“That’s not the reason.”
“Bullshit. I wasn’t even tempted to grab your tits,” he goes on. He fishes a bottle of beer out of the fridge, takes a gulp, “Here’s the thing,” he continues. “When we were in high school, all I wanted was, well, you know, to get into your pants. I had this major crush on you. Mostly because you were already taken, which was a kind of test of my lady skills. My excellent lady skills. Remember how I used to beg you to follow me into the woods behind the school?”
“I do remember.”
“It’s what Old Hatchet-Face said in English class when we read that book—you finished it; I only skimmed—‘we’re moving on.’ ”
“The Great Gatsby. ‘So we move on, boats against the tide …’ ”
“Whatever.” He drums an impatient rat-a-tat on his jeans. “You were always a snooty smarty-pants. The point is, Annie, I’m sure glad I found this out.”
“Found what out?’
“That I am so over you. It’s just that you and me … It’s not the same.”
“Tell me about it. Nobody’s the same.”
“I am,” Ralphie says.
“And that’s a good thing?”
“You better believe it.” He studies the poster for La Kermesse.
“Well, I concur, in this futile attempt to rewrite history.” She stands up. She pictures her comfortable, tidy house and feels a stab of guilt. “Can I help you clean this mess?”
“Don’t bother.” He surveys his living quarters. “There’s not much to do.” As he bends over to brush empty bottles and candy wrappers under the sofa, his shirt rides up, exposing a tattoo of a naked woman—big breasted, slim hipped, tiny waisted. Below the tattooed figure’s dainty foot, Annie can just make out a sliver of leopard-print underpants.
He passes her coat to her. “No hard feelings?”
“I have a husband. I have a life. I am very happy. Very,” she protests.
“Big fucking deal. Whatever. And I’ll probably end up getting that cough of yours.”
He guides her out of the back room, through the grocery aisles, past shelves now emptied of their unwholesome snacks, and stops at the front door. He flips the CLOSED sign to OPEN. When he turns the knob, the rusty bell clangs a tinny hollow sound, signaling the end of a poorly matched match.
He taps her shoulder. “Can I ask one question before you go?”
“I suppose.”
“That kid Megan who works in your shop? Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Over my dead body,” Annie says, and slams the door.
Chapter Nine
When at last Annie scrambles into her car and starts the drive home, it’s already dark, not the four-thirty Maine-winter seasonal-affective-disorder gloom but the six-thirty dinner-is-ready blackness. In Michaud’s back room with its single grimy window, she had no sense of time passing, the lost hours caused by Ralphie’s “A-one weed,” lost hours she now chooses to dismiss as a bad dream. “Big fucking deal,” Ralphie said. Over and over, she rubs her lips with the back of her glove in an out-damn-spot frenzy of un-PC, she-asked-for-it guilt.
She tries to call Sam to tell him she’ll be late, but the battery is dead. She forgot to recharge her cell, an uncharacteristic oversight. Maybe her forgetfulness, her brazen dope-fueled visit to Michaud’s, her equally brazen new coif have something to do with the disease screwing up brain chemistry. She tosses the useless phone onto the passenger seat. Who knows how many calls have been lost. A ton from Sam, she’s sure, who, when she suggests he doesn’t have to check in so often, always answers, “But I miss you when we aren’t in touch.”
Not even her father championed her to the degree Sam does. When she failed her driver’s test on account of zigzag parallel parking, Sam criticized the inspector’s imprecise instructions. When she broke a glass, he pointed at the sharp-edged counter top. When she (no, they) lost the babies, he accused the misaligned stars, not her unreliable uterus.
Before Sam, she couldn’t imagine such solicitude—certainly Ursula never noticed her comings and goings, never kept tabs. While her friends resented curfews set by watchful, responsible parents, Annie’s freedom felt less like good fortune than neglect.
If sometimes it all seems overwhelming, she has only herself to blame. Lacking a child, did she choose Sam as the repository of her every maternal instinct? After the miscarriages and the stillborn baby, Rachel warned that such terrible losses could ruin a marriage. Couples break up over less, she said. She advised them to arrange counseling, join a support group of bereaved parents. They refused. “No one can make us feel better,” Sam insisted.
Annie agreed. They didn’t need a shrink or a community of fellow sufferers. Annie had a husband. Sam had a wife. That was enough. Better than enough, since, despite Rachel’s textbook cautions, they grew even closer. Adrift in their sea of despair, they were each other’s life raft. Were they wrong? Should they have reached out rather than turning inward? No, they got through it.
Didn’t they?
All beside the point, considering the next thing they will have to get through. An ending. At least for her. And for Sam—a kind of new beginning, however forced upon him, however beyond his control. Here’s the Catch-22: she must help him without actually being there to help him.
As she pulls into her driveway, she notices that the first-floor lights are off. It’s much darker than their usual nod to economy. Once she’s inside, the only illumination seems to be digital—phone, radio, TV, microwave, clock. She’s read that sleep specialists suggest these be covered with opaque fabric to inspire a full eight hours and a household’s peace of mind. Not that the Stevens-Strauss household is, at the moment, an incubator for peace of mind.
She steps into the hall bathroom and brushes her teeth twice. She grabs a bottle of Listerine and gargles. If she could find any floss in the medicine cabinet, she’d use that too. She scrubs her lips and swivels on Chap Stick.
“Sam?” she calls, dredging her voice in a mixture of warmth, innocence, and cheer. “Honey, where are you?”
No answer.
She switches on the lamps in all the downstairs rooms. She climbs to the second floor. She stops outside their study, its door closed. “My phone died,” she reports.
“So I gather,” he says from behind the unaccustomed barricade, words stinging like nettles. “Did your watch stop too?”
“Very funny. Open up,” she says. Though it’s easy enough to twist the knob and simply enter, she knocks.
No response.
“I have something to show you,” she pleads.
She’s annoyed. She could have been in an automobile accident. Been mugged, been struck with amnesia. She could have been called to the side of a friend in crisis. Could have jumped into the icy river to save a drowning dog. Shouldn’t he give her the benefit of the doubt? She’s dying, goddammit; doesn’t that qualify her big-time for a get-out-of-jail pass? Not that this is an excuse she can use.
“As you very well know, there are no locks,” he says now.
She turns the knob. She steps inside.
Sam’s at his desk, eyes fixed on a pile of papers.
She clears her throat.
He doesn’t move.
“Sam!” she exclaims. She’s getting mad now, an unfamiliar feeling that she needs to squelch.
He picks up an envelope. Peering closely, he studies it.
“Sam!” she repeats.
In slow motion, he pivots his chair. He lifts his chin. He stares, opens his mouth, and gasps.
She twirls. “Well?”
“What happened?”
His shirt is buttoned wrong, but she’s not about to point that out. “What do you mean?” she asks, keeping her voice reasonable.
“Your hair,” he sputters.
“Is there something wrong?” she asks. Is her shame that obvious? she wonders.
“Something? Everything! You … you … are unrecognizable.”
“Don’t be silly. After all, you didn’t turn
me away, did you? You didn’t say, whoops, here’s a stranger at my door.”
“Not funny.”
She pushes a stray strand behind her ear. “I guess you don’t like this?”
“Like? I’d say just the opposite.”
“Isn’t your reaction a little strong? I mean, what happened to the person who supports me in everything I do? Must I now ask you what to wear? What shade of lipstick? Do I have to raise my hand for permission to pee?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Sam. It’s only hair.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s the girl I fell in love with.”
“That’s the problem. You want me to stay the same.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?”
“Change can be good. It means personal growth.”
He tosses the envelope into the wastebasket. “You sound like Rachel. This is personal growth heading in the wrong direction.”
“That’s your opinion. Other people like it, love it.”
“What other people? Blind people? Heavy-metal rock musicians?”
“Yeah, Metallica just breezed into Passamaquoddy in their private jet. Come on, Sam.”
“Okay, who? Give me a name?”
What’s she supposed to answer? Dee Dee, Mimi, Tallulah imported from New Jersey? Ralphie Michaud, from the other side of town? “Everyone in Passamaquoddy,” she says. And because she can’t bear another lie, she adds, “Except for Mr. Miller at the drugstore … and, presumably, you.”
“It’s your mother, right? Your mother who gave you this ridiculous idea.”
“My mother had nothing to do with it,” Annie says, surprised to be defending Ursula. “I just wanted a new look.”
“Which makes no sense. You have always been fine just the way you are.” He rubs his temples. “I was so worried, I developed this banging headache. I imagined all kinds of worst-case scenarios …” His eyes narrow. “What is going on with you, Annie? You don’t call to tell me where you are. You didn’t come to the store. You seem distracted. Lately you’ve hardly been yourself.”
“It’s only hair, Sam,” she repeats.
“Why didn’t you run this by me first?”
“Because,” she says, “I’m thirty-seven years old. I can get my hair dyed purple if I want.”
“And you will. I’m sure that will be your next step.”
“Ah, so that’s how you see me.”
“All right. All right. Maybe I am overreacting just a bit.”
“Ha.”
“But to me you could never look less than beautiful, even half-scalped. I’m just saying that I’m surprised. We always make every decision together …”
“Maybe it’s time we stopped,” Annie says, and heads for the stairs.
“If that’s what you want,” he calls after her.
In the kitchen, Annie grabs a carton of Cheerios. She pours herself a glass of wine. She moves into the living room, eating her dinner straight out of the box in front of the TV.
She clicks on The Bachelor. She bets the bachelor would like her new cut. The women on the show sport stylish hairdos and skimpy clothes that expose a lot of shiny bronze skin. However hunky, though, the bachelor can’t hold a candle to Sam. One contestant has hair similar to her own. The bachelor runs his hands through it. Lovingly. Though the story’s halfway through, she gathers that three women are vying for the same man. Who will go home? Who will win a single long-stemmed red rose? There’s a lot of weeping. She wants to weep too. We hardly ever argue, she and Sam would congratulate each other. We agree on everything.
Once upon a time.
“Aren’t you both two little peas in the pod,” their condiment supplier remarked at his last delivery, perhaps not intending a compliment.
She hears Sam pound down the stairs and into the kitchen. The refrigerator bangs. She listens to jars opening, spoons and dishes clanging, a bottle cap being popped. She wonders what he’s able to scrounge for dinner out of an inventory of cocktail onions, capers, a bruised banana, and a hardened wedge of Parmesan. She meant to stop at the supermarket earlier. At the very least, she could have picked up hot dogs and a can of beans from Michaud’s. If she weren’t so otherwise distracted. She hears him stomp upstairs.
She pulls her phone out of her pocketbook. She plugs it in to recharge. She returns to the kitchen and brings the whole bottle of wine back into the living room. The woman with the hair like hers now has white orchids tucked behind one ear. Did the bachelor put them there? She drinks two more glasses of Malbec. She turns off the TV before finding out who won the rose.
In the front hall, she grabs her laptop from the bench. Since the document is initialed MFS—manual for Sam—it’s not something he might consider opening. Even so, she needs to be more careful. She is, after all, married to a man who thinks his is hers and hers is his and that the sanctuary of the bathroom is a universal camping ground.
She starts to type:
IX: ADDENDUM TO SOCIAL
A. Fair Fighting: Do not criticize anyone’s looks, weight, hair, clothes, makeup. Especially after they’ve lopped off their locks or paid a fortune for a new dress, if they are suffering from PMS bloating, if they have issues with self-esteem. Especially if your opinion is not the only one—that is, if other people like the new hairstyle, new dress, or prefer full-figured curves. On the other hand, if you warn the person in advance that, say, purple isn’t their color before they buy the purple dress (the way I tell you not to have the barber take too much over the ears, before you go), then that’s okay. But after the fact? No way! Remember to separate what is opinion from what somebody else might interpret as just plain mean.
I know you value openness, honesty, transparency. I know you don’t believe in secrets. But, Sam, honestly, pure honesty can be just as bad as lying. Lose the I’m-just-telling-the-truth, I’m-only-being-honest, and think before you say something.
I agree we hardly ever fight, and we’ve been so proud of this fact. Perhaps we should have argued more often so we could have become better at it. For your future relationships (yes, you will have them, and yes, you are a great catch for any lucky woman), remember to watch your words. Also, the so-called experts always say never to go to bed angry—maybe that’s overrated. Maybe it’s okay sometimes to stew.
B. Independence: Togetherness is great. Nevertheless, a person needs some space. Yes, big decisions should be joint: buying a house, life insurance, car, living room sofa—but a haircut, lunch date, telling someone where you are every minute like you’re the other person’s GPS—well, that kind of wanting to be close, however admirable, can verge into suffocation, if not turn someone off before they have a chance to know your charms. Despite your aversion to what you see as psychological gobbledygook, you have to be able to accept change. In others. In life. Even in yours truly. The change may be as insignificant (yes!) as a haircut, or as monumental as—here, I’ve said it—death!
Okay, enuf. There will be more to come. And, by the way, I’m rethinking that never-go-to-bed angry bit. Haven’t decided yet, but when I do, I’ll stick it in the manual. And it goes without saying that, yes, no matter what, I love you. xoxo Me
She saves the document, then shuts down the computer. She’ll print it out later and add it to what’s already in her underwear drawer. She grabs her mother-in-law’s afghan from the back of the sofa; she wraps herself in it. Under her head, she tucks a needlepoint pillow of pine trees a loyal customer stitched for her and Sam. Its balsam stuffing summons up forest trails, morning hikes, campfire breakfasts, snuggling together in one sleeping bag under the stars. Oh, what fun they had. Had.
Past tense.
She considers her options. One: The usual routine: Climb into bed with Sam. Act as if nothing is wrong. Pros: Maybe even have makeup sex. Cons: Proximity to her husband’s body might tempt her to blurt out recent humiliations, which won’t be so easy as a haircut to forgive. Also, she’s so angry that she might be tempted to tr
y again to spring on him the harder truth, something that needs careful planning, tact, a thoughtful paving of the way, a whole manual. Option Two: Sneak up to the guest room—originally planned as the nursery—and— Pros: Let her fury subside while she sleeps in a real queen-sized bed with a goose-down duvet and a stack of P. G. Wodehouse on the night table. Cons: While no longer adorned with Curious George–themed curtains and adorable duck decals, it’s a room that, no matter how much comfort they stuff into it, still signals a sad and profound emptiness.
She decides on the narrow couch.
She stretches out. The house is now so quiet that she hears only the whirring of kitchen machines and her own raspy breath. He’ll be sorry, she thinks, and hates herself. She sleeps fitfully, dreaming of a dark forest ending in a lush meadow where a man and a woman hand in hand, hair trailing down the woman’s back, dance through fields of daisies under a rainbow-arced sky.
At five in the morning, a ping startles her. She reaches for her cell. I miss u. Come up to bed, the text message reads. She pictures the empty space in the bed, the space fit for a new wife, the space fit for a dog. Sam’s legs will be looped across her side; one arm will be flopped on her pillow; he’ll have rolled himself in her half of the blankets. She imagines the warmth of his arms around her, her body curled into his, his lips in the tangle—less of a tangle now—of her hair. She wants to be up there with him, with her husband, in their marital nest. She unrolls the afghan; she sits up. She searches for her slippers. But … She drops back onto the sofa. Who more than anybody else on earth needs to start to learn how to be alone?
* * *
When she wakes, it’s already after nine. She’s sure Sam’s gone. He leaves by eight, off to the bakery to buy the rolls, to the market for the Bunyan ingredients, to the garden shop to choose flowers for the front counter, an upgrade Megan initiated and one the customers applaud.
She tiptoes up the stairs just in case. He’s made the bed—a first. How great, she marvels, then feels immediately disappointed. If she weren’t so cowed by the precise military corners (where did he learn that skill?), she’d be tempted to crawl under the covers and snuggle into the hollow left by his body, a space still giving off his particular and comforting smell. Except for his “depressive episode,” they’ve rarely spent a night apart. Even in the maternity ward, when he wasn’t sneaking onto her mattress against doctor’s orders, he slept—or, rather, passed interminable hours—at the end of her bed in a horrible reclining chair. At one point, the footrest snapped back toward the headrest like an accordion pleat, trapping him. They buzzed the nurse to get him out. A nurse who felt obliged to document this event in Annie’s chart (3a.m. husband stuck in chair). “I hear there was a little incident in the nighttime,” the resident on call chuckled the next morning.
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