausoleum be-

  fore I told her. But visiting him frequently really only mat-

  tered in the beginning when she went to see him and I didn’t,

  because it served as the proof she needed that she made the

  right choice, the best choice, and the only choice—after I

  made the impossible choice. I’m not going to let things play

  out like that again.

  “He deserves more from me now,” I tell Brian. “He de-

  serves actual thought and effort and meaning from me. If I can’t figure it out, then sure. I’ll turn things over to Debbie. But I need a chance this time.”

  “I get it. Giving him to Debbie was just a thought in case

  that made things easier. It was dumb of me to suggest; I know

  you’ve already thought about that and more importantly, I

  know you can handle this, Charlotte.” He pauses. “You’re the

  strongest person I know.”

  Brian reaches across the table and puts his right hand on my

  shoulder, and we hold eye contact until an alarm goes off on

  Brian’s phone. He springs his hand away to silence the noise.

  “Well, that’s my cue. I’ve got to get to the hospital for

  rounds. Thanks for letting me visit and help a little bit with

  Project Decker. I like doing that kind of thing. Helping peo-

  ple.” He smiles and points to the embroidery on his scrubs

  pocket. If I still worked for the studio, I would try my hard-

  est to land him a walk-on role for some hospital drama. He’d

  be a great D-list McDreamy.

  “And just remember…if shit hits the fan, I’m your guy. Call

  me, come over, whatever.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” I say as I open the screen of my lap-

  top back up.

  Alone again at Alfred’s, I afford myself the liberty of a

  Google search titled “what to do with your loved one’s ashes.”

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  The top result is an article with fifty-two unique options.

  When I click the link, I am hopeful that something will trig-

  ger a solid next step.

  Scrolling down the page, hope turns to confusion, then

  doubt, and then finally a little bit of nausea when I get to

  entry number forty-four: Sprinkle some ashes into your favorite jar of nail polish and wear your loved one on the tips of your fingers. And… I’m officially done here.

  I spot a woman perching up an Open sign on the sidewalk

  outside a boutique across the street. The water bowl she sets

  down next tells me they’re dog-friendly, and so I wake Leno

  from sunbathing, figuring I’ll pop in on my way back to the

  apartment.

  “Hi there,” says the store attendant once I’m standing in the

  entryway. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

  Her bubbly greeting is a stark difference from what you get

  at most LA boutiques—a death stare followed by completely

  ignoring your existence when you ask for help. I smile back as

  I snake my way through the store, making sure Leno doesn’t

  knock into a jewelry display.

  What are you up to? the text from Casey lights up my wrist as I shuffle some striped T-shirts on a rack to the left in search of my size.

  Nothing. Just shopping , I say back.

  Oh.

  Oh? The single-word answer makes me pause for a mo-

  ment. Should I not be shopping? Is it not okay for me to do

  something banal right now? I got temporarily let go from my

  job and my husband’s ashes need to go somewhere other than

  a bottle of OPI. I would think checking to see if these moto-

  style leggings come in my size would come with a little less

  judgment from Casey of all people.

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  OK* Stupid autocorrect she texts back before I get the chance to dissect her accidental word choice further. I breathe easier knowing it was just a typo. Was wondering if I left my keys at

  home. Nvm.

  I respond that I’ll check when I’m back. Meanwhile, I find

  the nice boutique owner and ask her about the leggings.

  “Excuse me. Do you have these in a size medium?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t do sizes here.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “We don’t believe women should be classified by smalls,

  mediums, and larges. So instead, we color code all of our in-

  ventory. You look like you’d be a purple. Look for things

  with purple tags, those will fit you well. Or you could go for

  a tighter fit with a red tag, and a looser fit with a green tag.”

  Aside from this being one of the most LA things I have ever heard, I can’t quite wrap my head around the system.

  “Why don’t you just make three different sections of the

  store and put all the same-sized clothes in each section. You

  can call them sections one, two, and three.”

  “We don’t do sizes,” she reminds me. “And we wouldn’t

  want anyone to feel self-conscious about shopping in a section

  ‘three.’ The colors are neutral. They’re arbitrary,” she explains.

  “Well, they’re not arbitrary. Nothing is arbitrary if it’s a

  system
used over time. I know a purple fits me today. But if

  in six months I come back and all of a sudden I’m a green,

  I’ll know what that means just the same: I gained ten pounds

  over the holidays.”

  The associate takes the leggings from my hands and re-

  racks them.

  “With all due respect, I’m not sure Be Yourself is the right

  store for you. We tend to be a little more…free-thinking over

  here. But good luck with your search. I hope you find the fit

  you’re looking for.”

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  Not worrying about whether I’ll have to fit my thighs into

  a green, purple, or red, I grab lunch at a honey-butter fried

  chicken place, splurging the extra dollar for a biscuit instead of a bun. The nice cashier with the septum piercing talked me

  into it, but I’m fine with the upsell because I can’t remember

  the last time I had a flaky biscuit.

  I find a spot for one at a communal picnic table on their

  patio. The whimsical red-and-white-striped umbrella doesn’t

  have the breadth to go up against the midday sun and I can’t

  wait to see the resulting suntan. I tuck Leno under the table

  like it’s a makeshift dog house. He lies down on the cool,

  shady cement.

  A few minutes later, my tray arrives and I sink my teeth into

  the sandwich. I chew that first, dense bite slowly and wash

  it down with a sip of an ice-cold fountain drink. The warm,

  tangy buttermilk biscuit tastes like nostalgia. Even though I

  don’t plan on telling the sous chef that his fifteen-dollar gourmet sandwich reminds me of McDonald’s breakfast, I promise

  I mean it in the best of ways. I take another bite. It brings me back to simpler times—a drive-thru, a combo meal, a thin wax

  paper wrapper with melted cheese stuck to it on the inside. I

  know this isn’t that, but it doesn’t stop me from heading back

  to the counter, pulling out another dollar, and hoping that’s

  enough to cover an extra biscuit on the side.

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  Brian takes a minute to answer the door the next day, which

  gives me some time to decide what I want to do with the sec-

  ond button on my denim chambray shirt and to soak in the fact that I’m standing in the hallway of his zonks-amaze condo

  building in downtown Los Angeles. Seriously, his monthly

  HOA fees here must be the same as my entire rent. Was that