And here are Dean and Kendra Walker alone together in the dark. She kisses his jaw, wipes the lipstick print with the heel of her hand. His rush of nerves is passing. He just needs a drink, that’s all. On their wedding day, Dean convinced a bridesmaid to slip Kendra a note. It’s not too late. We can still elope. Kendra held onto it for years. She kept it in a box with tarnished hinges, along with other personal souvenirs—a matchbook, a mateless earring, a ticket stub. Now it is too late. It’s far too late. Faintly, from back the way they’ve come, they can hear Popcorn barking, the sound of him shrill and brokenhearted. They must stay this course until the end.
grand old party
Finding the address is as easy as the Internet. Howell Tate. 1414 Druid Lane. Ivy on the bricks. The neighborhood a dream of landscaping and old houses. Older oaks. The 12-gauge in your hands couldn’t feel more out of place. No sign of your wife’s car but maybe she parked in the garage. Use the barrel to ring the doorbell. This is what a man does when he’s been made a fool.
Inside, a dog barks at the sound, and a moment later, a shadow moves behind the leaded glass and a moment after that, the door swings open to reveal Howell Tate. Must be him. He’s wearing khaki pants and a bathrobe open over his bare chest, holding a black standard poodle by the collar. The poodle bucks and strains, nails ticking on the hardwood. Howell Tate takes in the shotgun and puts his free hand in the air.
“Don’t shoot, all right?” He drags the poodle back from the door and bobs his head as if to agree with some point that you have made. “I’ll put the other hand up when you’re inside. If I let go now Clarence T here is long gone and I’m already in hot water with the neighbors.”
When you ask if he knows who you are, he says, “I thought you were the Chinese food but I’m beginning to have my doubts.”
When you identify yourself, he says, “Riiight,” stretching the word into a lazy drawl. He’s stalling, sorting through the situation as he speaks. He’s handsome enough, close to your age, fifty-something but fit, plenty of hair, face creased in a way that ruins women but looks OK on a man. During the run-up to election day, your wife and Howell Tate volunteered for the local chapter of the GOP, pestering people over the phone about fundraisers and rallies. All for nothing, it turns out—Obama is still sleeping in the White House—but Howell Tate kept calling and your wife kept answering, and on the drive over here, when you tried to picture the other man in Hannah’s life, you saw him posed before an American flag like an image from a campaign ad.
Tate starts nodding again. “I think I get the picture,” he says. “I’d say we’re looking at a misunderstanding of some kind.” His voice is respectful but unafraid and you can’t help admiring his composure.
Tell him you’ve checked the call history on Hannah’s phone. Tell him she carries the phone into the bathroom when it’s him. Tell him she’s dropped his name a few too many times, as in “Howell Tate thinks Florida’s in play this year” or “Howell Tate believes it’s a mistake to cozy up to the moderates.” Don’t tell him how the sight of her makes you feel. Whatever you do don’t tell him that. Tell him to turn around. Tell him you want to look upstairs. Tate will do as he is told.
Clarence T bounds ahead, then waits, panting, on the landing. You trail a few steps back. You doubt Tate will try anything but it’s probably best to keep your distance just in case.
He glances over his shoulder. “You a hunter?”
Don’t answer.
“That’s a nice piece,” Tate says.
You have been married thirty-one years, decent years, not perfect but good enough. You have three children, two boys and a girl. Douglas, after Hannah’s father, and Weyland, after yours, and the youngest, Marianne, all of them married and living their own lives. No grandchildren yet but surely those will come. Hannah has her volunteer work, plenty of friends. You own a string of hardware stores. You’ve added two locations to the original, established by your father more than sixty years ago, and you’re proud of that, no matter that the big chains have chipped your profits down to nothing. You give money to charity. You don’t cheat on your taxes. You vote the party line. Barely an hour ago, you were sitting in the dark at the kitchen table, running all this through your head, when that hollowness in your stomach, the feeling that’s been nagging you since suspicion first took root, gave way to something more dense, something altogether darker than the kitchen, and you retrieved your side-by-side from the attic. Tate’s right. It’s a beautiful weapon. Black walnut. Engraved plates.
Tate says, “I want you to know I’m a staunch advocate of the Second Amendment,” and right then, a door opens at the end of the hall and there’s Hannah in her bra and half-slip, hugging her arms, her hair a mess, her whole body gone soft with age, but still beautiful, still capable of inspiring desire, all of her silhouetted by the lamplight at her back. The fact that she doesn’t speak makes her appearance even more startling, as if she’s not herself at all but a vision of herself, an image from some uneasy dream.
Clarence T trots around the bedroom from Tate to Hannah to you, sniffing knees and whining like he understands that something important is underway but he’s not sure what it is or what’s expected of him now. Eventually, he settles at his master’s feet and swipes at an itch behind his ear, clinking the ID tag on his collar.
“I don’t blame you for being pissed,” Tate says. “She’s your wife. I get that. I think the shotgun’s a little much but I’d be pretty hot, too, if I was in your shoes.”
He and Hannah are perched on the end of a king-sized bed, a discreet yard of empty space between them. Like it or not, you’re obliged to ask how long they’ve been carrying on. Both Tate and Hannah start to reply then stop out of deference to the other. Tate waves for Hannah to go ahead. She raises her eyes. Her gaze is frank and sad.
“This is only the third time. I don’t suppose that makes a difference.”
Don’t admit that you’re relieved.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t guess that makes a difference either.”
Then Tate says, “Of course it does. Of course it makes a difference.”
Hannah says, “Just quit, Howell. Please.”
“All right,” Tate says, “but look, we’re all grown-up here. These things happen. Doesn’t mean anybody should get shot.”
Just then, the doorbell rings and Clarence T scrambles to his feet, already barking, and bolts out of the room.
“That’ll be the Chinese food,” Tate says.
He claps his hands on his knees, makes as if to stand. Remind him that you’re armed. Tell him not another word.
Softly, Hannah says, “You’re not gonna shoot anybody. You’re not that kind of man,” and even though what you hear in her voice is more like affection than contempt, tell her you didn’t think she was the kind of woman to be unfaithful but here she is and here you are and you never know what a person will do so could she please, please, please, please, please, if she ever really loved you, now would be the time to shut her mouth.
The world is quiet for a second before the doorbell rings again. Clarence T’s bark echoes up the staircase in reply. He sounds revived. Warning off strangers, that’s something a dog can get his head around.
Tate raises his eyebrows in a question, turns his hands palm-up.
In some more pragmatic chamber of your mind you understand that allowing Tate to answer the door is a bad decision—surely the deliveryman will go away, surely there are mix-ups and prank calls all the time—but mostly you’re thinking here’s an opportunity to get the night moving forward again, no matter where it leads. You instruct Tate and Hannah to stand, march them single file into the hall and down the stairs. You install Hannah on the sofa in the living room, then take a position where you can keep an eye on your wife and monitor the door.
“All set?” Tate says.
You nod and Tate opens the door and just like that,
Clarence T is gone, skittering out between the deliveryman’s legs. The deliveryman is, in fact, Chinese. An old guy with too many moles and a scraggly goatee. He watches Clarence T vanish into the dark, then holds up a paper sack and reads from a receipt stapled to the side.
“One orange beef, one General Chin chicken, two spring roll, one snow pea, one wonton soup.”
“You got fortune cookies in there?” Tate says.
The deliveryman says, “Always fortune cookie,” and you have the idea that you know what’s coming, that you’ve been expecting it. You’re not at all surprised when Tate ducks past the deliveryman and leaps the porch steps in a stride. You bring the shotgun up but your wife is right, you can’t pull the trigger and Tate is moving fast besides, head down, zigzagging tree to tree. The deliveryman looks at you, his expression bored, disappointed. How long must a man live before the world is drained of fear and wonder? He’s in no hurry. He pays no attention to the shotgun. He just waits, tugging gently on his goatee.
Because your hands are full—Chinese food in one, shotgun in the other—you close the door behind you with your foot.
Hannah says, “It’s not right you had to pay for that. There’s money in my purse if—”
Don’t let her finish. You’ll never recover if you do. Tell her that you’re hungry. You’re not, of course, but you’re quite absolutely on fire with rage and humiliation and the last thing you want is to be pitied. Order her into the kitchen. Tell her to make a pot of coffee and when she does, try not to think that she’s indulging you. Tell yourself that she really is afraid of what you might do. You prop the shotgun in a corner, set the food on a marble-topped island, hoist yourself onto a stool. While you unpack the cartons, Hannah pulls drawers until she locates a fork and you accept it without meeting her eyes. Take no comfort in the fact that she doesn’t know where Tate keeps his silverware.
Hannah says, “He’ll get the police.”
Hannah says, “Believe it or not, I love you.”
Hannah says, “Talk to me. Please. We’re into something now. I don’t know what to do.”
You understand that she wants you to forgive her or condemn her, to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, anything, and you feel like a child sitting there, stirring snow peas with the fork, but you can’t imagine what to say, nothing real at least, nothing true, nothing that hasn’t been said a thousand times.
“All right,” she says. “I know you’re hurt. You should be. I need to put some clothes on now.” She looks tired. She’s pinching the bridge of her nose. “There’s no excuse for what I’ve done,” she says, letting her hand fall to her side.
What can you do but let her go? As she passes, Hannah touches your shoulder, fingertips warm through the fabric of your shirt, and you really are hungry all of a sudden. You’ve never felt so empty in your life. Here’s chicken, beef, peas right before your eyes. Spring rolls. Go ahead. Eat. Don’t think about the end of your marriage or the probability of jail. Let your mind go slack. You’re all consumption. Rice. Wonton soup. You’re eyeing a fortune cookie when Clarence T clatters into the kitchen, tail wagging, looking pleased to see you, and you hear Tate’s voice down the hall saying, “That’s his car out front,” and you wonder how much time has passed since Hannah left the room.
Another voice, a woman: “You stay put. I mean you stay right here on this spot until we secure the premises.”
Tate says, “Ten-four.”
Footsteps thudding up the stairs.
Still not thinking exactly, still operating on the surface of yourself, you wipe your mouth and retrieve the shotgun and open the back door. Something stops you at the threshold. Perhaps it’s the pool, rimmed with slate, lit up like it’s filled with neon, a little waterfall going in the shallow end. In the moment of your indecision, Clarence T shoulders past you into the yard and prances around the perimeter of the privacy fence and you realize that you can’t bear to leave your wife alone with this man, Tate. Duck into the walk-in pantry on your left. Press your eye against the door seam. You can make out a half-inch sliver of the kitchen. A few minutes pass before a policeman edges around the corner, does a quick survey of the room, holsters his pistol. He’s big, soft-looking, face round and pink, forearms doughy beneath his sleeves. You lose sight of him when he moves off toward the island.
“All clear,” he says.
Another cop appears a moment later, a black woman, smaller than her partner by at least ten inches and a hundred-some-odd pounds, younger by ten years.
“You sure?”
“Back door’s wide open.” His voice is muffled and blurred like he has something in his mouth and you know he’s snacking on the remnants of the Chinese food. “Must have fled on foot.”
“Hell,” the woman says.
“At least there’s coffee.”
The woman looks at him a moment with her lips pursed, part irritated, part amused.
“Tell me something, Hildebran,” she says. “What do you think about all this?”
“All what?”
“These old white people carrying on.”
The man doesn’t answer right away and you picture him gazing out the door into the night, chewing thoughtfully, mulling the insect sounds, shrill as whistles, and all that ambient light: floodlights, pool lights, porch lights, moonlight, the warm light of other people’s windows.
“Everybody’s crazy,” he says. “Especially in love.”
An hour after the police have gone, you’re still hiding in the pantry. It’s dark in there but for a rectangle traced in light around the door. The shelves are mostly empty. The air smells like dog food and trash bags. Now that some time has passed you can appreciate the absurdity of your situation. It would have been better all around if you’d given yourself up. You’ve never committed a crime. You’re what people call a pillar of the community. You’ve been trying to come up with a way to extricate yourself without making your presence known—that would only put you right back where you started and this whole night has been a bad idea—but all you can think of is to wait until they go to bed. Your back aches from standing so you lower yourself quietly to the floor and cradle the shotgun in your lap.
Listen.
“I can’t believe he ate all this,” Tate says. “It’s not enough to bring a shotgun in my house, to threaten my life?”
“He wouldn’t have hurt anybody,” Hannah says.
“He had a gun. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I assume he meant to use it.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know he ate my orange beef.”
“He paid for it,” Hannah says.
“Look,” Tate says after a moment, “maybe you’d feel better if you spent the night in a hotel. My treat. I think maybe that’s a good idea.”
When Hannah doesn’t answer, he says, “This isn’t what I bargained for.”
You understand what’s come to pass. How strange to bear witness as this man dismisses your wife, at once tragic and enraging and a source of vindication. All that food, it’s like gravel in your stomach. In the silence that follows, you can hear Clarence T scratching to be let in from the yard.
“I can’t believe I let this happen,” Hannah says, but even as she speaks, you have a sense of sagging down through the layers of how you’re supposed to feel, blood rushing in your ears as if from the swiftness of your descent, to some truer, deeper reservoir of feeling in which you are liable for the sadness you can hear in Hannah’s voice. Think of all those quiet hours that seemed to you like peace. How is it possible you overlooked her discontent?
“Pass me that fortune cookie,” Tate says.
You expect him to read it aloud but he only makes a noise in his throat and Hannah has to ask him what it says.
“It’s blank.” He sounds surprised. “Somebody fouled up on the assembly line somewhere in the People’s Republic. Th
e Party will not be amused.”
Clarence T whines and scratches.
“Let the dog in,” Hannah says.
A moment later, the door creaks open and you hear Clarence T skitter in over the tile, hear him make a happy lap around the island. When he swipes at the pantry, your bones go brittle in your skin.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Tate says. “I’ll take you to the Radisson and you can stay there on me until your husband is in custody. Then we’ll meet for dinner one night, do proper good-byes.”
“I have my car. I’ll just go home.”
“The police didn’t think that was the best idea.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says.
Clarence T paws the pantry door again and you push to your feet. Your knees and ankles pop, as loud to your ears as snapping fingers, but neither Tate nor Hannah comments on the sound.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Hannah. I didn’t set out to hurt you. Your husband showed up with a gun.”
“You’re a coward,” Hannah says. “You left me here.”
“I went for help,” Tate says.
Hannah laughs and you can hear that she is close to tears. “Say what you want about my husband, you can’t call him a coward. I think it’s romantic what he did.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Tate says.
Again, the scrape of claws.
“Feed your dog,” Hannah says. “I’m going home.”
Her sandals slap as she storms out of the room. It’s easy enough to imagine Tate on the other side of the door. He’s got one hand on his brow as if checking for a fever and his cheeks are puffed with air. He’s wondering how he got himself into such a mess as this.
“Clarence T, my old friend,” he says, “I’m just not sure it’s worth it.”
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