Unremarried Widow

by Artis Henderson

  I had recently read an article about a woman whose son had been killed in Iraq. She quit her corporate job to start an organic farm, and when people asked how she could be so foolhardy she simply shrugged them off.

  “I’ve already lost everything,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I try this?”

  A late-autumn cold front had blown in earlier in the week, bringing days of wind and rain, and I was cold as I sat in the wicker chair. I folded my legs to my chest and watched the waters of the Gulf churn the color of strong tea. I wondered what it would feel like to step outside my life, and I thought of the last line from Miles’s good-bye letter. Follow your dreams with all your heart, and with honor and decency. I realized then that the way through the days and months and years to come depended solely on me, and I saw for the first time that I could stay in the same house, in the same job, in the same city, drowning slowly, or I could step out and away. There on the eve of my second year without Miles I asked myself, What now?

  Part III

  17

  A contest. That’s how this all begins. The local daily paper, the News-Press, ran a contest looking for someone to write for their new community website. Annabelle, who worked as a sportswriter for the News-Press, encouraged me to enter. I did. The editors selected three finalists, me among them. For two weeks we submitted sample stories while the public voted, and at the end of that stretch an editor from the News-Press called to tell me I’d won. I hung up the phone and pumped my fist in the air and did a frantic jerking dance around my living room.

  “I won!” I shouted. “Holy shit.”

  I wrote for the News-Press every week—personal essays and slice-of-life pieces about southwest Florida. The stories were unpaid and unedited, but at least I was writing. One afternoon my boss on the farm called me into his office.

  “I’ve got somebody you should meet,” he said.

  He wrote an e-mail address on a slip of paper and handed it across his desk.

  “She’s a friend of mine. A writer. She does PR work now but she might be able to point you in the right direction. If you’re serious about this writing thing.”

  I looked at the address in my hand, uncertain.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Contact her. What do you have to lose?”

  Back in my office I sat with the piece of paper propped against my keyboard. I could not imagine what I would say to this woman, but I invited her for coffee anyway.

  It rained the night of our meeting. Water slid off the waxy leaves of ixora hedges in the parking lot, seeped through the mulch, and puddled on the pavement. I hurried beneath the roof of the shopping center to the soft light from the coffee shop spilling onto the wet sidewalk. Under the awning I shook out my umbrella and peeked to see if she waited inside. Not yet. I nervously ordered a cup of tea at the counter and found a table near the door. An anxious refrain beat against my skull, a version of What are you thinking? set on repeat. No one ever told me that the act of courage actually feels like fear. By the time the woman arrived, I had sweated through my nice blouse. We shook hands and she took the seat across from me.

  “So I hear you want to be a writer,” she said.

  I looked at the mug between my fingers. Say it, I dared myself. Claim what you want. I raised my eyes to hers.

  “I do.”

  The rain fell outside in a windless downpour and the woman nodded.

  “I have some ideas. Places where you might start.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper. “This is Florida Weekly. A new publication, started by guys who left the News-Press. It’s a good paper with quality writing, but you can tell they don’t have enough reporters.”

  She peeled off the front section and pointed to a byline.

  “See this? ‘Special to Florida Weekly.’ That means it came from outside the paper, probably from a PR person.”

  The cappuccino machine whirred, briefly drowning out the guitar chords that pumped through the stereo, and I looked at her without comprehending.

  “That means they need writers,” she said. “This could be a good place for you to pitch.”

  She handed me the paper and I scanned the front page. It had a good look—clean, professional, with quality photos and a clear layout.

  “So, how do I pitch them?” I said.

  “Write the editor. His name is Jeff Cull. Tell him what you’d like to do—that you want to be one of his freelance writers. Maybe for the Arts and Entertainment section? I think that would be a good fit for you. Then send him clips of the stories you’ve written for the News-Press. That will give him an idea of what you can do.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “Then you wait to hear back.”

  The smell of guavas hung heavy and sweet as I lapped the farm’s main office. I followed the porch that skirted the building, past the jackfruit trees that stood beside the south wall, the spiked fruit big enough to kill a man if they fell. I moved clockwise around the porch, past the door that led into the kitchen, the windows of the front office, the main entrance where papayas turned soft and brown in the heat. I hardly noticed, I was so intent on composing a message in my head.

  I had paged through a copy of Florida Weekly over lunch, reading the articles in every section, looking for gaps and figuring out where I might fit in, when a thought occurred to me. I remembered the friend of a friend from college, the one in the running for the editorial job, and his idea for a relationship column. I was still fascinated by the big questions that love asks, specifically how to negotiate the terrain between what we want from our lives and what we want from a partner. I still had strong opinions about a woman’s responsibility to herself. And I still thought about sex. My God, did I think about sex.

  The back door gave a metallic yawn as I moved into the air-conditioned building. I took a seat in front of my computer and typed out the message I had composed in the afternoon heat. I attached three of my recent articles, scanned the e-mail carefully for errors, and before I could lose my nerve I hit Send. It was exhilarating and terrifying and perhaps the most foolhardy thing I had ever done.

  And then what happened?

  Then I waited to hear back.

  But not for long.

  “I really liked the dating piece,” Jeff replied that afternoon. “Let’s talk about this when you have some time. If you get a chance, stop by and we’ll chat.”

  I gulped great lungfuls of air and then covered my mouth to stop the cheer that was building in the back of my throat. I snuck out the side door to a picnic table beneath the oaks and tented my hands over my mouth.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered into my cupped palms.

  Shaking my head, I lowered my eyes so that I stared into my lap. I felt a bittersweet pang as I sat on the picnic table processing the best news I’d had in a long time. Because I didn’t know what else to do and also because it felt right, I bowed my head and folded my hands.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  * * *

  The sign in the parking lot said FLORIDA WEEKLY. Blue letters on a white background with a palm frond motif. I parked with a knot in my belly where my nervousness had drawn down to a hard pit. The pit stayed there as I crossed the hot expanse of asphalt, stayed as I reached the shade under the awning, stayed as I opened the door and stepped into the cool interior. The office was empty.

  “Hello?” I said.

  There were half-unpacked boxes stacked against the side wall, a mess of books and office supplies spilling onto the floor. The lights in most of the rooms were turned off. I stepped down a side hallway.

  “Anyone here?”

  A man in a button-down shirt and tie stepped out of a back room.

  “Hey, there,” he said as he walked down the hall. “I’m Jeff.”

  He was in his early forties and had an air about him—genuine, curious, intelligent—that I have since learned to associate with editors in general and newspaper editors in particular. I liked him instantly.

  “Come on back,” he sai
d after we shook hands. “We’re just now getting the office set up.”

  I followed him into another room and he offered me a chair. There was no stiffness to him, no formality, just a direct earnestness.

  “I looked you up after I got your e-mail,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”

  There it was where I least expected it—the hurt I was always bumping into. A moment of worry crossed my mind as I imagined choking up in front of this man I so desperately needed to give me a shot. But he deftly diverted the conversation and I let out the breath I had been holding. I’d like to tell you there was more of a preamble, but newspapermen—and Jeff in particular—have a penchant for getting straight to the point.

  “We’d like you to do a column for us,” Jeff said. “Like you pitched. A dating column.”

  I kept my gaze steady, afraid if I moved I’d betray my excitement. Nonchalance, I whispered to myself, mentally gritting my teeth. The goal is nonchalance. I pressed my lips together. It was all I could do not to leap across the desk and wrap my arms around him.

  “We’d like you to start next week.”

  Sweet Jesus, I thought. Just like that?

  He told me how much they’d pay me. On the drive over I’d mentally reviewed what I thought would be an acceptable amount. He quoted me twice that figure.

  “What should I write about?” I said. “Anything in particular?”

  “We liked those samples you sent in. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  I nodded as if I understood. What was I doing? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I stood to leave and we shook hands.

  “And, Artis?” Jeff said as I moved toward the door.

  I turned back to him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Don’t be shy.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m not shy,” I said.

  2008

  18

  There are more than a thousand widows of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, but during my first time at the National Military Survivors Seminar held each year over Memorial Day weekend by an organization called Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors—or TAPS—I worried that none of them would be like me. When I walked into the upstairs lobby of the hotel on the first day, I saw that all of the women seemed to know each other, as if they had come from the same unit. They hugged and cried in small circles, everyone but me in red T-shirts.

  “Is this registration?” I asked a woman behind a wooden table.

  “Sure is,” she said in a voice that struck me as too high and too light.

  “Henderson,” I said as she thumbed through the registration packets.

  “Here we go.” She handed an envelope across the table and beamed up at me. “You can pick up your T-shirt over there.”

  She pointed across the lobby and I turned in that direction.

  “Don’t forget your button,” she called after me.

  “My button?”

  As I looked at the table next to hers I understood. The TAPS registration form I’d filled out months before had asked me to submit a picture of my loved one. I remembered having sent in a photo of Miles, but I couldn’t have told you which one. I moved to the adjoining table and gave the woman there my name. She handed over a small manila envelope and I pushed open the brass clasp. Inside was a photo button: Miles on the deck of a deep-sea fishing boat, a yellow-finned grunt in his hand. My breath caught in my throat.

  “What do I do with this?” I said to the woman behind the table.

  “You wear it,” she said. “Like this.”

  She took the large envelope out of my hand and dug through the contents until she found a small black pouch with a nylon cord.

  “The string goes around your neck,” she said, “and your button goes right here.”

  She lifted the pouch out of my hands and pinned the button to the side.

  “Don’t forget your ribbons,” she said.

  She pointed to the next table over, where colored ribbons lay in neat rows, each with a printed label: LOVED ONE, SIBLING, PARENT; MARINE, NAVY, AIR FORCE. I took a green ARMY ribbon and a purple SPOUSE ribbon. As I pulled the strips of paper off their adhesive backs, I noticed a woman in line behind me. She dropped the black cord of her pouch around her neck.

  “Who did you lose?” she asked as she reached around me for a SPOUSE ribbon.

  I was shocked for a moment at the casualness of it, the way this woman I didn’t know could ask me about something I rarely discussed. But I reminded myself that I was at the conference to talk about Miles and to meet other grieving survivors. Otherwise, why bother?

  “I lost my husband,” I said. “Miles.”

  “Can I see?”

  The woman pointed to the button hanging on my badge. As I passed the photo to her I realized how young the man in the image was. It occurred to me that someday I will be an old woman carrying a photo of the boy I love.

  “He’s cute,” the woman said.

  She handed back the button and I smiled despite myself.

  “We regret, those of us who have lost a loved one suddenly, that we didn’t have the chance to say good-bye.”

  A speaker with soft arms and an expansive bosom, the kind of frame made for hugging, stood at the front of the conference room while I sat at a crowded table in the audience. A woman across from me reached for a box of tissues at the center; it looked like she’d been crying all day.

  “We think if we just had one more minute with them, we’d say all the things that didn’t get said.” The presenter moved across the floor as she spoke. “Now, this may make some of you sad. And it may make some of you angry. But listen to what I’m going to say. You think if you had another minute, you think if you had more time, you would tell them good-bye. But that’s not what you would say. Here’s what you would say. I love you. And I’ll miss you. And Remember that time we— You’d say all that. But Good-bye? Never.”

  I scanned the room: everyone had the same look, a mix of devastation and hope.

  “Now, this is blank paper,” the speaker said as she handed out white strips. “Don’t write anything on it.”

  She stopped beside my table and laid a stack in the middle.

  “I mean, I want you to write on it. But let me tell you what it’s got to say first.”

  People laughed the way they will when they’re steeling themselves, when they know the hard part’s coming.

  “We all have unresolved issues with our loved one,” the speaker said. “It’s the nature of love. We all have issues that we didn’t work out, problems that never got fixed. I want you to think about what that is for you. Go ahead. Take a minute. Close your eyes if you want to.”

  I closed mine, weary from looking at all those wrecked faces, and shuffled through what Miles and I had left undone, unsaid.

  “Now think of the issue that weighs on you the most,” the speaker said. “What is it you wish you could say to them if you had one last time together? What do you need to apologize for? What do you need to get off your chest?”

  I scrolled down the list of things I wished I had done differently. If only I had kept my mouth shut—about the house, about the military, about my worries for the future. If only I had been kinder, gentler. If only I could have brought Miles home.

  “Go ahead and open your eyes now,” the speaker said.

  The conference room was the same, all brokenhearted parents and sisters and wives. All of us sick with our grief.

  “Now, what I want you to do with this scrap of paper”—the speaker held up one of the blank sheets in front of her—“I want you to write down what you would say to your loved one.”

  I met the eyes of the young woman next to me and we both raised questioning brows.

  “I’m going to take the papers—now, fold them up good when you get done writing—and I’m going to take them home. I’m not going to look at them. I’m going to burn them and they’ll go up in smoke, and that way—now, you may believe this and you may not—but I lik
e to think your loved one will get the message.”

  The young woman to my side passed me a pen.

  “Take a minute now,” the speaker said. “Don’t rush yourself. Write what you need to write.”

  I thought of the fear that I nursed daily, the fear that I slept with at night and woke to in the morning, the fear I carried like my mother carried her silence, like Teresa carried her blame. I held the slip of paper and picked up the pen.

  I’m afraid I didn’t love you enough to save you, I wrote.

  The pain that came with it wrung my lungs and seared my eyes. Around the other tables, men and women were also weeping. I reread what I had written and it occurred to me that perhaps my fear was groundless. In a way that I had previously been unable to see, I realized my love had not factored in his death. There was action and fate and pure dumb luck. There was the absurdity of circumstance, that two good pilots could be brought down by bad weather they had seen coming. There was the reality that sometimes one helicopter goes down and the second does not. There was the unfairness that sometimes your husband is on the one that goes down. Bur my love for Miles? There had been more than enough.

  “Just leave your paper on the side table on your way out,” the speaker said from the front of the room.

  I folded mine quickly before anyone could see what I had written, and as I filed out of the room I added my small slip to the others stacked on a table against the wall. Much later I tried to describe the experience of the conference to someone—the photo buttons and the seminars and the crying with strangers—and he said, “That sounds awful.” But it wasn’t awful. It was difficult and painful and terribly, terribly hard. But it was also redemptive, like a brush fire to clear the land.

  For the TAPS Saturday night banquet, I dressed in a black cotton dress cut low in the front. Too racy for that crowd, I figured, but I wore it anyway. I wondered if there would be dancing. The experience had been so surreal—all that laughter, all that festivity in the midst of overwhelming sadness—that I had ceased being surprised. People milled outside the reception hall in their nice clothes, suddenly strange without their red T-shirts. A few men circulated, fathers and brothers and friends, but the crowd was mostly women. A pretty blonde stood to my left and smiled when I glanced over. I smiled back.