What people do in these circumstances is they cluster together into alliances of convenience, and they all scan the area trying to determine which passenger is the crazy one, because everyone knows there is at least one crazy person on the bus, and so Hunter knows that right now they’re studying him and the handful of other loners, assessing his level of insanity in comparison to theirs.
Before reboarding, Hunter places Kait next to one of the gas pumps and takes a photo of her, uploads it to his album. He spends the next two hours bent forward in his seat, gazing into the window of his phone.
HIS FIRST STOP UPON arrival in Chicago is the DePaul campus, which he wanders for an hour and learns nothing about Kait or who she used to be before they met. It was a dumb plan, he now realizes. What did he expect would happen? That they would have her dorm room preserved like Salinger’s at Ursinus? That they would be waiting to give him a tour? That he could have somehow driven into the past and met twenty-two-year-old Kait, warned her about her future, and saved her?
After leaving the DePaul campus, he wanders along the Magnificent Mile and stops to eat a quick lunch while overlooking the Chicago River. Watching the joggers and cyclists zipping by, he thinks, yes, I could have lived here. We could have lived here. He feels the back of his neck burning in the sun, but he waits a while longer before moving on, closes his eyes and allows the river to rush past, the bustle and the city thrumming behind him like a racing pulse, and for that moment, the length of an extended eyeblink, he feels okay.
THE REALTOR IS A stout woman with arms like clubs. She takes short, hurried strides like a handler at a dog show. Hunter follows her up the stairs to see the master suite. His next bus, headed to St. Louis, leaves tomorrow afternoon, but in the meantime, he’s decided to visit a few open houses, just to see. Just in case.
Before they bought their house in Philly, they saw sixty-three other homes—Kait had a specific vision in mind, refused to settle for anything less—and so Hunter feels like an expert at this, notices the slight discoloration in the ceiling where there was once a leak, sees the hastily patched holes in the bathroom drywall, can tell from the obviously DIY nature of most of the repairs that there are some surprises and code violations hidden inside these walls.
The front door creaks open, and the Realtor scurries down to meet the new visitors, leaving Hunter alone. He tours the upstairs by himself. The second bedroom is decorated in an ocean theme, pictures of whales hanging on the walls, an awful seafoam green carpet, sheets covered with cartoony tropical fish.
A married couple passes him in the hallway. Hunter hears them debating the merits of the master. “It’s too big,” the woman says. “I feel like I’m in a cave.”
“You wouldn’t last one day in a cave,” the man says.
“Like you’d be so great in a cave. Like you’re the cave expert all of a sudden.”
The man stops in the hallway, stares at Hunter. “Hey,” he says. “I know you.”
“Oh, Stan, you think you know everyone,” the woman says. She’s shorter than Stan, and dressed in all white—sandals, capris, tanktop, cardigan. His face is creased and discolored from years of outdoor labor.
“Look at him. We know this guy. How do we know you?”
“I really don’t think you know me,” Hunter says.
“I think I would know who I know better than you know who I know.” Stan tugs on his goatee, steps into the ocean room. “Look, Edna. You recognize him too.”
“You know what? You’re actually right,” Edna says. “We saw you on TV.”
“I doubt that,” Hunter says. The last thing he wants is for them to ask where Kait is.
“Just the other day you were on. You and your wife looking at houses. The hell are you doing here?” To Stan, she says, “I can’t believe they broke up already.”
“I can,” Stan says.
Edna and Stan tell him Happy Homecomings? is one of their favorite shows. It went on hiatus for a while, but it’s back and the reruns air in marathon blocks every few weeks. Edna watches because she likes seeing the houses and Stan enjoys predicting exactly when and how the couples will break up. They have their DVR set to record every episode, and so when Hunter confesses that he’s never seen his own episode, they invite him back to their house. They live only a block away, had attended the open house just to snoop on the neighbors.
AND SUDDENLY, KAIT IS there in front of him, in HD, stretched across a fifty-two-inch screen. He is aware of being watched by Edna and Stan, even as he watches a younger version of himself and his wife walking through a south Jersey bungalow. Hunter turns up the volume, places the urn next to the TV just in case some mystical rift in the universe can pull her soul out of the set and revive her. He kneels on the floor only inches away, like a child enthralled by a Disney film.
Kait’s first words are, “Sure, it’s scary making a big move. But we wouldn’t do it if we had any doubts.” She squeezes Hunter’s hand when she says it. He deadpans, “Well, I’ve got some doubts, anyway.” She rolls her eyes and looks away—is it playful or is she annoyed? Had he spent his whole life with her interpreting that eyeroll as one thing when in fact it was another thing? Next, she is alone in Sherry’s home, speaking to the camera: “No, I’m not worried about him not having a job,” she says. “He’s just trying to find the right fit for him.” The camera lingers on her while she chews on her bottom lip, looks down at the floor, flips her hair out of her face. “But,” she adds, “it would probably be good if he gets a job.” Headed into a commercial, there is a shot of Hunter fumbling with a spackle knife while Kait watches. The narrator says, “Will straitlaced Kaitlyn have to put her slacker husband in his place?” After the commercial they walk through two homes before seeing the house they will eventually purchase; Kait carries a checklist of questions she pulled from a home-buying magazine, and she grills the Realtor about the condition of the plumbing, the pitch of the backyard, the age of the water heater. Hunter operates independent of the conversation, rifling through the bookshelf and smirking about the owners’ paperbacks. Cut to Kait signing the mortgage documents; Hunter is in the room but signs nothing because Kait’s credit is superior to his. The production assistant asks Hunter if he feels badly for not contributing to the house, and he says, “It’s not like I do nothing.” A week after they move in, the producers surprise them with cameras rolling at dawn on a Saturday; Hunter opens the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. An incongruous shot of a midday sun follows, and the narrator says, “Still recovering from a late night, the young couple struggles to stay organized.” Boxes are half unpacked and Hunter steps over debris as he leads the camera on a tour of the first floor. It looks like they live in an opium den. Kait does not appear on camera until they are on the second floor, at which point she is visibly agitated, hastily dressed, no makeup, her long hair piled on top of her head like cold spaghetti. She avoids eye contact with the camera, shuffles behind Hunter while he describes the changes they’re planning in the house: the paint colors, the new hardware in the bathroom, the furniture that still hasn’t arrived. “It’s been pretty stressful,” Kait says. Sweat beads on her upper lip. The camera lingers on her, knows it can stare at her and make her keep talking. “Is there something else I’m supposed to say?” She laughs nervously, covering her mouth as if it’s impolite to show one’s teeth on camera. “I don’t know. We’re excited, though. We are.” She looks over her shoulder at Hunter, who is straightening a photo on the wall. Hunter pauses the shot in that exact moment when the two of them lock eyes, and although it is impossible to quantify, he knows and everyone who has ever seen that shot knows: there is love there, real, actual love. There has to be. “It’s going to be fun, even when it’s not fun,” she says. There is tinkling music with bells and harps like the sounds uninteresting people expect to hear in heaven. The host pontificates on the nature of relationships while the show alternates B-roll of the two couples unpacking their homes, the other couple putting finishing touches on a formal dining
room while Kait digs, exasperated, through a pile of knickknacks. The credits roll over a black screen and then she is gone and Hunter is gone.
There are three Kaits, maybe more than that. There is the Kait of his memory and the Kait everyone else remembers and the Kait from TV, and it’s impossible to say which one is the real one. One is filtered through his thoughts and perceptions, another is filtered through the perceptions of her friends and co-workers, and this third Kait is filtered through the lens of a reality television program intent on creating and exploiting conflict. Beyond the three he knows, there are infinite Kaits. The show was never going to accurately represent the two of them because the show wasn’t interested in accurately representing them; they just needed a young couple to present as the nervous, troubled couple. On one occasion, the production assistant said to Kait, “It would make things a lot easier if you could just say you’re worried about Hunter here,” and so she complied, gave them the footage they wanted. The PA liked to talk about the importance of playing ball, in the sense that Hunter played ball and Kait did not play ball. On the morning of the first day of filming, she was so nervous she nearly vomited, but by the time they got on camera she’d pulled herself together. When the cameras surprised them at dawn, she first refused to leave the bedroom, yelled through a closed door at the PA who reminded her they’d signed a contract and agreed to play ball. “I told you I need time to prepare,” she said. She stayed in the room for an hour while Hunter occupied the crew, and she only gave in because it was clear that nobody would leave the house until they got their shots.
“YOU WANT SOME SOUP?” Edna says. “You look like you need some soup.”
“Soup’s only going to make him worse,” Stan says.
“Everybody needs soup sometimes.”
He has soup. Spoon in his hand, steam rising up to his face. He is at the kitchen table, feels like he just awoke from a coma. There is a blank space in his memory between the viewing of the show and the serving of the soup. He does not remember telling them what happened with Kait, but their pity tells him he must have spilled the whole story. The linoleum at his feet is cracked like a pebble-sprayed windshield. The room is overwhelmed by the musty smell of domestic sadness, the vaguely moldy scent of nursing homes. It’s the smell of old carpet that has absorbed too much. Duck-patterned wallpaper peels at the corners. There are absolutely no other decorations on any walls, no photographs anywhere. Edna lights a cigarette.
“Italian wedding soup,” she says. “When my mother was sick, we ate this soup downstairs where we couldn’t hear her. She was in pain and we couldn’t do anything about it. My daddy told us stories about the war while she was upstairs dying, and the soup made me feel warm.” She takes a drag on the cigarette. “You have to be warm to be happy. It’s scientific fact.”
Hunter blows on the soup, watches the pasta drift in the ripples. “I don’t think I’m that hungry,” he says.
Stan presses the end of his own cigarette against Edna’s. There is a cat sleeping in the middle of the table while another struts across the kitchen counter. A bird squawks in another room.
“Elvis is hungry,” Edna says, and rushes out of the room.
“You don’t have to eat that soup. Here, gimme it.” Stan takes the bowl and dumps it in the sink. “You know we’re ninety-eight percent water already? We don’t need more liquid in us. It’s bad for you. Makes your organs soggy.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Hunter says.
“I used to not believe it either. My dad, he would say it to us, and he wouldn’t let us eat soup, never. No stew, no chili, nothing in a bowl basically. But one day I had vegetable soup at a friend’s house. Thought I was so smart. A week later, my insides are all torn up and I’m getting my appendix out.” He stubs out his cigarette on the table, which is freckled with burn marks.
Edna returns to the room with a parrot on her shoulder and a parrot biscuit between her teeth. The feathers on the bird’s head have been gelled into a mohawk. Edna leans toward the bird and lets it nibble the biscuit. “Elvis has entered the building,” she says. “Say hi to our guest, Elvis.” The bird lunges at the biscuit in her other hand. “Don’t be nasty now. Be a pretty bird. Are you a pretty bird? Who’s a pretty bird?” This performance goes on for a few minutes before the bird squawks “Hello Birdo!” Hunter waves to the bird. Edna crouches so that Elvis is eye-level with Hunter. “Do you want to feed him?” she says, handing him a biscuit.
“Christ, Edna, give him a break.”
“Don’t listen to Daddy. He loves you,” she says, leaning in to kiss the bird on the mouth. “Dinner time,” the bird says. It pecks at Hunter’s outstretched hand, its beak piercing his palm.
“I don’t love that bird and you know it,” Stan says. He stands, circles the table to the opposite side of the room.
“But Elvis loves his daddy,” Edna says, and she closes in on him, blocking his exit expertly, like a champion heavyweight cutting off the ring. Hunter pushes his chair away from the table, considers sneaking out before witnessing something ugly. The bird shrieks “Don’t be cruel” and spreads his wings wide.
“Get your goddamn bird away from me,” Stan says. He swats at it, then ducks beneath his wife’s outstretched arm to escape, running like a soldier beneath helicopter blades.
“You do not hit Elvis!”
“It’s not natural,” Stan says. “You know birds come from dinosaurs? Look at his fucking feet!”
“Show me a dinosaur with blue feathers. Find me one goddamn dinosaur that looks like Elvis and I’ll give you a dollar.” She pulls a dollar from her pocket and slaps it on the kitchen table.
Stan lights another cigarette. “Cares more about that bird than she does about her husband,” he says.
Elvis eats another biscuit out of Edna’s mouth. “You’re a good boy,” she says. “You know mommy loves you.” She kisses him on the head again, runs a finger down his chest. She coos at him and he spouts non sequiturs back at her, a mixture of Elvis lines and small talk and every now and then a name: “Dennis,” the bird says, “Dennis Dennis Dennis.”
“Who’s Dennis?” Hunter asks.
“I told him to stop saying that,” Edna says. “But nobody in this house listens to me.” When she looks at Stan, there is a flash of hate in her eyes.
Dennis. Dennis. The bird stares across the room at Stan. Stop it. Dennis.
“Could you shut up the fucking bird?” Stan says. He flicks his cigarette at it.
“You’re going to scare him!” The cigarette sits on the floor, smoldering. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying!”
Hunter crosses the room and bends to pick up the cigarette.
“Don’t you pick that up for him,” Edna says.
“Just leave it there, let the goddamn place burn down,” Stan says. He kicks his kitchen chair over and storms out of the room, slams a screen door leading to the backyard.
Edna is still physically there, but she is no longer present, her eyes vacant, breathing silent. In the dim kitchen light, in profile, Edna looks like Sherry, and in the blink of an eye he knows the whole story, knows who Dennis was and that he died too young and they have never gotten over it and it has caused their lives to dissolve. He sees Sherry, as clearly as he’s ever seen anyone, sitting in Kait’s old bedroom and holding on to the phone in case Hunter calls to say he’s bringing Kait back to her, Sherry talking to the dog to fill the void while people tell her she’s losing it. He hears her saying, So what if I’m losing it, don’t I deserve to lose it? She has her sons still, but she’s lost her only daughter, the best of them, and Hunter now sees that in the best case scenario she is probably headed for a full-on crack-up, just like Stan and Edna, who have been estranged from the life they wanted—the one they used to have—so long that they’re unstable and will never recover. Grief begins as a temporary condition, but left untreated it becomes a permanent sickness. Hunter knows that if he does not find a way to realign himself sooner rather than later, he is lookin
g at his own fractured future. Some people face death and get over it and some do not; whatever the secret to saving oneself is, Hunter needs to figure it out before it’s too late. He crosses the room to stand with Edna and says, “I’m sorry,” and he hopes Sherry can hear him. “Dennis,” the bird says, and spreads his wings as if taunting her.
NINE
A series of incomplete lists, lists you should complete sometime later, when you have the motivation and energy and fortitude to create and complete lists:
• Reasons to believe marrying you was the best choice your wife could have made rather than one of the great mistakes of her life;
• Means of making penance with your deceased wife who probably would not have died had she never met you, and whose likely willingness to forgive only makes you feel worse;
• Strategies for meeting strangers without seeming too lonely or too desperate or too weird, for presenting yourself as a reasonable person worth knowing and maybe even loving or at least liking a lot;
• Arguments in favor of changing your name and hairstyle and growing unique facial hair and acquiring a new wardrobe and adopting a new identity in another time zone;
• Reasons to continue living even after your wife has died an untimely death and you find yourself suddenly cut adrift like a moon knocked off its orbit;
• Benefits of reconciling with your in-laws with whom you never would have interacted under any other circumstances but who also are understandably heartbroken by your wife’s death, and who have legitimate reasons to be very angry with you right now;
• Rants and complaints you’d probably be better off keeping to yourself, especially when delivery of those rants interferes with other people’s simple pleasures;
• Reasons your parents should still love you and believe in your ability to bounce back despite repeated failures throughout your life at bouncing back;
The Young Widower's Handbook Page 11