by Polly Dugan
That morning had started the same as any other. Audrey got the boys off to school and then had hours to herself. I had made a second, partial pot of coffee and gone into the kitchen to get a cup, and she walked in wearing her bathrobe and poured one for herself.
“Thanks for making this,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. “Fuel for the day.”
I went back into the addition to pick up where I’d left off the previous day, and although I was sure I’d left them where I’d been working, I couldn’t find the tin shears to cut the flashing, and thought I must have left them in the basement the night before, where I’d been last thing before I quit, so I ran down the stairs without thinking.
It was an unlikely place for me to surprise Audrey in her underwear, next to the washer and dryer, pulling on a pair of jeans, wearing only a bra on top.
“Oh, Christ, sorry,” I said. I turned and ran up the stairs, faster than I’d come down, and back into the addition. I had never imagined Audrey in that state of undress—or imagined that it was something I would ever see—but after I had, it wasn’t an image I could let go of.
She came into the addition, fully dressed, with her bathrobe draped over her arm. She looked sheepish but at the same time like she was about to crack up.
“God, Garrett, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just walking around clueless like I’m the only one in the house. It was just easier to change down there. I didn’t even think.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” I said. Of the two of us, I seemed far more uncomfortable. “It’s your house—you shouldn’t do anything differently than you normally would just because I’m here. I’ve had a bunch of coffee and I’m in the zone, and I just thought you’d gone back upstairs. I’ll check the next time I have to run down there. Call before I head down.”
“You’ll check to make sure I’m not getting dressed in the basement the next time you have to run down there?” she said. “Right, because that’s totally normal.”
“Well, normal or not, that’s what I’ll do,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
“Garrett, it’s okay,” she said. “We’re adults—it’s not a big deal. Don’t you think it’s kind of funny?”
“No, I really don’t, but it’s fine if you do,” I said.
“I do,” she said. “I don’t know why, but since hardly anything seems funny these days, I’ll take it where I can get it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to the basement now.”
“Okay,” she said. “It’s all clear. Go for it.”
So I was glad for Kevin being around for more reasons than he knew, and that first afternoon in April, when we had sat down at the bar and ordered beers, he said, “I want to tell you something. We don’t know each other very well, but I like you. I admire what you’re doing. There’s something I want to tell you, and no one except one other person knows this, and she’s across the country.”
“Don’t say something you’re going to regret on my account,” I said.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I just want to say, based on my observations, I think it would present some temptations, being there. Doing what you’re doing.” He raised his hand for the bartender. “Can we get two shots of Jameson each? We’re here for a while.”
“Temptations,” I said. “Really.”
“Shut up,” he said, “just listen.”
The shots came and I drank one.
He drank his both, one after the other, and didn’t even sip his beer afterward.
“Things seem pretty cozy there, at the house,” he said. “I’m not judging.”
“Cozy? This bullshit again,” I said. “I thought we were past that. You need a hobby. Pick up a book. See a movie.” I drank my second shot.
“You’re listening, remember,” he said. “Shut up.”
He looked at me, waiting to see if I was going to be quiet. I looked back and stayed quiet.
“On Nine/Eleven,” he said, “I was in the department back in New York then. I lost a lot of friends. I’ve been where you are. I lost my best friend that day. Jimmy Sullivan.”
“Jesus Christ, Kevin,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Man, I’m really sorry.” I wished for something far better to say, but nothing came to me.
He nodded at me, then looked down at the bar and kept talking.
“So, Jimmy, he left a wife and two boys behind,” he said. “I stepped in to help. They needed a lot of help. Sully and I were each other’s best man, you know? Of course I would have done anything. And part of what I ended up doing was taking care of his wife, who was my friend too, in ways that my own wife doesn’t and can’t ever know.”
I stayed quiet.
“Anyway,” Gallagher said, “Jimmy’s wife, Brenda, she had nothing to do with Alyssa. As insane as it sounds, I don’t consider myself unfaithful. Brenda’s since remarried. She’s happy. I’m just wondering what being there with Audrey poses for you. You can’t blame me. Things might have been different if I hadn’t been married.”
We sat there next to each other with his confession between us. When I looked up at the mirror behind the bar, I saw my reflection looking back and Kevin looking down, his elbows resting on the wood. He twirled one of the empties.
“He was a good guy,” said Kevin.
“Yes, he was,” I said. I wanted to tell him, And by the way, he made me sign a piece of paper that I’d marry her. And what if what I’m thinking is completely out of line and I’m falling for her? Falling for all of them? But while that unspoken question nagged at me, I knew what Kevin would do. He’d take care of the woman his dead friend had loved, no matter what.
Christopher
There was a loose floorboard in my closet that my dad never got around to fixing, I don’t even know if my mom knew about it. It was a place where I stashed certain things, and after I took Colleen Maguire’s underwear—her panties—I put them under the board with the other things I had hidden there. Knowing they were in my house, my room, my closet, made me giddy and distracted. I pulled them out when I was in my room alone, when I told my mom I was studying and I didn’t want to be disturbed.
When I was at school and thought about the panties, I panicked about them being found, but my mom was cool about not snooping, and I think if she had known about the loose board, she would have made my dad fix it pronto, because that’s how she was. So when I was out of the house I relaxed as much as I could.
Meredith had sent me a sympathy card; that was under the floorboard. Dearest Christopher, I am hurting for you and sending you prayers. I am always here if you need anything. Much love, Meredith. I had taken it out and looked at it after I first got it—not as often as I did Colleen’s panties—Meredith had nice handwriting and no girl had ever written much love to me before, although the card wasn’t a regular letter, obviously. Still, the much love stood out. I had two bottle caps with the words Bravely Done printed on the bottom from one night last summer when Joe and I stole some beers from his parents’ fridge and went and played basketball after we drank them. There was a box of condoms in there too, a small one that had three in it that I hadn’t opened. When Joe had dared me to buy it over Christmas break, I did. I wouldn’t balk at a dare. I even stood in the aisle for a while, shopping, reading all the boxes, browsing all the special features the different brands of condoms had. But after I’d bought the box and told Joe it was easy and suggested he buy a box too, he chickened out and wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to be an asshole and make a big deal about how I didn’t hesitate but he balked and couldn’t pull the trigger himself even though it had been his idea. I wouldn’t embarrass him and give him shit by saying, It’s not like you’re buying booze or crack, although I could have.
I also had the St. Christopher medal my dad always wore, the one he was wearing when he died. My mom gave it to me after the accident, along with a picture of my dad holding me when I was a baby, which he’d carried in his wallet. I want you to have t
hese, Chris. She was a little crazy—we all were. I wasn’t going to wear the medal. A lot of good it did him was all I could think, but never would have said that to my mom. The picture and the medal weren’t secret like the other stuff; I just didn’t want to lose them.
The one thing I hadn’t thought about was washing Colleen’s underwear. After I pulled them out a few times, they needed it. So I told my mom I wanted to start doing my own laundry.
“What?” She was clearly shocked. If only she knew. “I have enough trouble getting you guys to fold and put away your stuff.”
“I know,” I said, “that’s why I want to help. Would it help?”
“Yes, Chris, it really would.” She looked at me like she was waiting for the punch line of a joke.
“You know how to use the washer, right?” she said. “Do normal on cold.”
“Sure, Mom, thanks,” I said.
“No, thank you, sweetie,” she said. “God, you’re really growing up. Come here.” She pulled me against her and I let her. I was already taller than her, taller than Colleen. A long way from that picture of my dad holding me.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
“I love you too, Christopher,” she said. “More than the world.”
Audrey
Leo hadn’t even been dead three months when it happened the first time, in April, and it was because of me. And because Garrett had been so great with the boys and getting Kevin to help him with the work, without letting the whole fire department take over and overwhelm me with their generosity. That was what I told myself. And because I hated the color yellow—I always had—the color our bedroom was when we bought the house, when I was pregnant with Brian, and had lived with since. It wasn’t awful, but it was a color I never would have picked, and I always thought it was harsh and mocking, nothing sunny or cheerful about it, though for some reason I’d never gotten around to repainting. With Garrett here, the two of us could get it done fast with him cutting in and me rolling. I went to Miller Paint and debated the swatches against each other. I wanted something blue, a peaceful color with some depth. The color that was my favorite—and I really tried to find one I liked better, I did, because it was like a slap, or one of Leo’s jokes—was called “C’est la Vie.” It was a dusty indigo. A color I would have liked to wear.
That afternoon I moved furniture, took everything off the walls. Leo had hung Brian’s firehouse series that he’d done for school in our room—So we’ll see it first thing every morning—and taking it down with the other pictures, I remembered the day he’d drilled the molly anchor and hung it. I draped sheets around the room and washed the walls with TSP, and that night after homework, dinner, and dishes, Garrett and I started painting. The boys came in and watched. Christopher asked to roll so I let him, then Brian and Andrew did too.
“You want to try cutting in?” Garrett asked Christopher.
“Sure,” he said, “I guess. It looks hard.”
“Nah, just takes practice.” Garrett got another brush for Chris and the two of them worked next to each other along the baseboard. Brian and Andrew got bored and went to their room. After twenty minutes, Christopher was bored too.
“Thanks, Garrett,” he said. “It’s not so hard.”
“You bet,” said Garrett. “You’re a natural.”
“Good night,” Chris said.
Garrett gave him a wave and I hugged and kissed him.
“Good night, Mom,” he said, and left.
“You want anything to drink?” I asked Garrett. “I’m going to have a glass of wine.”
“Wine’s good,” he said from the floor. He was lying on his side, propped on his elbow, still at the baseboard.
I came back up with glasses and a bottle and put my iPod in the dock. We painted in silence except for the music. After my first glass I poured another and sat on the floor next to Garrett. He had worked his way to the other side of the room by then.
“Do you think it’s gloomy?” I said. “The color?”
“No,” said Garrett, “it’s fetching. Evocative.”
“Of what?” I said. “What does that even mean for paint?”
“Nothing specific,” he said. “It makes you think.”
“I guess,” I said. “Do you know what it’s called?”
“What what’s called?” he said.
“The paint,” I said, “the name of the paint.”
“What?” he said.
“‘C’est la Vie.’”
“That’s a fucking riot,” he said. “Is that why you bought it?”
“No, I bought it in spite of the name. It was the one I liked best. Paint names are always awful. Who do you think names them, anyway? A bunch of executives sitting around losing sleep till they’re finished?”
“Maybe,” he said.
I loaded the roller again, and we kept painting. I took a break to check on the boys and get another bottle. It was after midnight when the first coat was finished and both bottles were empty.
“I’ll go clean these out,” said Garrett. He picked up the tray, the brushes, the roller, all of it. “It looks good, it really does. A nice color with a terrible name.”
“Let me help,” I said. “You’re going to drop something.”
“No, I won’t,” he said, “but okay.”
We weren’t drunk, but weren’t sober either. In the basement he washed everything at the utility sink as I handed it to him. I was feeling loose and tired—in a good way, having accomplished something, not with the dead weight of fatigue and sadness I’d grown used to.
“We’ll finish tomorrow?” Garrett said. He’d laid everything out to dry.
“Yeah, tomorrow,” I said. And he hugged me, not unlike the other times he had since he’d been here, but when he pulled away from the embrace I hung on, looked at him before I closed my eyes, and kissed him on the mouth.
I could feel his body freeze and tighten, but he stayed put, my arms around his waist keeping him anchored. I imagine he felt cornered at first, until he kissed me back for only seconds before he pulled away with some authority.
“Jesus, Audrey,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“It’s late,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I said again. “The painting, that was fun. It was nice to have a little fun.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. It was. I’m heading up. See you tomorrow. Good night.”
From my room I could hear the sink running in the downstairs bathroom.
I’m sorry, Leo. I walked down the steps, tiptoeing around the creaky spots in the floors. The guest room was dark and the door was open a crack. I peered in and Garrett lay on his side, facing away from me. I took off my clothes in the hallway, carried them in with me, and closed the door. He rolled over, toward me. I got in bed.
Except for slivers from the streetlight leaking through either side of the roller shades, the only light came from a hole in the fabric. As a toddler, Andrew had poked it with a paper clip and over time it had grown into the size of a dime.
He touched my face. “Audrey,” he said.
“Garrett,” I said. “Please.” I reached under the covers for his hips and pulled his waistband down. I kissed him and when he kissed me back, I slipped my other arm under him and pulled him on top of me.
Audrey
God, what have I done? I woke up the next morning and looked at that first coat of the new paint with that terrible feeling of having done something I couldn’t undo. I can’t take this back.
I didn’t know what to say or how to act when I saw Garrett. I felt like I had cheated on Leo, which I had never done or been tempted to do, with the worst possible person, the one person I couldn’t afford to ruin anything with, the one person who was indispensable.
I had never thought about Garrett that way. He was handsome and charming, like a handsome and charming brother, or a coworker you would never want to date because you shook your head and counted your blessings every time
he shared the antics of his personal life. He was terrible with women in the long term, though the women had no idea in the short term, the ones who fell for him and ended up disappointed at best or heartbroken at worst. The painting the night before had been uncomplicated, the first, small bit of something productive and positive and normal. The wine—you could always blame that—and the steadiness of our friendship had loosened my inhibitions. But it hadn’t just been about sex. I wanted something to make me feel like I was in possession of my body, to make me feel like the person I thought I was, or used to be, after the soldiering and flailing that had become part of every day for months.
I was steeped in regret that morning and had to rehearse before I could go downstairs. I remembered everything from the night before, but it might have been better if I hadn’t. I had been married to Leo for nineteen years, we had been together for more than twenty, and our history had been built on—among other non-negotiables—our chemistry in the bedroom. Garrett was the first man I’d slept with after more than two decades of sleeping only with my husband, but it hadn’t felt like a first time. What I struggled with while I stalled wasn’t just that I was embarrassed and ashamed. He made me feel loved, and it had thrown me completely.
Garrett
After it was over, Audrey turned away from me, sat up on her side of the bed, and cried. I didn’t know what to do or say. I went into the bathroom and cried too. When I came back to the bedroom she was gone. I got into bed and smelled the indent in the pillow where her head had just been, but sleep didn’t come for several hours. I lay there waiting for it, the whole time thinking how far away I was from someone I wished I were right next to.
I was up early the next morning, reading the paper in the kitchen when Audrey came downstairs. Today I would finish the new exterior door and start on the siding.
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for making coffee.”