It hit me that the point-of-view had shifted to Nicodemus.
Why Nicodemus, why now? Readers were never given much from Nicodemus. Typically, the story was told through the eyes of the other three Bear Creek sirens. I’d always assumed Samuel didn’t like writing Nicodemus because there was too much of himself in this particular character, things he didn’t want to share outright with millions of readers. (Of course, he didn’t have qualms about sharing the rest of us with millions of people.) But at this point in the story, Neelie still recovered from her near-death encounter with the sultry lake sirens in the French Alps, and was just plain loopy. Noel and Nora, freshly reunited, were too wrapped up in their love to tell the story. So the job fell to Nicodemus.
And how much of this was truly make-believe? Samuel had hammered into my head that Neelie Nixie was a fictional character, and this alone kept me from hurling the book across the room whenever I found something about Neelie I didn’t like. Nicodemus, though, was undoubtedly Samuel—I could see it even more so in this book than in any of the others. And when Nicodemus spoke of death, of the need he had for his family…
Did that mean Samuel was lonely, so far away in New York? Did he regret leaving Lyons behind?
My alarm clock blared from the bedroom. Taking the book with me, I turned it off and headed to the kitchen to dish up Oatie-O’s.
My vengeful side wanted to revel in Sam’s misery, if he was indeed lonely. When our marriage ended, I was the lucky one who got to keep our close-knit Lyons circle. Samuel was the one in exile across the country, in a strange place with strange people. But leaving had been his choice. He’d exiled himself, choosing a life of “mind-altering experimentation and artistic endeavors” (as Sofia delicately called it), and goodness knows what or who else he’d dabbled with until he’d gotten busted.
Was I reading too much into this? Projecting fictional heartaches onto a flesh-and-blood man? I had to admit, I had a hard time believing he was unhappy. He’d achieved what he set out to do—he’d broken into a ruthless publishing industry in a Cinderella move that made him the Prince Charming to a world full of women. His body of work was well-respected, hadn’t had a single dud. He was frequently linked to the high echelons of Manhattan artist circles, so he had to have a happy-hour acquaintance, at least.
I stuck my bowl in the dishwasher and headed to the shower.
Samuel hadn’t made friends easily. He was shy, hated being the center of attention. If his closest relationship was with Caroline…
Caroline. Of course. I could kick myself. Samuel would have been writing The Last Other nearly two years ago, before he’d started to date Caroline, or even Indigo. Two years ago, when he’d come home for Thanksgiving…that disastrous Thanksgiving, which had dissolved into petty name-calling. Perhaps he’d worked through his loneliness since then. Perhaps Caroline helped him to do so. I cringed, remembering Molly’s words to me through a merlot-induced haze: You can’t expect him to be alone forever.
Can’t I?
Early morning purple lightened to gray and gradually, the crickets’ chirping ceased. I finished brushing my teeth and again opened the book, rereading the disconcerting thoughts of Nicodemus.
“As long as they burned, he would, too…”
I needed to talk to Samuel about this book, plain and simple. It wasn’t just my well-being at stake anymore. I could be the bigger person, invite him back to Friday lunch, maybe even ask if he’d like to fly out for our next whitewater trip. He’d enjoy the Shoshone stretch. The idea of sharing a kayak with him, paddling with him as we conquered rapids was appealing…
But he wouldn’t share a kayak with me, would he? He’d be with Caroline. Nevertheless, I could invite him. And her. Maybe. Enough time had gone by, right?
When I arrived at work, barely put together in a black dress and flats, the first thing I noticed was the crickets had migrated downstairs. The chirping had stopped once the sun came up (supernatural little beasts), but several darted across the hallway, staking their real estate claims in prime, dark closet space.
“Call an exterminator,” our webmaster said to me before I even uttered a hello.
“Believe me, I’m all over it.” I rubbed my tired face. Why the heck had crickets picked TrilbyJones mansion to infiltrate, of all places?
His eyes crinkled. “Sleepless night?”
“Yup.”
The second thing I noticed was our graphic designer interns, fresh from college, peering at me over their cubicle walls.
“Ah…you gals have good weekends?” I glanced over my dress to see if it was tucked in my underwear. No.
Intern Number One’s toothy grin broke free. “I think we should ask you the same thing.”
“Perfect, wonderful weekend, got to catch up with friends. I haven’t gotten much sleep the past couple of nights, though.”
“I bet! Lots of ‘catching up,’ if that’s what you call it.” Intern Number Two winked at me, and they erupted into fits of giggles.
Odd. Gah, I needed caffeine. “Coffee’s on?”
They nodded, still laughing.
I detoured to the coffee pot before I even stumbled to my office, topping off my mug with pure, strong, fragrant brew. If coffee companies really wanted to make an impact in advertising, they should show desperate, sleep-deprived people crawling on hands and knees to the desert oasis that is the office coffee machine, not rosy couples rolling out of bed on Saturday morning, embracing over steaming mugs of French Roast. I blew across the top as I flipped through the phone book for pest control services.
“Preekit’s Pest Control,” a gruff voice answered.
“Thank goodness! I need you, right away.”
“What sort of pests are you having trouble with, ma’am?”
“Crickets. Hundreds of crickets.” I described my sleepless nights, how they were all over everything, chirping, chirping, chirping. The man a-ha-ed along until I finished my tale.
“Are you sure it’s crickets, ma’am?”
“Of course I’m sure. They’re black with long legs and antennas. They hop. They chirp all night long. A couple even had top hats.”
“I just need to make sure. See, crickets are seasonal. They typically don’t enter homes until September, October, when it cools down.” I frowned. What was he getting at? “So unless someone loosed a whole bucket of crickets in your house, I don’t see how it’s possible.”
“Look, I’m telling you…” No. NO. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.
“Do you have anyone who’d want to play a joke on you, ma’am?”
Oh, of all the frickin’ cricket-loving, malevolent things to do…
I set up an appointment with Preekit’s Pest Control for that evening, then promptly logged onto my computer and went to my personal email account. Sure enough, there was an email from one sccabral9, short and sweet:
Preekit’s Pest Control: (978) 555-9036
Ha. Funny. It wasn’t even the right number. Out of curiosity, I Googled to see where the phone number would lead me if I called (on a cold day in hell would I dial that number). I chuckled—it was one of those phony hotlines, created specifically so people could give out fake phone numbers to get bar prowlers off their backs. This particular hotline appeared to be for drunk dialing.
I hit reply and typed:
Crickets? CRICKETS!? That’s it? Watch your back, Cabral. Someone might dump a bucket of leeches or fire ants, or those flesh eating Egyptian beetles in your bed. And then Sofia would be really upset because she’d have bugs in her house. You flaming son-of-a-pebble-brained lemming, please tell whoever gave you a spare key to my apartment that I want it back. K
P.S.—Thanks for the hotline. I’ll use it the next time a man hits on me, maybe.
I clicked send, so proud of my handiwork, I considered forwarding it to Jaime. I perused my inbox.
The next was a mass email from best man Santiago with the details of our skydive and overnight camping trip in two weeks. Clear skies were promising.
The third email was from Jaime, explaining that, strangely, no gossip blogs were interested in the drag picture of Samuel. She was going to give it a week, then try again. In the meantime, we were moving forward with the next phase, which would require Sharpies and restraints, if necessary. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
The fourth was a brief message from Molly: “I want in.” In? I scanned. Ah, Mickey-gate. She’d figured it out, too, no surprise. I’d give her a call tonight, ask how well could she wield a Sharpie.
There were several other emails from old college friends, probably about the wedding, but I didn’t have time to bother with them.
As I dived into my business email, I tried to figure out when Samuel drove all the way to Boulder to plague my apartment with those vile crickets. It must have been Sunday afternoon, before I’d gotten home. A wicked part of me hoped curiosity had gotten the better of him and he’d snooped in my apartment, maybe even my bedroom. Was he disappointed to find that it was all mine, free of any reminders of our old life together? I shivered at the thought. My mind drifted to memories of our old studio apartment in Boulder…the squeaky wooden floors, garage sale furniture, wedding gifts still in boxes, and numerous photos from our youth.
And, like every time I mentally browsed through our studio apartment, I relived the afternoon he left me…
That ill-omened day, I’d just returned from the University of Colorado’s bookstore, my bag weighed down with ridiculously expensive textbooks needed for my final year of college. My back and arms were slick with perspiration from lugging my bicycle up two flights of stairs to the stuffy studio apartment Samuel and I rented. After he graduated from CU, his father helped him land a job as a copywriter for Latin Colorado. Between insane hours spent hammering out concert reviews, his late-night work on his new book, and my crazy internship schedule, our paths rarely crossed. I hadn’t even read a word of his manuscript, not that this was anything new—Samuel only shared completed stories with me. But he explained the new book was unlike anything he’d ever done, something about water nixies, and surreal landscapes, and allegory.
I leaned my bike against the hall and fumbled for my keys. The door was unlocked. Odd, what was he doing home so early? I dropped my bag with a thud on our wobbly kitchen table and peered around the silk screen we used as a divider between our “bedroom” and the rest of the apartment.
How many times since that sickening afternoon had I replayed this old home movie? Samuel, lying on our bed, drenched in sweat from his jog, exhausted to the point of collapse. Every single time I watched it, I willed my former self—that flickering, naïve girl—to halt at the bedroom threshold. Don’t take another step, don’t ask him what’s wrong. Why won’t she stay behind that silk screen and simply savor Samuel, lying in their bed? In that moment, he was still my husband, still my lover. If I’d known it was our final reel, I would have lingered, wordless, in his presence. Don’t ask…Don’t ask…Don’t ask. But how could I have known? So I asked…
“Is everything okay?” My fingers rubbed his back. I felt his sigh.
“I’m moving to New York City, Kaye.” His voice was hoarse.
I frowned. This was nothing new. We’d move there next year, after I graduated, so he could attend New York University. Had I missed something?
“I hate it here,” he said, his face still turned from me. “My job, Boulder. I need to leave before I end up in Colorado forever. My life is practically over and I’m only twenty-three.”
I winced. He was stressed. Something must have happened at work. “Just stick it out for a few more months, mi vida, until I finish my degree. I know it’s hard, but after that we can go wherever you want.”
He pushed himself up from the bed to gaze at me. His face was expressionless, and it disturbed me. I reached out to run my hand through his hair, but he evaded before my fingers reached the mess of tangled, sweat-soaked brown. He never did that, not anymore. In that single action, I realized something awful was about to come out of his mouth.
“I need to leave. I need to leave alone.”
I shook my head, refusing to hear him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Samuel. We can’t just pack up and leave. Give me time to make arrangements —”
“Kaye.”
“I can transfer to New York,” I rushed on, not allowing his words to take root. “Or I could take a year or two off from school, try to sort through this. We’ve always managed before—”
He dug fingers into his hair. “It’s no use, Kaye. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m sorry, so sorry. I can’t be married to you anymore.”
I was bewildered, struck mute. Of all the things he could have possibly said…
“Why?” I began to crumble from the inside, out. “Is…is there someone else you want to be with?”
“No.” Samuel’s voice broke. He stared down at his fingers, twisted his wedding ring. “We’re becoming different people. It turns out I was right—we were too young to get married, before we had a chance to grow into ourselves. I’m so very sorry,” he repeated. “I was wrong to have…”
I saw it in every crevice of his despondent face. He’d decided.
Why, why had I ever let my guard down around that silent, unhappy little Latino boy with odd blue eyes?
My phone buzzed, yanking me back to the present. Hector’s number flashed through my blurred vision. I tossed it in a desk drawer and slammed it shut in a fit of self-disgust. Samuel’s re-emergence in my life did a rigorous tap-dance on my psyche, and if I wasn’t careful, I would drag others down with me.
I’d never get the marketing plan done for the Great West Caving Club in my office today. Grabbing my project binder and dry erase markers, I shut myself into the brainstorming room for the morning, away from calls, and email, and memories.
Chapter 10: Cartwheeling
To avert a collision with a boulder, a paddler
will spin a craft off and around the boulder.
IT WAS ONE O’CLOCK when I broke away from the office for lunch with Santiago at Fisher’s Deli, enjoying the last days of May.
Santiago frowned, looking over his shoulder. “Is someone watching us?”
I followed his gaze across the deli’s patio but saw no one. “I don’t think so.”
Having Santiago as a friend was particularly important to me, because he was too young to have really known Sam and me as children, which was why I broached this sensitive subject with him. I set my soup spoon down and studied Santiago, halfway through devouring a robust Reuben sandwich. “Can I ask you something?”
He paused mid-bite, then set his sandwich down. “Sure. What’s up?”
“This might seem completely random…”
Santiago snickered. “Sorry. I’ve already hustled my way through half the female population of Lyons, and I just don’t think I could go that route again—the gossip’s a killer.”
“I’m serious, Santiago. Although, there has been an influx of folk-singing hipster chicks, lately.”
He nodded, as if he were actually considering it. “You and I could clean up at Planet Bluegrass.”
“You know, you’re the second person who’s insinuated I should kiss men goodbye and go for the ladies.”
Santiago laughed, dark cheeks dimpling. “I think I need to hear about the first person.”
“Later.” I waved him off, struggling on how best to word my question. “Back to random left field. I know you weren’t around Samuel a lot after we graduated high school, but do you remember if he seemed happy?”
The laughter faded from Santiago’s face as he considered my inquiry. “It’s hard to say, Kaye. I mean, I really wasn’t close to Samuel. He seemed nice, confident, people liked him, talented. The guy’s a freaking prodigy.”
“But did he seem happy to you?”
“I guess I’d call him quietly content. You’d know better, I s’pose.”
Did I? Quietly content was not the same as happy. I knew as much.
“Cabral was crazy in l
ove with you, though. We can tell when another guy has it bad—it’s obvious. He’d follow you around a room with his eyes, relax when he heard you laugh, stuff like that.” He shifted, clearly ill at ease. Santiago typically steered away from what he called “feeling talk.” If a female even came close to tearing up, Santiago was out of the room before the first sniffle sounded.
My mind turned to the stretch of time between the day Samuel put an engagement ring on my finger to the day he left. The job and apartment hunting, wedding planning, college classes—the busy stuff. Then there were the tender moments like early morning runs. Cooking dinner and washing dishes, our shoulders brushing. Going to local music venues and stumbling home, reeking of bar smoke and stale beer, then making love in our little studio apartment. I couldn’t remember Samuel smiling much through any of that. Life just…happened to him.
Santiago was right. Samuel had been content, but not the over-the-moon boy I’d dated in high school. “College Samuel” had reverted to the person I’d first met as a child…more sober, less playful. I’d been so wrapped up in chasing our happily-ever-after, I hadn’t noticed until it knocked me flat.
The Last Other plagued my head. What else had my keyhole eyes failed to perceive about Samuel, my friends, family? There were no excuses for the part he played in the detriment of our marriage and friendship. But maybe, with fresh eyes, I could see him more clearly…and myself.
It was as if an alarm clock had just gone off and a long, long dream fell away. How could I have slept through so much of my life? Even now, I rubbed sleep from my swollen, squinting eyes.
“Hey, Molly.” I knocked on her open door. “Brownies.”
“Yes!” She swiveled away from her monitor and grabbed a walnut chocolate-chunk hunk of deliciousness from the box.
“How’d the meeting go?”
“Decent.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and flipped open her binder. “The National Park loved the new website design. They rattled off a few changes, namely an interactive map of the park.”
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