Aaron didn’t say anything.
“Is there a problem? Maybe you don’t like the color? Or maybe it’s the font; now’s the time to chirp up if there’s something that bugs you. Not that they’ll necessarily fix it, but—”
“It’s a handsome cover. I just…”
“What?”
“I wish my father was here to see it. Even if he wouldn’t have approved.” Every afternoon Aaron made the treacherous safari to the mailbox, hoping to receive a package from his departed father, but it never came.
“I’m sorry about your old man. I know that’s rough. Lost mine five years ago.”
“And I would also have liked to share it with…Well…never mind.”
“Still mourning Laurie, huh? I thought since you and Emma were together—”
Aaron glanced at his screensaver, which was a huge photo of Emma’s face, blown up large so he could count every pore. Emma installed it a few weeks ago. Her eyes, large and vaguely accusatory, seemed to be following him, waiting for his answer.
“I’m satisfied with Emma’s company…” He turned his back on the screen and lowered his voice even though she wasn’t in the house. “But I must admit, now and then, I do get nostalgic for Laurie.”
“Does she know you still miss her?”
“I imagine she does.”
“How?”
“Well, I never told you this because it was embarrassing, but shortly after we broke up, I tried to get her back. I employed a romantic gesture.”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Have you ever watched a rom-com?”
“What’s that?”
“A romantic comedy.”
“Never. I like my movies with explosions and a high body count.”
“One weekend, I watched more than a dozen rom-coms. And in every single one, the hero makes a romantic gesture. I tried giving Laurie a jar of Jif peanut butter, but it failed miserably.”
“You tried to woo a girl with a jar of peanut butter?”
“I know. Far too subtle. A romantic gesture has to be something grand like chasing the girl through an airport or breaking up a wedding.”
“I don’t know. Sounds kind of phony and flashy to me. I know grand gestures didn’t work with my Mookie.”
“You extended one?”
“Once. When we split.”
“I didn’t know the two of you had ever parted.”
“That’s because I don’t like to talk about it. After she dumped me I took every cent I had and hired a skywriter to write ‘Sorry, Moo’ and fly over her house. That’s as many letters as I could afford. Bottom line? She was unimpressed, and I had to eat Ramen noodles for weeks because the skywriter took all my savings.”
“Then how did you get her back?”
“Just started acting like a better guy. Quit drinking so much. Stopped hanging out with my buddies all the time. Started taking my life more seriously. It took a year and I’d long given up on her coming back, but she eventually did, and the rest is Mookie history.”
“That would never work in a rom-com.”
“Yeah, well, life isn’t a rom-com, is it?”
The conversation ended, and Aaron paged through his novel, thinking it might cheer him up. It’d been a long time since he’d read his work and now that it was a real book with a different typeface it almost seemed like the work of a stranger.
Aaron spent the entire day engrossed in the novel, breaking only to use the bathroom. By the time he closed the book, twilight was darkening into evening and his stomach protested its hollow state.
Once he finished, he sat in a chair, trembling and blinking. Aaron felt as if he’d undergone a minor trauma. He shoved Chiaroscuro under the chair and went into every room of the house, turning on all the lights with their weak forty-watt bulbs. He also opened all the windows, letting in fresh air. Last, he entered the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. It was as if he was trying to exorcise himself and the house from the aftereffects of his novel.
It wasn’t that he was disappointed in the quality of his work. Oh no. In fact, more than ever, he was able to see why Featherstone acquired it. It was an extremely accomplished character study.
Sadly, the character who was being studied was a sorry excuse of a human being. Eric always expected the worst and let life buffet him around like a badminton birdie. Aaron remembered those traits in him, of course, but to be repeatedly exposed to them over a period of hours was sobering.
He dried his wet face with a bathroom towel. It was thin and rough, like something you might find in a prison. Emma always bought the cheapest ones. As usual, he avoided his reflection in the mirror. Matters of vanity had never interested him, but then a voice in his head said, “Look at yourself.”
The glass revealed long hair, overdue for a wash, which flopped into his eyes. His glasses were broken again, this time at the bridge. Emma stepped on them a few weeks ago. She claimed it was an accident, but the breakage occurred after a squabble, and how his glasses got in the way of her size-ten foot was anyone’s guess. Aaron was showering at the time.
The glasses were held together with the usual electric tape. But the worst thing was his eyes behind the lenses; they were flat, with no light in them.
He averted his gaze, because he knew he was seeing Eric in the mirror. Aaron was the living embodiment of a character so pathetic that even he, his creator, could barely stand to be in his company for the several hours it took to read the novel.
He heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. The front door creaked open and Emma called out, “Why are all the lights on? This place is lit up like a football field on game night.”
Aaron was grateful she was home; he welcomed the distraction from his troubling thoughts. He left the bathroom to greet her, and she dropped her travel bag at his feet.
“What a flight. Delayed for two hours and then turbulence almost the entire time. I need a gin martini stat. Make me one while I jump in the shower. I bought a bottle in the airport duty-free shop. Use that.”
“Of course.” He was happy to have a chore to distract him from his upsetting thoughts.
Emma headed for the bathroom, snapping off lights as she went, and Aaron sorted through her bag, looking for the gin. During his search he came across an advance reader copy of the new Frank Zenn book. He must have been one of the authors appearing at the booksellers’ conference Emma attended. Aaron was anxious to read it; he hoped it was better than his last effort.
He flipped through the pages, eager to read the first line, as he always believed that first lines of novels should be representative of the entire work. The novel was personalized on the title page. The message said, “Emma. See page 212. That’s what’s going to happen between us tonight. All best, Frank.” He turned to the page and found himself reading a graphic sex scene.
Footsteps. Aaron shoved the book under the cushion. Emma came into the room wearing a terrycloth robe. She glared at Aaron.
“What are you doing? Where’s my drink?”
“I thought you were taking a shower.”
“I decided I wanted my drink first.”
“I was just—”
“Jesus, Aaron, I ask you one simple thing.” She came toward him, and he knew he was about to get pinched. He braced himself for the sting and decided he wouldn’t mention the book because he hated confrontation.
Emma swooped in with her pinchy fingers. Time seemed to slow for a moment, and her fingers grazed his skin. The two of them could be acting out a scene from Chiaroscuro. How many times did Louise torment Eric? More than he could count. Aaron held up his hand.
“Wait.”
Emma’s brow lowered. She was not used to having her pinches aborted. “I don’t want to wait. I want my damn drink.”
&
nbsp; “It’ll keep.” He withdrew the book from beneath the cushion. “What would you like to say about this?”
She stared at the Zenn novel like she’d never seen it before. “What about it?”
“I read the inscription inside.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was screechy and false sounding. She’d always been a terrible liar.
“Allow me to read it then.” Aaron opened the book, and Emma snatched it from him.
“That’s my book! Why are you pawing through my things?”
“You asked me to get your—”
“But I didn’t ask you to snoop around in the rest of my stuff.”
She stared at him wide-eyed, like a mouse cornered with a broom.
“Emma, listen.”
“It was just a one-nighter. It meant nothing. They never do.”
“What do you mean they?”
Emma froze, realizing her mistake. “I meant to say he! Zenn meant nothing to me.”
Aaron stared at her flushed face. Then he glanced up at the shelves where she kept all her signed books. For the first time he noticed one of them was R.K. Harris’s. Slowly he withdrew a book as Emma anxiously looked on. He was about to open it to the title page when Emma screamed, “Don’t do that! Don’t touch my books.”
“Okay.”
He gently replaced the book.
“It’s a…hobby. Some people collect stamps or coins, I collect…well…As I said, it doesn’t mean a thing.”
Aaron nodded but said nothing.
“It’s only sex. You’ve never been the jealous type. I’m surprised you even care.”
“You’re right,” he said softly. “If this had happened yesterday…I would have just…”
He’d have done nothing. That was his habit. To let the waves of life wash over him, like a dead jellyfish on the beach.
Silence fell between. They’d reached an impasse.
“I deserve better than this.”
“What?”
“This is not the life I want anymore.”
“Like I said, it was—”
“You’ve cheated on me the entire time we’ve been dating, Emma.” He glanced at the case. “There must be at least thirty books on those shelves.”
“But—”
“No buts. You also break up with me a couple of times a year. And you pinch me and throw things at me. Your lawn’s a jungle and your house is lit like a cave. You’re extremely cheap, except when it comes to coffee and booze.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“And I’ve never said a word about it.”
“So why start now?”
He sighed. “I’m very grateful for your help with my father’s arrangements, but I can’t be in this relationship anymore. I’ll do us both a favor and leave.”
Her eyebrows flew into her thatch of bangs. “You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I’m the one who decides this stuff.”
“I’m sorry.”
She grabbed his arm and twisted it, giving him an Indian burn.
“Emma, let go of me.”
“No. I say when you leave.”
Aaron wrenched free of her, and she stumbled backwards, hitting a corner of the lamp table.
“Owww!” Emma shouted. She covered her eyes with her hands. “You’re a brute. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He took a tentative step in her direction. “Emma? Don’t cry.” He touched her shoulder.
She lunged at him, knocking him to the ground, and kneed him in his crotch. Sharp pain shot from his groin and radiated throughout his body.
“By the time I get dressed you’d better be gone.” She kicked him in the shin with a bare foot and stomped away.
Twenty-Nine
A freckle-faced girl who looked to be about eight was standing on Laurie’s step. She’d just rung the bell.
“Is it Girl Scout cookie time again? I certainly hope so.”
“No. My mom asked me to bring this letter to you. It was delivered to our house by mistake. She says sorry for not bringing it over earlier but Garrett stole it.”
“Garrett?”
“He’s my three-year-old baby brother. We found it in his toy chest. Oh. And she’s also sorry about the strained spinach stains.”
Laurie took the letter. “Thank you very much for bringing this to me.”
The little girl skipped away, and Laurie glanced down at the envelope. She gasped at the return address: Dr. Horace Flowers. Her hands shook as she tore open the envelope. What could he have sent her?
Dear Laurie,
Thank you for bringing my son’s manuscript to me. I intend to read it tonight. One last lesson from me: I insist you read “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin. It’s a short story in the public domain so you should be able to find it online. Incidentally, I just wanted to say that it was a pleasure teaching someone with so much enthusiasm for writing. I do hope you keep at it.
Sincerely,
Horace Flowers
He must have written the note right after she’d dropped off Aaron’s manuscript. Laurie hugged the note to her chest. She missed her sessions with Dr. Flowers and the man himself. She was also very curious as to why he wanted her to read “The Story of an Hour.” She’d never heard of the story or the author.
Laurie went inside and found the story on her computer. It was very short, and wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to read. It was about a woman named Mrs. Mallard who’d just received a telegram that her husband died in a railroad accident. A widow story. Well, that made sense.
She kept reading. It turned out the woman wasn’t a widow at all. Her husband was alive, but the news of his survival was so startling, she had a heart attack and died. The doctors said she died “of the joy that kills.” Laurie read the story two more times and when she was finished she sat stunned for several minutes. While she read, memories of the day of Jake’s death came rushing back to her. There was one particular retrieved memory that made her gasp out loud.
“How did he know?”
She remembered Dr. Flowers once saying she was hiding something from herself. He’d been right. Now she finally knew what it was.
Laurie called Delilah. “I need to see you. Are you free this afternoon? Could you slip away for an hour or so?”
“Good timing. Bart’s taking the kids to a movie at two. Where do you want to meet?”
“How about the cemetery? Jake’s grave.”
“A little bit morbid but okay. Are you going to give me a hint about what this about?”
“No. I need to tell you in person.”
Two hours later, Laurie and Delilah were sitting on the bench a few feet away from Jake’s headstone. Marvel and Brick had to pay extra for the proximity to the bench. Jake’s grave was decorated with miniature American flags, a small toy football and a violet plant. Laurie knew that Marvel tended to it regularly.
“Ask me the question again,” Laurie said softly. “About who I loved more. Aaron or Jake.”
Delilah got out the flask she always carried in her oversized purse in case of emotional emergencies. She took a swig and handed it to Laurie.
“I don’t usually ask questions when I already know the answer.”
Laurie winced at the taste of the whiskey but she swallowed it anyway.
“That’s why you’re my best friend. You know me better than myself. And so did my writing teacher, Dr. Flowers. He sent me this before he died.”
She reached into her purse and pulled up “The Story of an Hour” on her phone.
“It’s a story about a woman who’s just been told her husband died. First she weeps with ‘wild abandon.’”
“Like
you.”
Laurie nodded. “And then she goes into a room alone to contemplate his death. May I read it to you? It’s what happens a few minutes after she gets the news.”
“Fire away.”
Laurie cleared her throat and started to read:
“There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.”
She took a deep breath, and Delilah gave her a nod to go on.
“Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: ‘free, free, free!’”
Laurie put down her phone. “There’s a lot more, but I think you get the gist.”
Delilah sighed but didn’t say a word. She was likely waiting for Laurie to speak. Laurie glanced up at the sky; it was empty of clouds and such a deep blue it was hard to look at it long. Two squirrels chased each other up an oak tree, their tails scraping against the bark.
“On the day Jake died, the family was in the hospital waiting room. The doctor came and said they’d lost him. I immediately fell to my knees and got so hysterical, he gave me a sedative. A few hours later, the sedative was wearing off. We were all at Brick and Marvel’s house, and I stumbled outside. It had just finished raining and the trees were dripping and everything was so green and in the distance was the most beautiful rainbow I’d ever seen.” She paused, recalling the moment with great clarity. How could she have forgotten it? “And that’s when it came at me, just like in the story: this delicious, heady sense of relief. I couldn’t help myself. I kicked off my shoes and danced right there in the wet grass. Jake was dead, but I felt more alive than I had in a long time.”
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