by Will Searcy
see tears in my father’s eyes and solemnity in my wife’s. I do not know if my words will drift in the air to a needle that pops them like a balloon, never to be heard or answered. I do not know if anyone heard me other than Pop and my wife. I do not know, but I hope. I hope even if I cannot believe.
I carve the lamb and give a slice to my wife, my Pop, and myself. We eat, and it is good.
“You were a good father,” my wife says.
My heart fills, and my old friend grows in my throat. I look into my wife’s eyes, and she looks into mine in earnest. Then, I eat a potato triangle. It fills me with nourishment.
“I have a checkup next week for the baby,” my wife says. “If you want to come.”
“Yes,” I say even though I wonder if I will be around to make it.
My wife nods and smirks into her plate. She eats a potato triangle and smiles. My father has the dumb, open-mouthed look on his face. He believes it will be better. I hope he is right.
Our dinner passes in peace and quiet. I long to say things, but I do not. My pop smiles throughout dinner, and I see that tears linger behind his eyelids. I want to tell him how much he means to me, but I do not want him to cry. When I look into my wife’s eyes, I can see she is somewhere else. Maybe she is at a pond, sitting with Sam and the baby in her stomach, and they are watching the ducks and laughing.
After dinner, my wife and I do the dishes side by side. Pop watches his game and hopes his Alma Mater will win even though he knows it will not. My wife and I scrub and dry. We do not talk. We do not want words to ruin our time. So, we wash and dry until the fine china is clean and ready.
She is tired and takes the last jar of pickles to the bedroom. Pop is living and dying with his team. I put the last piece of fine china back in its proper place in the antique cedar and gold chest, and then I go to the bedroom.
My wife lies in bed and stares at the pickles being distorted by the yellow light of the lamp beside them on the nightstand. The scene disheartens me. I wish it were not night and that my wife did not stare at the pickles in the fake light.
“I love you,” I say to shock her more than anything.
She looks up at me and gives me a tender smile, but the pickles are on her mind and tongue, so she keeps to herself. I walk over to the bed and sit down. I know better than to say any more.
“Do you really think that?” she asks.
“That I love you?” I respond.
“No. That you’ll see Sam again.”
I think about it. I wish I could transmit my thoughts to my wife like an email or text message without words. Words confuse things. They destroy meaning.
“I hope so,” I say.
“No. That’s not what I asked. Do you think so?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“But do you think it is.”
I consider it a moment. I do not want to lie to my wife. She can detect lies, like the yellow light shining next to her.
“How can I?...” I say. She frowns and looks back at her pickles. “… But, I hope.”
She nods, but does not look at me. All she sees are the pickles. She takes another bite.
“It’s …” I stammer. “It’s what matters.”
She does not look up.
“Hope is what matters,” I explain. My old friend returns and tries to choke my coming words. “It’s what gets us through. We hope that this isn’t it, but we’ll never know. We hope that there’s something else out there, but we’ll never have proof….”
My wife only eats her pickles and looks at the jar.
“That’s enough,” I say. “Everything is okay if our hopes come true. Then, all this meant something. Everything’s okay. Everyone’s okay and it doesn’t matter when we die.”
I stare at her and find I am panting. My heart pounds, and my eyes fill.
“It’s all too fast,” I say. “Our whole lives, they just go by too fast. The only way we can get through the day without panicking about every minute that slips by, every precious second that brings us that much closer to death … is to hope for something more. To hope it doesn’t end. To hope it all meant something.”
My wife looks up at me, and I can see tears in her eyes. She tilts her head and caresses my face. Her hand eases away my anxiety like it did for Sam when he was lying on the couch the day we learned about his cancer. She says nothing, but I think she understands.
“We don’t have to worry,” I say. “We just have to hope.”
She smiles at me. “You’re really going through it, aren’t you?”
Her response surprises me. My philosophy is rational. It has saved me from darkness. I follow it every day and read my book and build strength to face the night. Somehow, my wife interprets that as “going through it”.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll see Sam again.”
I stare into her eyes and hope she cannot see through the doubt in mine. My statement is a hope; it is not a belief even though I tried to pass it off as one. I hope to see Sam again and I am fine. My hope will get me through.
She smiles in pity and holds her hand on my face for a moment. Then, she puts the lid on her jar of pickles and stands.
“I’m going to get ready for bed,” she says. “It’s been a long day.”
She rises and walks across the room. My eyes follow her until she is gone. I sit for a moment, and my mind clears. I had thought so hard of the right words to say to my wife, and they all came up empty. Now, my mind rests. I do not think, so peace returns to me.
I stand and walk out of our bedroom and into the bathroom, where I see my wife washing her face in think sink under the natural light of the fluorescent bulb. I open my mouth before I allow my mind to think.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” I say. She tries to respond, but words come out of my mouth before she can. “I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m sorry I don’t know what happened to Sam. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to save him, but recently I’ve realized something.” I pause a moment. “I’m just a bridge operator and I don’t know very much.”
My wife looks at me. She does not smile this time. After a moment, she nods. “Me either,” she says, and then she rinses her hands and face with the flowing water.
I stand in the door a while longer. My mind stays clear. I think maybe there is more to be said, so I should wait. No words come, though, so I turn to leave.
“I love you, too,” my wife says.
I look back at her and nod. Then, I walk to the bedroom, lie on the bed, and stare up at the ceiling. For the first time in a while, I feel good. It is not because my body feels rested or my stomach feels full. I feel good because I feel clean. Something inside of me feels like it has been washed. I close my eyes and inhale deeply to focus on this feeling. But, it is just a moment. Like any other.
My wife returns to the room and asks if I am going to sleep. She wears an oversized tee shirt and pajama shorts, so I know her plans.
“No,” I say. “There’s something I want to do first.”
Without another word, I rise from the bed and walk to my wife. I place a hand over her womb and kiss her on the temple. She melts into my arms, and we share a moment. I feel my daughter stir beneath my hand. She is not restless or kicking, just repositioning to find comfort. She will be okay.
I kiss my wife on the cheek. “Rest well,” I say.
Then, I walk out of the bedroom door and down the narrow hall towards the kitchen. Pop has fallen asleep with his game still playing. I spread a blanket over him in his leather recliner and turn off the television and VCR.
The living room sleeps in the sweet song of silence. All is right, so I open the front door and close it quietly behind me. The screen door tries to scare me with its screech, but I quiet its noisy hinge and leave it resting against the frame.
The night air is cool, and I walk unafraid. It is a long w
alk to get where I am going tonight, but I must walk instead of drive. The walk will not change me. It will not change my heart or my soul, but I must walk.
Our neighborhood rests. The lights in the houses are out, and they look like mountains on a distant horizon, both immutable and intangible. I do not feel cramped like I usually do, even though the road is narrow and lined with cars crowded together in front of houses with no front yards. I walk straight and endure. It is important for me to do this.
It takes time to get to the end of the street. Then, it takes more time to exit the neighborhood. Time is not the enemy even when it seems to be. Time is indifferent, and we attach our meanings to it. We make it fast or slow. We make it cruel or kind. Time is. It is nothing more.
I have walked long now, and I only have a little farther to go. The highway I must cross is like a broad river in a desolate forest. It is still, and everything is dark around me. I take a cautious step, and then another until I cross steadily.
The end of the road approaches. My journey through the night is almost over. I walk through the familiar gates and stay straight. This place is quiet and peaceful in the night. It seems there is not a living soul here, but life is all around me. I walk to my familiar bench and sit.
Tonight, the park is like Pop’s game on pause. There is no moon reflecting off the pond. It is dark and unmolested, like coffee sitting still in the pot. The three sons and four ducklings rest among the banks. They slouch into balls of feathers with tiny beaks protruding from their chests, coiled