by Wendy J. Fox
When they walked to the car, the sky was gray with rain, and she and Alex belted up again and drove quietly from the service. They had both liked Kyle, but had not known him so well. There were many things Melanie thought of saying, but she did not say any of them. The way the low afternoon light shone through the pewter clouds onto the recently blacktopped highway made her feel like she should be doing a better job with everything, being more industrious, being tough and productive, like her magnolia’s beetles.
At the funeral, besides just wanting to close her eyes, she had wanted to hold Alex’s hand. If she had his age right, he could not have been married long enough where an affair might be forgiven, she thought. While it had not been the case with her parents, she had seen this happen with some couples—a single transgression after many years, and the one night paling against so very many days. Alex was probably not in a place to test his marriage, and he’d only get staying together for the kids, until they started to hate each other, and then they would divorce anyway.
She remembered when sex still felt full of promise and potential, and going home with someone from a bar could be just an ordinary screw, or it could be the rest of a life. There was something magical in how hard it was to know who strangers might end up being, and she wondered what Alex thought about her, really.
As they made their way back to Denver, she wanted him to say something that would endear him to her, and she wanted to stop feeling choked and weepy every time she thought of Kyle. She was queasy even though the car was being driven well. What was it like for Amanda to be left behind with the wilting flowers and the soggy remains of the subs? What was it like for Alex’s wife, at home, putting the children down for a nap, waiting?
When she reached across the seats of the sedan and laced her fingers through his, for just a moment, the accelerator jerked.
“Sorry,” he said, steadying his foot on the pedal. “I didn’t expect that.”
They were picking through some of the more distant suburbs, and the afternoon rain was ready to break, the clouds low and dark. She reached for the printout of the directions.
“What happens if you stay out for a few hours?” she asked, and flipped the stapled papers to find the return route. He said he was not sure. She put the papers down, wishing she could ask him what he was thinking about, but it seemed far too familiar. The housing developments had thinned into a brief rangeland before the edge of the next batch of cul-de-sac communities, and they kept on towards Denver.
In any case, she believed they would not have a happy ending. There was so much she did not know. Perhaps he was deeply, and truly dissatisfied. Perhaps there were factors she did not understand. Perhaps he was confused. Perhaps she was.
She could not stop thinking that he was good looking, from an angle, and further, when people start to fall in love, it is the only angle they can see.
* * *
They went for a drink, ducking under an awning just as the clouds split and the smell of the rainwater came up, spores and lightning-cracked ozone. Melanie ordered a plate of chicken wings, and they ate these. They had very tall glasses of very cold beer. They talked about Kyle, and they talked about work. Casually, he put his hand on her knee. Casually, she put her hand on top of his. He had very dark hair cut close to his head. She assumed it was curly, because it seemed to her that this was what most men with curly hair did, crop it. She ordered another round.
It was different being with him in their town; she felt nervous. She found herself looking around the bar for people she might know. It might be network theory or it might just be the ease of picking out a friend’s walk from a crowd, but it happened frequently, she thought, bumping into people. She worried there was a person who might recognize him, some friend of his wife’s—the wife who he was now texting—or a friend of a friend, on their way back from the bathroom.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m starting to feel uncomfortable being out in public like this.”
“Okay,” he said, “But how much does it really matter for you? I’m the one taking a risk.”
He told her to relax, and while she understood that she was not the person with the most to lose, she pulled her fingers from where they were looped with his, because she did not want to get him into even more trouble, and because it did matter to her, being so close to home.
There was something sour coming from the kitchen, cold dishwater and bar rags, and she thought of the office and the way she, and all of them, spent so much of life with people picked by a hiring committee.
The waiter finally showed up with fresh beers for them both, and Melanie told Alex she did not think he should drive home. She was not entirely sure she was extending an invitation, but also not sure that she was not.
When he asked if he seemed too tipsy, she thought he might be accepting her offer.
“Buzzed driving is drunk driving, I heard,” she said.
“Do I seem buzzed?” He sounded genuine.
The foam was pretty around the rim of her beer, and a song that was both angsty and popular rattled from a speaker. The room felt small. She remembered when they were in San Antonio how he had tossed his jacket over the peanut shells for her, and how she had crunched her way to the bar and giggled, and how his teeth had seemed to gleam, like polished stone. It made her very sad that he was with her now, in the afternoon, at a bar, after the memorial service for their colleague.
She was starting to feel the yeasty slosh of too much beer. Her choice of venue was poor, she decided. Everyone seemed so young, and this made her feel like she had cracks around her eyes, and dull skin. The San Antonio Man was texting again. She hoped he was making arrangements, but she did not ask. She got the bill and settled it. When he put down his phone, she suggested he buy her dinner, and he said he would.
She told him she was upset about Kyle, and she told him she was feeling alarmed.
“Me too,” he said, and he reached his hand across the table.
They walked to a restaurant the way she remembered walking with her parents when she was still an adolescent, apart from each other, and she thought it was probably just as obvious that they were together now as it had been then. The rain had almost stopped, but the sidewalks were drenched.
At dinner, they were in a booth, though she would have rather been at the bar, where it was easier to talk. It was a cozy place with low seats and candlelight. Whenever he reached for his phone, the touch screen glowed like a beacon.
When the appetizer came, she asked him if he was still texting his wife, and he was irritated.
“Who else would I be texting?” he said.
They ate mussels and bread and ordered wine by the glass. Like a date, where an entire bottle seemed too presumptuous and picking the shells off the shellfish seemed tender and sophisticated.
“I’m not sure if this was a good idea,” she said. She said she thought they should both go home, but he suggested they finish dinner and then decide, and she agreed.
She had ordered chicken, he beef. The plates were meant to be artfully prepared, but the tiers of garnish and painted-on sauce seemed fussy, and their server was letting her wine get dangerously low.
They ate politely, using both utensils, one in each hand. This was a skill she had had to teach herself; a mark of class was cutting food with the fork turned sideways. Someone had pointed it out to her once.
Melanie tried to make conversation, not knowing if he was scared of being with her, or scared of not having gone home yet. Now was not the time to ask about his children, but she still wondered.
Coffee came, dessert was declined. She ordered a whiskey and sipped it. Not sure what do next, she asked if he was going home.
“I’m supposed to,” he said. “I don’t really want to, but I think I will.”
They decided to split the bill, and he waited patiently while she finished her cocktail. When they walked out, he gen
tly put his arm in hers, and he left it there until they reached his car and he opened the door for her.
He drove slowly to where he had picked her up. At the corner, she told him to keep going.
“I’m down at the end, on the left,” she said.
“That’s cute,” he said, as her townhouse came into view. “That’s a cute little place.” The booze had softened his voice.
She had worked very hard creating what her real estate agent called “curb appeal,” so she could be ready to sell in case she ever needed to—a mortgage on a single income could get tight quickly. She had reproduced planters of flowers from a photo snipped from a magazine and replaced the concrete flagstone on the walk with brick. Her arms had hurt for days afterward. She thanked him for noticing and invited him up for a drink.
“If I do I’ll be buzzed driving which is drunk driving,” he said, and he reached across her, opening the passenger side door for her.
“You can stay, Alex,” she said, and then she surprised herself by asking. “Please?”
After she unlocked the door, she slipped past him and flipped the light on in the small mudroom that was a jumble of shoes and scarves and her oversized laptop bag, empty and deflated in the corner. He followed her up the stairs. She opened a bottle of wine, pouring two generous glasses and immediately taking a gulp of hers. He set his phone on the counter and asked for some water, and she asked him if he wanted ice. In the time he drank the water, she had almost finished her wine.
His phone was buzzing madly, vibrating against the hard tile of her countertop, and she was starting to feel more than a little wobbly.
“You could turn it off,” she suggested, nodding. The room spun a little, so she took a deep breath. “Or leave it on. Just leave it on. I’ll put on music.”
She padded into her living room. “Or, we could go outside,” she called. “It’s not raining anymore. Do you want to go outside?” She was tired of still wearing her funeral clothes, and she thought maybe they could keep it a little innocent. Curl up in pajamas on the couch. Watch a movie. She was not sure what kind of music to pick, so she decided to just go with whatever was already on the stereo. When she switched it on, there was a low guitar and drums being played with a brush, the Americana she listened to when she was sad and possibly drunk.
When she came back into the kitchen, he was scrolling through his messages again. “I think I really should go home,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. She tipped the goblet and drained the last drop. “Thanks for the ride and for dinner. I’ll walk you out.” The music from the living room was faint, and as she went with him to the door, she thought for a moment he might lean in and change his mind, but he did not. “Text me when you get home,” she said.
He looked at her. “Mel, I get what you are saying, and it’s nice. But I probably won’t,” he said.
“Then why did you even come in?” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Okay,” she said, smiling her best smile. “See you Monday.”
After she closed the door, she kicked her shoes onto the floor with the rest, refilled her wine glass, and went into the yard with the pine starts from Kyle’s service. The grass and the earth were damp, perfect for planting. She made a space with her spade and filled in the dirt with Miracle-Gro. She knew the magnolia would be lapping up little tastes while she watered, but she wanted to make sure Kyle’s trees rooted.
Digging, she was glad she was here alone, behind the protection of her high fence and the smell of the just-turned earth.
When she got the pine starts out of their protective plastic and snug into their little holes, the fresh green of the new shoots were bright against the dark.
Chapter Ten
Brian
Summer, 2001
The day after Stella was born, when they’d been home for only about an hour, Jenny’s mother Lucy Estelle arrived, angry at the traffic coming into Denver and also at everything. Brian thought she had a ridiculous amount of luggage, but later recanted when he saw her packing included snacks and a large bottle of whiskey, which he would have picked up for her, and he told her so, but she said she was not sure if the store would have her brand.
They called their daughter Stella, which Brian had argued was a southern-sounding name or a kind of beer, after Jenny’s mother, Lucy Estelle. Jenny told him Stella was Latin for star.
He was surprised at baby Stella’s lull. He had taken time off work—his boss told him not to worry if he wanted to come back early, he said he would not judge—and Brian expected total chaos, but Jenny and her mother chatted in low voices, and Lucy Estelle bleached the bathtub so Jenny could soak, and, on day three, his mother-in-law cooked two huge pots of soup and two massive casseroles and divided everything up into labeled containers in the freezer. Stella mostly slept.
“Just in case,” Lucy said, “you have a couple nights when all you can do is reheat. This snoozin’ won’t last.” She winked and sipped from her whiskey. Brian went for a beer and clinked the neck of the bottle to the glass of rattling ice and liquor.
Brian had always thought his mother-in-law, in addition to being a drunk, was pushy, but he was grateful for her then, when Jenny was napping and Stella was fussing. She shoved his daughter into his arms and demanded that he change her or take her to Jenny to be fed or walk in a circle and bounce her.
On night five, Brian woke to Lucy Estelle leaning over him—Jenny had been up every other time and was dozing deeply. Stella was screaming.
“Get up,” something about the dark always urging a whisper, “and go to your daughter!”
“I’m up, I’m up,” Brian said.
“She needs you,” Lucy said.
Brian padded through the unlit house toward Stella, Lucy trailing with a blanket. He knew she was training him for Jenny’s sake; Brian did not have younger siblings or young cousins, and his father had not been the hands-on type.
He liked that: needs.
He cradled his daughter’s head with his hands.
* * *
When he had first met Jenny, they had been at the show of a local band and he had spilled beer all over her shoes. She had been nice about it, though her friends were not, sneering at him and telling him he would have to buy her another pair. He hadn’t argued, because he had been excited to see her again. Leaving Jenny with his number, he had said it was up to her, and the next day she had called and asked if he was ready to take her to Nordstrom. He picked her up in front of her building, and they had driven to the mall, like teenagers might have.
She had chosen a pair of suede platforms, but, when they were checking out, confessed her pumps from the other night had been from Payless.
“That’s okay,” he said, and signed his receipt. “Should we go somewhere else?”
They spent the afternoon on a coffee shop patio, until finally Jenny said that she really wanted to get going. When Brian said he would drop her home, she said no. Your place.
* * *
While Lucy Estelle was still in town, Brian got a new car. He chose a cherry-red sedan, and he fully admitted that his salesman training had dissolved when he thought of his daughter. He had been completely upsold on safety features. The interior was gray, and he felt it was extremely sharp. He asked for one of those large bows that he had seen on television, but the dealership told him they only had those in winter, and they were extra anyway.
Brian told the man who was helping him that the car was for his wife, who was at home with their daughter. The man told Brian that if it were him, he would give the old car to his wife and keep the new one.
“Kids, you know,” he said. “They make a lot of messes.” He was about the same age as Brian, but he did not say if he had children of his own.
“I’d rather have her in the newer one,” Brian said. “More reliable.”
“But that upholst
ery will show everything, man. Just wait.”
“Okay,” Brian said. He was becoming fine with waiting.
After the financing was sorted and the signatures collected, Brian realized he had no way of getting the cars back without Lucy Estelle or Jenny, so he gave the man another $50 from his wallet to follow in the old sedan, and one of the maintenance staff followed them both.
He liked his life, he had decided. He liked the women: Lucy Estelle, Jenny, Stella. He kept his radio silent and he repeated their names as he drove. The car was smooth against the pavement, and the wheel responded to even the slightest touch. Brian thought they were a little like the pioneers then, the three women and his two cars, caravanning across an unfamiliar landscape, headed toward a new idea of home.
Chapter Eleven
Kathleen
Winter, 1974
Seventeen now, Kathleen had grown up in a tiny house where she was the middle child by chronology, the youngest of the three girls, and the eldest of the three smaller boys. Her brother Sammy was the closest to her, just eleven months apart. As children, they were always together, grubby hands clasped. When Kathleen’s sisters were rouging their cheeks and stealing cigarettes, she was in the trees, in a pair of hand-me-down jeans, hair tangled, hands scraped and scabby. One by one the sisters left, into the early marriages and cashier jobs of their small town, only Darlene, the oldest, had gone far, moving to Oregon. The summer before, Kathleen had taken the bus to see her, because she was the only one of the women from home who had time to go. Her parents took her to the station, and she rode for two days as the plains dissolved into mountains and then to plains and then mountains again.