by Micah Nathan
Howie beckoned the waitress. “As far as I know,” he said, “Art’s still at Dr. Cade’s.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope…” Howie rubbed his eyes. “I think he’s helping Professor Cade with another book. He didn’t win the Pendleton, by the way. Did you know that? Linwood Thayers got it.”
All that trouble, I thought.
“I can’t see Art ever leaving Aberdeen,” Ellen said. “He’s thinking about getting his doctorate. At least he was when we last talked.”
“When was that?” I said. The waitress brought the check and Howie promptly took it, despite my protests.
“Oh, let me think…six months ago, maybe. I ran into him at the new coffeehouse on Main and Tremont. What’s that called—”
“Neely’s,” Howie said.
“That’s right.” Ellen smiled and rubbed the back of Howie’s neck. “Art was sitting alone, as usual, big old book on the table, papers lying around. We talked briefly. He asked about you.”
I sat up. “What’d he say?”
“He wanted to know what you were up to. Said if I ever see you to give you a big hug. And he also wanted me to thank you.”
Howie and I both stared at her.
“For what?” I said.
Ellen shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
I already knew the answer.
“You never told me that story,” Howie said.
Ellen smiled demurely. “It wasn’t for you.”
Some intimacies never go away—for a moment I saw Ellen as she’d been with Art, and he sat near her, a ghost, long arm draped over her shoulder, small glasses hooked behind his ears, scents of clove and tobacco.
Something gave and it came out of me. The way these things always do. Slipping past the guards. “The way Dan died…” I said, looking away. “No one really believes it. I mean how everyone says it happened. You don’t believe it, do you?” I pinched my thigh, hard, to stop the tears, but it wasn’t working.
Howie’s hand shot across the table and grabbed my wrist.
I stared at him, then Ellen. She took his hand, gently sliding it off mine. Howie inhaled deeply, looked up, and shook his head. Art’s ghost wisped away, mouth open in a silent scream, blown by spectral winds.
I didn’t realize it at the time—we never do—but that was the most honest we’d ever been with each other, and none of us had said a thing.
We made our goodbyes, Ellen kissing me on the cheek, Howie nearly crushing me in a full-body hug, and then I sat in the booth and watched them leave.
Howie stood at the door of his Jag and searched his pockets, while Nilus barked at him from the backseat. Sun glinted off the car’s sleek hood, bubbles of searing light, striking Edna’s front window and shattering all over my table in cubes and beams, dappling my arms, my plate of half-eaten food, the cracked red Naugahyde booth. Howie looked up and saw me staring at him. He smiled, opened his arms to the sky, and got into his car.
And in that moment, I knew he’d forgiven me. Ask, and ye shall receive.
About the Author
Micah Nathan has been a radio talk show host, an amateur kickboxer, a motivational speaker, a filmmaker, and a strength and conditioning coach. He was in born in Hollywood, raised in western New York farm country, and now lives in Brookline, Massachusetts with his wife. This is his first novel.