by Ani Katz
Perhaps I knew that these details would matter later, that it was important to remember them.
My sisters were waiting for us on the front porch. They were bare-legged in garish caftans, sipping from crystal goblets filled with crushed ice, cut fruit, and wine. They waved, leaning forward in their wicker rocking chairs as we exited the car.
Look who’s here! Kit hooted.
My daughter raced up the wooden steps, but I hung back, leaning against the porch column.
We’re so glad you could make it, Miss Call of the Wild.
Oh my god, my daughter moaned, collapsing into the empty rocker between my sisters. I thought we’d never finish it!
Is it all done?
No, I said. She’s got more to do tomorrow.
That’s why I can’t sleep over, my daughter said, pouting. It’s not fair.
Well, that’s all right, Deedee said, waving everyone’s disappointment away. You certainly don’t have to think about it tonight.
What are we going to watch? What are we going to eat?
Whatever you want, baby girl.
Can we get sushi? Please?
Not Domino’s?
Gross.
Oh, you used to love the cheesy bread, Kit teased. You used to dip it in the blue cheese sauce that came with the buffalo wings.
Not since, like, forever. That stuff is so bad for you.
One of these days you’re going to get so skinny you’ll disappear.
I listened to them banter. Their chatter was so light, so unencumbered by any kind of care. They would pass an evening eating salted edamame and spicy tuna rolls, watching the sort of movies that my daughter wasn’t allowed to watch at home—movies about murderous cults of teenaged witches, or Shakespearean adaptations set in boarding schools. Maybe my sisters would read her cards, see what they could divine about her future. It would be a lovely evening, and when she finally came home that night, everything would be different.
How’s Ma? I asked suddenly.
The girls turned to look at me, surprised to see me still standing there.
She’s good, said Deedee. It’s been a good day.
Do you want to see her? Kit asked. She’s up in her room, but I’m pretty sure she’s awake.
I saw her then, there in the front hall. She’s still in her pajamas, her messy hair leavened with morning light. Some crooner is crackling on the record player. Our father has his bearish arms locked around our mother’s waist, and he is dipping her, burping nonsense into her neck as she throws her head back, away from him, casting her wild eyes around the room in search of aid, in search of us. And we are watching from the stairs, the twins shrieking with helpless, thoughtless laughter as Evie takes my hand and squeezes it until our knuckles crack.
I shook my head, shook the scene out of my eyes.
No, I said quickly. That’s all right. Just give her my love.
But I still lingered, listening as the engine of their cheerful conversation turned over and restarted itself, continuing on down the road without me. I stood there waiting to say good-bye until I was sure I wouldn’t choke on my words.
I’m heading out, I said finally, turning to go. Call me when you’re ready to come home.
Okay, Daddy.
Not too late, sweetheart.
I know.
On my way back I made a few stops. First, the good wine store in our charming little downtown, where I took my time choosing two bottles from their extensive French selection—a thirty-three-dollar organic rosé from Provence, and a very fine sixty-four-dollar Bordeaux that we’d enjoyed a year or two ago on someone’s birthday. My birthday or my wife’s, I couldn’t recall. Or maybe it had been Christmas. I wanted to remember, but I couldn’t.
Next, I stopped in at the bakery down the street, where I bought their last baguette and a raspberry lemon tart. It was the kind of dessert that my wife liked, more sour than sweet. I got a full-size tart, so that there would be enough left over for my daughter when she came home later that night. At the last minute I asked for three croissants. For the morning.
Then, using my debit card, I swiped myself into the vestibule of my bank, where I took out four hundred dollars in twenties from the ATM. There was nothing unusual about this. I always kept cash in the house—some in my sock drawer, some under the mattress—and after my wanderings this week I needed to replenish my supply.
I made it to the florist just before it closed. The dark elfin girl behind the counter helped me make a beautiful bouquet of hydrangeas—pearl white and palest blue, like something a bride would carry.
Just make sure you put them in lots of cold water, the girl called after me. Otherwise they’ll be wilted by the morning.
I nodded, waved my thanks and good-bye without looking back. Outside it was evening—the warmth of the day had gone, and the streets of our town were gray and empty in the sudden gloaming.
There was no putting it off any longer. It was time for me to go home.
* * *
■ ■ ■
At this point I must pause to address some concerns, which are beginning to take on an increasingly uncomfortable and burdensome weight in my mind. Specifically, I am concerned that despite my best efforts to tell my story honestly, I may be missing the mark. Not telling it the way it should be told. Not coming off quite right. Owing to my present state of complete misery and remorse, I fear that I’ve made things look a certain way—cast things in a certain light, so to speak—and I know that way of looking is not entirely faithful to the reality of what actually happened, or how my girls and I actually lived our life together. As I’ve said before, I know it’s impossible to fully capture the truth of it all, let alone communicate that truth to people who never even knew us. In the retelling, it’s far too easy to miss the heart of it. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to get it right.
The truth is, my wife and I did make it to France. One summer, the year before our daughter was born. We spent a few days in Paris with her parents, days that I recall were a bit tense but pleasant as we got over our jet lag in their cramped and pungent apartment. Then the two of us took a train down to Aix-en-Provence, where my wife had gone to university. We rented an apartment with a terrace in a building that dated back to the Middle Ages, and we passed a romantic week wandering the narrow cobblestone lanes, hiking up to the scenic lookout point where Cézanne painted Mont Sainte-Victoire, drinking glasses of pallid, one-euro rosé in plazas while children kicked soccer balls and shouted to one another as dusk descended through the canopy of trees overhead.
I honestly don’t remember much about the trip. I haven’t even mentioned it until now because it hasn’t seemed important, certainly not in the grand scheme of our life together. I do remember that my wife cried often while we were there. She cried when her mother served us couscous for dinner, a childhood favorite. She cried when I took a picture of her on the doorstep of the building where she’d lived as a student. She cried after we made love on our tiny terrace one night, her halting groans of pleasure giving way to sobs that were drowned out by the shouts of revelers below.
Whenever I asked her why she was crying, she would say that she was just so happy.
We meant to go back someday as a family, when our daughter was old enough to appreciate it. I know we would have eventually, maybe even as soon as the following summer. It would have been the perfect time—that elusive sweet spot at the beginning of adolescence, before our girl could finish growing up and leave us behind.
There was no reason we couldn’t have.
* * *
■ ■ ■
When I got home I found my wife asleep in the living room where I’d left her, the dog nestled in the gap between her knees, his head resting on her thigh. They snored together, quietly and companionably. I stood in the doorway and watched them for a while, then lay down on the floor beside the
m, my spine pressed to the rug. I closed my own eyes and waited, letting the long minutes pass. I was reluctant to bring my wife back into wakefulness, because I knew what would happen when I did, and who knew when we would ever be at peace like this again?
Finally I roused myself. I knelt beside my wife, put out my hand, and stroked her hair and neck until she stirred and let out a soft little gasp before seeing me and smiling. She always made that sound when I woke her, no matter how gentle I tried to be. Looking at her now, I knew it wasn’t time yet.
Let me cook for us tonight, I murmured. You’re too tired.
Eyes closed once more, she nodded in assent. In another moment she was dozing again.
There was a flank steak in the freezer. I set it in the sink under lukewarm running water to defrost, and then I gathered ingredients to make a salad. That and the baguette I’d bought would have to serve us. I opened the wine to let it breathe. The bottle I’d picked out really deserved a special meal, but we would have to live with what I could make. I kept the radio off—for once I didn’t feel like listening to anything. I cleared everything out of the dining room, moving the still-drying board game to the coffee table in the living room. Then I began to make dinner.
I find it difficult to describe this part of it. These hours. The meal I made for us, the dinner we had together that night. I find this period much harder to describe than many of the other things that happened. I can’t tell you why.
I can tell you how to cook a steak, though—how I cooked our steak that night. Once the meat is defrosted and brought up to room temperature you blot it with paper towels, pressing the flesh until it’s dry. Then you season aggressively with salt and pepper—if you think you’re using too much, that’s probably just the right amount. Heat a pan on high for a few minutes, until it starts to smoke—cast iron is best if you have it, which you should. Throw the steak in the pan and cook for two minutes on each side, not a second more. Set it on a cutting board and let it rest for another minute or so while you finish setting the table. Then carve. If you follow these steps it will be an impeccable medium rare.
That was the way my wife liked it.
I cut into the meat with our best carving knife, that first slice of the blade parting the charred exterior to reveal the rich ruby within. Perfect, as usual. When I finished getting everything ready I called to my wife, and we sat down at the dining room table together.
Things began to go wrong almost immediately. My torso suddenly tingled and burned with an uncontrollable itch, as if I had rolled around in poison sumac, or a colony of biting ants. I scratched at myself, pinching and clawing at my breast, then stood, nearly knocking over my chair.
Excuse me, I said, backing away from the table. I’m sorry, love.
Darling? my wife called after me. What’s wrong?
Nothing! I responded, my voice light. Nothing’s wrong.
But darling—
I just need a moment!
I locked myself in the downstairs bathroom and stripped off my shirt, fully expecting to look into the mirror and see a raw and vicious rash overtaking and disfiguring me—but there was nothing at all.
It was just me. Just my body.
I splashed cold water on my chest and neck, slapped my bare skin hard enough to leave a flush of handprints. Naked from the waist up, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time, waiting until my lungs stopped pulsing grotesquely between the barriers of my ribs, waiting until I could control my face again.
Then I put my shirt back on and returned to my wife.
Is everything all right?
Yes, I said evenly. Everything is fine.
I sat down at the table again and began to cut my meat into pieces, but I found I couldn’t bring myself to eat them. My tongue felt heavy and distended in my mouth; the wine tasted unbearably sour, but I continued drinking it. The itching had subsided, but a nauseating shiver kept passing through my body, a subtle convulsion that felt almost sexual. My wife was talking, but I couldn’t hear or understand a word that she was saying. I was in that deaf and distant place again, watching my life from behind thick glass. Impotent.
Just begin somehow, I told myself. Just say something. Just say her name.
Darling?
I looked up. She was watching me closely, her doelike eyes dark with concern.
What’s wrong?
Nothing, I said. I told you there’s nothing.
Why aren’t you eating?
I looked down at my plate. The shredded, exsanguinated flesh looked like something you would feed to a dog. I choked back a long swallow of wine. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I was afraid I might begin to sob, or scream. With a sigh I leaned forward and took my wife’s hands, kneaded her wrists with my thumbs, tried to find the words for what I had to tell her.
What’s wrong, darling? she murmured. You can tell me.
I shook my head. I couldn’t.
I’m sorry, love, I said. I’m sorry.
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
I’m just so tired.
We were silent for a while. My shivering intensified—I knew I had to get my body under control, force it through its motions. Command it.
Let’s go upstairs, I said suddenly. Let’s go to bed.
Right now?
Yes, I said, still holding her hands, pulling them to me. I’ve wanted you all day.
We should clean up first.
No we shouldn’t, I said.
But—you’re shaking.
I know. I want you right now.
There was something uncertain in her face now. A sense of stiffness, of hesitation. It disturbed me. Why now, when she had never questioned me like this before? If only she would trust me, I could fix this mess. I knew that everything would be all right once we were in bed together, once she was safe in my arms. I could convince her of everything then.
Come on, I said, looking into her eyes. Come.
For a long time we simply stared at one another. In those moments I feared that we were already lost to each other, but I also knew that if I could just stay strong and outlast her she would relent.
Come, I repeated.
Then she softened to me. I saw the moment of her decision—her submission—saw it in her wet and shining eyes, the way she let her body relax back into its natural state of gentleness. The way I always knew her to be. She leaned toward me, her forehead nearly touching mine, close enough that I could feel the breath of her words against my lips.
Let me take a shower, she said, her voice low. Then I’ll meet you in the bedroom.
She went up, leaving the table untouched. In the kitchen, I listened to the shower run above me—I thought of drinking the rosé, but instead I filled a rocks glass with Laphroaig. It tasted like nothing. I drank one, then another, then more. Within a few minutes I had finished the bottle, which I left in the sink.
Finally I climbed the stairs to our room. I lay down on our bed, which seemed to pitch and roll beneath me. I held on to the edges of the mattress and closed my eyes against the unsteady tide that seemed to bear me ever closer to shipwreck and disaster. As I lay there, my thoughts turned, once more, to the final act of Tannhäuser. I thought of poor saintly Elisabeth, who has been waiting so long for her love to return to her. I thought of her hope when she sees the pilgrims approaching, her mounting dread as she searches each hooded face, her despair as she realizes her beloved sinner has failed in his quest for absolution and has not come back to her. She knows then that she will have to die to save him.
And then I knew with a terrible certainty that my wife would leave me.
How had I not realized it before now? All the evidence had been there, right in front of me. The messages I’d seen on her phone, her casual quickness in closing her browser windows these past few weeks—only now did I understand the significance of those minor
clues. Even her sweet compliance was nothing more than a ploy. She had been making plans for a long time, and now everything had driven me to the point where I had to confess, and the awful shame of what I had done to us would be the final push she needed to leave me forever.
I suddenly saw the pale hart’s antler of her left hand, the way it had looked in her lap that night in front of the fire—defiantly naked, unadorned by any evidence of my love, of our commitment. I saw it all now: her eyes downcast in disappointment, not modesty. Her long silences, weighted with regret. The way she carried herself in a crowd of strangers—showing off, seeking. The way her body would recoil at my mere approach. She hadn’t worn my ring in months, and it was because she had already made up her mind.
She knew exactly who she had married—who I really was.
Desperate, I reasoned there had to be a way to make her stay. There had to be a way that I could convince her not to leave me.
Forgive me. Forgive me. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I don’t deserve you. I don’t even deserve to live. I’m sorry. Just forgive me. Stay. Please.
The door opened. There she was, her dark hair wet, her silk robe open to show her damp skin. She came toward me with sly eyes, smiling in her soft way.
O thou, my fair evening star.
No—a cat caught eating the canary.
I stood. Before she could speak, I put my hands on her throat.
And I swear on everything that I once held dear in my wretched life that she seemed to relax into my grip, that she surrendered herself to me. As if she’d known, somehow, all along.
The summer Evie was fourteen she was infatuated with the androgynously handsome lead singer of a mediocre British goth-rock band. She bought all of the band’s albums on both vinyl and cassette and scrawled their brooding lyrics over every surface she could touch—her notebooks, her bedroom walls, the toes and soles of her sneakers. Even her underwear was marked by this man’s words, obscure slant-rhymed couplets about drugs and failed relationships penned onto the cotton. I had never seen a lust like that before, had never known that someone could be so hungry with such impossible desire, least of all my older sister.