He shrugs. “I don’t think I have. I don’t know how. She was my first serious girlfriend. Dated for five years, junior year of high school to junior year of college for her, through my apprenticeship and journeyman carpentry programs for me. We eloped.” He laughs. “Her parents hated me. She was from money, like old South money. She didn’t want anything to do with it, so when they refused to bless the marriage, she said fuck ’em and we eloped. Drove to Vegas, got married by Elvis.”
“Legit?”
He snorts, laughs louder. “Yeah. Sober as a post, both of us. Then we got drunk and blew a couple grand at the blackjack tables and slot machines. Came home, got an apartment together, and that was life.” A long silence. “Then a semi driver fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the center line, crushed her little Camry like a can of Coke. Killed her instantly. She was on the way to meet me for dinner after work. Phone rang while I was sitting at our table, waiting.”
“Jeez, dude. I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “Thanks.” He shakes his head, then. “How do you move on, man? I went on a date, a few weeks ago. Girl I met at a coffee shop. I couldn’t handle it. How do you tell a girl you just met that you’ve got dead wife? When do you mention it? Second date? Third? You gotta explain why you’re so grumpy, closed off. But you tell her too soon, it freaks her out. Makes her think you’re trying to…replace her? I dunno. I think that, myself. How do I replace Lisa? I know in my head that I can’t, that I’m not going to do that. But tell that to my heart.” He throws back the rest of his whiskey. “It’s a tough row to hoe.”
“I…” I want to say this is valuable insight, but that would be crass and would open up a conversation I’m not ready to have with anyone. “I guess you’re right when you said I can’t imagine.”
“God damn but I hope you never have to, my friend.”
“Me too,” I whisper, but it’s lost in my tumbler.
I won’t have to. That’s the problem. I know, I know, there’s still a chance I’ll make it through this. The experimental chemo might work. I’ve been loathe to try radiation. Surgery’s out. But in my heart of hearts, deep down, I’m absolutely terrified because I don’t think I am going to make it through this.
And it’ll be Nadia sitting here, having this conversation with someone.
That’s when it hits me.
An idea, or rather the completion of the idea I had earlier.
I can help her.
No one knows Nadia better than me, not even her. I know how she’ll react—and predicting human behavior is what I do. It’s part of the magic trick of inventing people. I can help her, when I’m gone. But in order to do that, I have to start now.
“Tell me about your wife,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Nadine?”
“Nadia.”
We tended to stick to whiskey and westerns, old girlfriends, epic party stories. Macho bro-y stuff.
“Sorry, I knew that. I’m a little drunk.”
“It’s cool.” I sigh. Here’s a topic I can wax poetic about endlessly. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever.” A pause, ice tinkling as he swirls it in the dregs. “What made you fall in love with her?”
“Oh, man.” I laugh, scrape a hand through my hair—wince when my hand comes away with loose hair stuck to it. Fucking chemo. “Honest answer? Her ass.”
He chortles. “You fell in love with her ass.”
“Yup.” I’m tipsy enough that truth is easy, too easy. “She’s tall, man. Five-nine, almost five-ten. Slender. Not skinny, just slender. Tits are a handful, just barely. I like it that way. But her ass, man.”
He shakes his head. “Lisa was like that. Similar build. Got me every time she turned around. Like damn, would you look at that ass?”
I laugh, nod. “Exactly. Serious, though, that’s what I first noticed about her. I was in the English program, she was in nursing school, taking a creative writing course I was the TA for. Taking it just for kicks, ’cause she likes a challenge.” I let my mind float backward in time. “She wasn’t a great writer. Shit at spelling, like to the point where it was comical. But what caught my attention was her focus. She would be at her desk writing, and her concentration was just total. But…god, how do I put it? It’s different than when you love something and get lost in it. That’s easy, right? For you, when you’re in the workshop building something, you get in the zone, right?”
He nods. “Oh yeah. More so when I’m doing something for fun. Whittling gets me like that, as opposed to, like, building a chair or a bookshelf or a set. That’s work. Whittling an owl or something, that’s when I get what you’re talking about.”
“For her, writing was the other kind of concentration. A skill, you know?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“That’s what got me. Her ability to truly focus. It’s sexy.”
He rubs the back of his head. “Never heard anyone say concentration is sexy, but I get what you mean.”
“Last day of class, last assignment I handed back to her, I put my number on it. Two days later, she called, and we went out. And I discovered that she’s quick-witted, that she was demanding, but always more demanding of herself than anyone else. I discovered that she hates downtime, hates being idle. Hates being bored. Hates waiting. Which is why her ability to focus so totally is sexy, because her nature is the opposite. It’s a sign of a strong mind.”
“Lisa was crazy smart,” Nathan says. “She went to MIT, but she was so ahead, so smart that a tech company here in Atlanta hired her before she even graduated. She could do shit with computers that’s just magical. Like that cello guy, Yo-Yo Ma. She was like that, but with computers.”
“Smart is sexy.”
He nods. “Sure is.”
I eye him. “Nathan, do you think maybe you can’t move on because you don’t really want to, deep down?”
He doesn’t answer for a long, long time. “Fuck.” His glass is long empty, and he’s just twirling it on a bottom edge. “Yeah, you may be right.”
“I just—”
“I’m lonely, dude. Go home alone every night, sleep alone, wake up alone…it sucks. After nine years of going to sleep next to her and waking up next to her, being lonely just fuckin’…sucks. So part of me really does want to move on. Find someone. But…I don’t know how. How do you explain yourself to someone new? There’s so much in here,” he taps his forehead, “and here,” his chest, “and I just…I don’t know how to go about showing it to anyone. She just got me. Lisa, I mean. We had years together to figure it out. We were young. It was easy. Feels different now. I feel…heavy, inside.”
“Would you? If the right person came along…would you?”
“Try?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I would. I really would. I’d fuck it up, probably, but I’d go for it. I guess deep down, I know Lisa would want me to. I guess part of me wants her permission, and I don’t know how to reconcile that.”
I nod. “What would you do differently?” I’m pushing it. I know I am, but I’m in the grip of an idea, and it’s making sense of my desperation, that fierce furious desperation I feel all the time now.
“Be home more. Talk more. Tell her how I feel more openly. She was always after me to open up, but I couldn’t figure out what the fuck she meant. And I think I get it now. I think I could do that better, now. I’d do things for her. So she’d know.” A gruff clearing of his throat. “I’d treasure each moment, because we ain’t guaranteed a single goddamn one of them.”
Fuck, that hits me like a javelin. It punches into my chest so hard my breath whooshes out like he physically punched me with his giant cinderblock fist. Might as well have. Hits me so hard I get nauseous.
He notices. “Dude, Adrian, you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah,” I rasp, hoarse. “Swallowed wrong.”
“Bullshit.”
I glance at him. “I’m sorry?”
He eyes me. Eyes somewhere between brown and gray, deep, serious. “That was rank bull
shit. You didn’t swallow wrong.” He clenches his fist, taps a knuckle on the bar. “Adrian, why’re you asking me this shit?”
“Curious.”
He nods. “You’re lying.”
I laugh, but it’s bitter, morbid. “Yeah.”
He lets out a long breath. “All right. Keep your lie. You got your reasons, I guess.” He tugs a card out of his hip pocket, hands it to the bartender. “On me.”
“Nathan, let me—”
“On me.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “No, thank you. I needed this, man. More than you know. Getting home today, to that home, alone, it just…it hit me and I couldn’t be alone. And you were the first person I thought of.”
“Honored to be, buddy. Honored.”
The bartender hands him the black plastic tray with the receipt; he tips generously, totals, scrawls a sloppy signature. He stands. Claps me on the shoulder, gently, but it rocks me forward with a jolt. “You want to unburden yourself of whatever it is you’re carrying, Adrian? You let me know.”
I want to, in that moment. So damn bad. “Some burdens can’t be put down, my friend. But thank you. I know you mean it.”
“Yeah, I guess I get that.” He stumbles a bit.
“You’re not driving are you?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I knew I couldn’t go home tonight. So I got a hotel a couple blocks away. Bottle of Blanton’s waiting for me. I’ll deal with going home tomorrow.” He juts his chin at me. “You’re not driving either, I take it. You had as much as me, and you weigh probably a good buck less.”
“I got an Uber here. When we sit down to drink, we don’t mess around.”
I stand up, and we man-hug, and then he ambles away—his tread is heavy, as if that weight he talked about, feeling heavy, inside, was nearly too much to stand up under.
I watch him go, and I knew then, down to my bones and in my balls and in my blood, what I had to do. It hurt. I wanted to deny it. To put it off. To fight, to hope; I would fight, I would hope, until the bitter end, I would. I’d hope this would all be for nothing. Wasted effort, wasted time. Wasted pain. Wasted sacrifice. But I knew I had to.
For my conscience.
For Nadia.
Whispers & Wine
Being married to a writer is hard. Don’t let anyone ever say different. They’re aloof, when they’re writing. It’s not you, it’s them. They don’t mean to be, it’s just the job. That notebook opens, that computer turns on, keys start clacking, pen starts scribbling—that person is gone. It’s the story, then, and it takes them.
He usually writes with his office door open, some classical music on in the background, cello or guitar or piano.
A month after his trip up to the East Coast, and he’s got his office door closed, locked. Silence, but for the tick-tick-tock-tick-tickety-tickety-tock-tock-tock of the keyboard. Fast and loud, meaning he’s really moving. Adrian is gone and all that exists in that room is a conduit, fingers and a story.
I’m worried.
He comes out after eight hours in there, looking wan. Shaky. Thin. In the words of Bilbo Baggins, he looks like butter scraped over too much bread.
I’ve made a pot of stew, left it to simmer for him. I’m reading, my day off. He comes out, props himself against the range with one hand, lifts the lid of the pot. Sniffs.
“It’s been ready to eat for hours, babe,” I say, rising. “Let me get you some.”
He waves me off. “Nah, nah. I’ll do it.”
I sit back down, and he ladles himself a bowl. Brings it to the couch where I am. Eats in silence.
“Adrian, are you okay? I’m worried about you.”
He eats steadily, mechanically. “I’m okay.”
I frown. “I’m not just your wife, you know. I’m a trained medical professional. And I don’t think you are…okay, that is.”
He stops eating, abruptly. Sets the bowl on his thigh. Sighs. “I know. I just…I have to write this.”
“That’s not an answer to my question, Adrian.”
“I know, I know.” He finishes the last few bites. “That was great, Nadia. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now talk to me, honey.”
He blinks. His jaw works. His eyes drop; embarrassed, angry, bitter, sad—I can’t tell. “I can’t.”
“You’re hiding something.” I blurt it out—I feel the words topple out of my mouth like stones tumbling down a hillside.
“Yes.”
My heart sinks. Pangs. “If you try to tell me you’re having an affair, I’ll just laugh. And then murder you in your sleep.”
He snorts. “Not in a million years, my love.” He gives me his eyes, open and frank, at least in this. “Never.”
I know it’s true. My heart knows it. “Then what?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Adrian, please.”
He sets the bowl on the coffee table—the spoon clatters noisily. His eyes are gray, almost silver. Turns to face me, those eyes heavy, hiding something. Sadness, I can see it. Panic. Desperation.
For the first time since I met him, I don’t get what I ask for.
“Nadia…” He ducks his head. Seems to have trouble breathing. “Not yet. Please. I love you. More than I can ever—more than I can ever fucking express. I just…”
I palm his cheeks. “Make me a promise and I’ll let it go.”
“Okay?”
“You ask me for help, if it’s something I can give. Anything. My last breath, you ask for it—I’ll give it. You love me; you’re mine and no one else’s. You don’t leave me. Promise.”
This is, suddenly, everything.
One of those moments that are etched into your soul, a mile deep.
He blinks. Tugs away, ducks his head. “Everything I do, Nadia, I do for you. Never doubt that.”
“Adrian, you didn’t—”
A harsh sigh. He visibly rallies, gathers himself. Looks me in the eye, clear and strong. “I promise. Whatever you can do, I will let you do. I’ll ask. I’m yours. Totally. More now than when we exchanged rings. Forever, I’m yours. I will never…” he falters here. “I won’t leave you. I swear on my soul.”
“Okay.” I clutch him to me, and I feel him breathing hard. “Okay, Adrian.”
“Okay?”
I nod against his shoulder. “Okay.”
I want to hold him forever. As if to let go, now, is to somehow let go in some deeper metaphysical way I cannot truly grasp. But I do. I let him go. “Go back to work, babe. I can feel you needing it.”
“Just a little more. Then I’ll come to bed.”
“I work—”
“Seven to three tomorrow, noon to midnight Wednesday, seven to three Thursday and Friday, off the weekend.” He smirks. “I know your schedule before you do.”
I laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Creeper.”
He pauses at the door to his office, which I can see from my place on the couch. “Nadia.”
I pick up my book. Smile at him. “Yeah?”
“You’re cute. I like you.”
“You gonna keep me, then?”
He laughs out loud. “Yeah, babe. I know a good thing when I snag it, and I ain’t letting go of you.” His words are light, but I feel like if I were closer, I’d see a heaviness behind them.
I feel the pilot light of my panic furnace kick on. Whoomp. Just a simmer, at first. But it’s growing. And the more he dissembles, the higher the dial will go. He knows he can’t fool me, not for long. So now he’s not even trying. He’s still not talking, not sharing: I still can’t get through.
I know him, though.
He can’t hide anything from me for long.
But for the first time, I wonder if I want to know.
If maybe this is something I’m better off not knowing.
* * *
“Beaches!” Tess garbles, around a mouthful of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
“Hell no!” I shout from the couch, flip
ping through Netflix. “I need the opposite of sobbing my eyeballs out. Dumb and Dumber?”
“‘Hey, you wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world? AAAAAHHHHHH!’” She does a gratingly accurate impression of Jim Carrey in that scene, to the point that I throw a throw pillow at her face from across her living room.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I ask.
“Nah,” she says, batting it aside. “Seen it a bazillion times. Far and Away?”
“‘Tell me you like my hat, Shannon,’” I quote, in a terrible Irish accent. “Nuh-uh. Eat, Pray, Love?”
She brings over the gallon of ice cream, hands it to me, and returns to her kitchen, where she peruses the wine rack in her pantry. “Josh, Joel Gott, Jordan…Decoy, Duckhorn…”
I twist on the couch, to stare at her. “Tess McAlister. Do you have your wines alphabetized?”
“No,” she says, her voice defensive and sullen. “Maybe. Yes. Shut up. I was bored, okay? Clint was in Milwaukee for two damn weeks, and I was bored out of my fucking mind. So I alphabetized the wine. And the DVDs we haven’t watched in like, five years. And the, um, soup.”
“Soup?” I take a bite of mint chocolate chip. “You alphabetized your damn soup? If you’re that bored, you need a hobby. Needlepoint or some shit.”
“By that point, I’d crocheted an entire scarf, done about fifty word searches and three crossword puzzles, and only cheated twice on the crosswords, by the way and thank you very much. I even did fucking Sudoku, and you know numbers make my nose bleed. I watched an entire season of Grey’s Anatomy, and all three Lord of the Rings movies, with commentary and bonus features.”
I laugh. “At that point call me. You can organize my pantry for me.”
She fakes a violent shudder. “No thanks, bitch, I’ve seen that abomination.”
“Shut up, it’s not that bad.”
“You have chicken stock next to coffee beans and ketchup with soup. It is exactly that bad.”
“Which is why I need your organizational magic.”
“You couldn’t pay me enough.”
“Anyway. Eat, Pray, Love, and…Joel Gott. Yes?”
“Agreed.” She withdraws the bottle, uncorks it, brings it and two stemless wineglasses over, sits on the couch beside me, and pours us each a generous glass, and by generous I mean nearly to the brim. Then, she grabs her gavel—an actual antique gavel, once used in an actual courthouse—and slams it down three times. “I hereby declare this Period Party in session. May our cramps be gentle and our bleeding light.”
The Cabin Page 5