by Sharon Shinn
It is as if the words have been scraped out of her by a sharp, serrated tool. Her voice breaks as she speaks the final sentence, and then she starts sobbing, great, rough, bitter sobs. I leap to my feet, thinking to take her in an embrace, but she has pulled the afghan up over her head and huddles under it, still weeping loudly. Kelly comes rushing in from the kitchen, her hands covered in soapsuds.
“What happened? What set her off?” she demands.
I am not about to repeat what Kathleen said. I shake my head, feeling even more useless—worse than useless, harmful—than I did when I came in. “She was talking about Ritchie, and then she started crying,” I say helplessly. “I’m sorry—I don’t think I said anything—maybe it’s better if I go—”
Kelly wedges herself into the chair beside her sister and wraps her arms around Kathleen. Muffled sobs are still issuing from under the bright woven yarn. “Sometimes they blow over really fast, these crying jags,” Kelly says. “Please stay. At least for a while. It’s easier sometimes when someone else—”
She doesn’t complete the sentence, but I know what she’s going to say. It’s easier when someone else is here to bear some of the burden of conversation, to help shore up the barricades against grief. “Of course,” I answer. “Why don’t I go set the table? Call me if you need help in here.”
A few minutes later, I gather around the oak kitchen table with Kathleen, Kelly, and Kelly’s husband, Tim. Tim is thin and bespectacled, serious and quiet. I think he earns major points for staying here a week with his grieving sister-in-law and still looking like he has stores of patience to draw on. Kathleen doesn’t even try to make conversation, so the three of us struggle through various discussions of our jobs, our recent electronics purchases, and movies we’ve seen. Tim’s a software guy, a computer geek, so I ask him about problems I’ve been having with my printer at home, and that fills ten minutes. Kelly and I compare notes on vegetarian diets, since she’s considering going meatless “when all this is over.” I ask when they plan to go home.
“Not anytime soon,” Kelly says, eyeing her sister. “Tim and I can both work remotely, so we’ve been able to keep up with our jobs since we’ve been here.”
“Oh, that’s nice. I’d like to work from home.”
Tim speaks up. “Your kind of job, I’d think that would be a real option.”
“Well, I’ve done it from time to time—when we had bad weather or I was home sick but there was a report I had to finish—but my company doesn’t really want to set that kind of precedent. They like us to all be there, under their watchful eyes.”
Kathleen stirs herself to speak. “I’m going in tomorrow,” she says.
Kelly looks concerned. “Honey, are you sure—”
“I can’t just sit here for the rest of my life, feeling terrible,” Kathleen says with a little more energy. “I’m going in.”
Kelly glances at me, and it’s easy to read her expression. Will you make sure she’s okay? I offer up a false smile and say, “Hey. It will be good to see you there. Everybody’s missed you.”
Kathleen nods and answers a statement I didn’t make. “Yes. It’s time for me to get on with my life.”
I would curse the arrival of Monday morning except I think it brings me that much closer to seeing Dante. Despite everything—my fear, my worry, my grief, my confusion—whenever I think that I will soon be holding him in my arms again, I am filled with a building sense of excitement. He is dawn, he is Christmas morning, he is the promise of spring, the baby’s birth, and the return of troops at the end of the war. He is everything you look forward to with such intense longing that your body actually clenches with desire.
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
Perhaps he will call today. I’m here, I’m in Kansas City. Come find me. Or surely tomorrow. Hey, lover, I’m human for a little while…
I cannot wait to see him.
Even so, Monday is not a particularly easy day. Kathleen has, indeed, showed up for work; I had called Ellen last night to warn her that this was on the agenda. To make sure we are there to greet her, Ellen and I both get to the office early, and we share three cups of tea before another soul arrives. We don’t bother making much conversation. We can’t think of much to say that isn’t pocked with pitfalls, and we’re both too tired to try.
Kathleen walks in, Marquez at her side. It’s clear they’ve carpooled or, more probably, he’s picked her up on his way in. It’s an act of such kindness that Ellen mutters, “I just love him.”
“I know,” I answer. “I do, too.”
It’s hard to know what to say to Kathleen, impossible to pretend that this is an ordinary day, so no one really tries. Most of the day, there is someone standing at her desk, making awkward but earnest conversation, and it’s obvious she’s not going to make much of a dent in the filing that’s piled up in her in-box. But she’ll get through the day, which is the main point, supported by the dogged goodwill of her coworkers. I envision us providing the emotional version of the “chairlift” carrying configuration we were taught in Girl Scouts, where two eager and determined young Scouts would intertwine their hands in such a way that their forearms provided a seat for a wounded comrade. They would then shuffle along for twenty or thirty yards, jostling their unfortunate passenger, tripping over their own feet, eventually collapsing in a giggling pile. The efforts we make on Kathleen’s behalf this morning seem equally amateurish but equally hopeful. We are all trying to carry her for at least a short distance through the day.
I myself attack chores with an enthusiasm I haven’t been able to muster for the past couple of weeks. If I’m about to take several days off, there are certain things I must get done, and I feverishly type up reports as the hours skid by. Naturally, Ellen has gathered a group to take Kathleen out to lunch and, naturally, I join them, but I take my own car and leave early, apologizing, so I can race back to my desk and keep working.
But the day ends sharply at five, and Dante hasn’t called.
I go home and move aimlessly through the house for the next few hours, picking up and putting down books, turning television shows on and off and on again. I make sure I wash every dish as soon as I use it; I take out the kitchen trash as soon as I am done with dinner. The house is as neat and unlived-in as one that’s on the market, ready for potential buyers to arrive unannounced at any moment. I want to be able to walk out as soon as the phone rings. I want no unfinished business to delay me for even five minutes.
The evening drags by and it’s finally bedtime, and Dante still hasn’t called. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and change into a lightweight tracksuit instead of pajamas. If he calls at three in the morning, I can just jump out of bed and wear this in the car.
But the night limps past, and I lie awake for half of it, and still Dante doesn’t call.
Today, I think, once the clock reluctantly admits to midnight. Today I’ll hear from Dante.
Tuesday is not much different from Monday, though I’m yawning a little more often and Kathleen seems to be getting a bit more work done. I see her in Frank’s office, making notes on a steno pad while he talks. He’s always been a good boss, in that he sets a general tone of civility, makes it clear what his priorities are, and then gets out of our way so we can get our work done. But he’s never been particularly adept at the interpersonal skills of motivating employees or offering sincere praise, and he’s abysmal at delivering negative feedback. His management style seems to be a dogged hope that all employees will simply do their best, but he’s basically a nice guy. While Kathleen was gone last week, I noticed that he took all the plants from her desk into his office so he would remember to water them every day. It was a small gesture, but a kind one; it made me like him better than I already did.
I run into Ellen in the lunchroom and she gives me a knowing look. “Here’s something that never occurred to me before—Frank and Kathleen,” she says under her breath. “He’s been divorced f
or five years. Maybe it’s time he started dating again.”
“For someone who can’t claim the most successful love life herself, you’re awfully eager to pair other people up,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
She laughs. “I just like to meddle, and love lives are the most visible places to do it. If you had a child looking for a job, or a sister trying to buy a house, I’d be just as happy to jump in and start mucking around, offering my advice and doing a little networking for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Pleading a deadline, I skip the group lunch and manage to get my most essential weekly report done by three thirty. Just in time, too. My cell phone rings and I claw it open to breathe a hopeful greeting into the receiver.
“Hey, baby,” says Dante. “You still want to come to Kansas City?”
I’m flooded with a tide of tingling adrenaline. If I wasn’t already seated, I would have to drop to a chair, I feel that unsteady. “Yes, yes, yes,” I murmur into the phone. “Give me five minutes to make the reservation, five minutes to tell someone I’m leaving, and I’ll be on the road.”
“Don’t be careless,” he says in a warning voice. “Don’t drive too fast. I’d rather wait another half hour to see you than—than have you get in a terrible accident.”
I laugh shakily. “All right. I’ll be good. Are you someplace you can hang out for a while? Can you wait twenty minutes or so before you go to the hotel and ask if I’ve made a reservation?”
I hear the grin in his voice. “Yeah, longer than that, probably. I need to find a store where I can buy a sweatshirt or a T-shirt so I can look just a little more respectable before I walk in and claim a room.”
“All right. See you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I e-mail my report to Frank, turn off the computer, make sure nothing in the office looks like it’s going to fall over or catch on fire, gather up my coat and purse, and head down to Ellen’s office.
“I’m leaving for the day,” I say baldly. “And I probably won’t be back for the rest of the week.”
She lays down the paper in her hand, which appears to be an invoice for furniture or office supplies. She’s seated behind her desk, which is laughably huge for such a small person, and she’s wearing her reading glasses, which add a touch of professional sobriety to counterbalance her bright blond hair and her vivid pink blouse. For a moment, she says nothing, just looks up at me over the rims.
“All right,” she says finally. “Would you like to inform me what you’ll be doing or where you’ll be going? Inform me as your friend, not your coworker,” she adds.
That where you’ll be going is a shot in the dark, I’m sure, but it catches me off-guard and so I tell her, though I didn’t plan to. “Kansas City. I’ll have my cell phone with me if you need to text me. Or you could call me, of course,” I finish lamely, making it clear which option I would prefer.
She takes off her reading glasses and tilts her head to one side, still watching me. “Is that where he is right now? Kansas City?”
“Ellen, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“But that’s where he is? You’re going to meet him there?”
I fold my lips and don’t answer.
She nods. “Well. You’re a big girl. And you’re a smart girl. Don’t do anything stupid. And if you’re afraid—if you start wondering what this man is capable of—”
“I don’t wonder,” I interrupt. “I’m not worried. I’ll be fine.”
She nods again. “I hope you will. Have a good trip.” And she puts on her glasses and picks up the paper again.
I walk out, part of me annoyed with Ellen, part of me mad at myself for telling her anything—and part of me, a teeny-tiny traitor part, grateful and relieved. Grateful that someone cares enough about me to worry about me and not hide the fact.
Relieved that, if I disappear, someone will know where to begin to look.
I push that thought down, bury it, stomp on the dirt till it lies flat, and cover it with leaves and dried branches so that no one will ever know it was there.
I’m in the car and on the road twenty minutes after Dante has called. I take 109 up to 64-40, and 64-40 until it intersects with I-70 and I can merge into the steady stream of traffic that endlessly runs east and west across the state.
Four hours from now I will see Dante again. It seems like a lifetime.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I haven’t been on the road more than ninety minutes when the early dark of mid-November lays its inky hand over the highway. The world shrinks down to the curve of red taillights racing ahead of me, the sweep of white headlights bearing down on me. I set the cruise control and grope for the snacks laid out on the passenger seat. My hope is to stop only once for gas, after I’m well past Columbia; I don’t want to stop for food at all.
The intimacy of nighttime also enhances the poignancy of the music playing on the radio, and somewhere past Kingdom City I realize every station on my route is broadcasting songs that could be featured on the soundtrack of my life.
It doesn’t start off so badly. Some oldies/top-forty station offers the Celine Dion version of “I Drove All Night,” which seems eerily appropriate for the time and place. I sing along, dropping down an octave on the high notes. I can also appreciate Melissa Etheridge’s “Come to My Window,” a meditation on forbidden love and the reckless decision to pursue it anyway.
But then comes a whole stream of songs filled with loss and longing, and though none of them exactly matches my circumstances, the emotions are so raw and so spot-on that they resonate as if they had been written for me just this morning. Whitney Houston’s “Saving All My Love for You,” Phil Collins’s “Can’t Stop Loving You,” Alicia Keys’s “Fallin’.” I punch buttons, but it doesn’t matter which station I find, whether it’s pop or rock or country or indie. Emmylou Harris sings “Boulder to Birmingham.” Linda Ronstadt and Dolly Parton duet on “I Never Will Marry.” Leona Lewis suffers through “Bleeding Love.”
In desperation, I switch to CD mode, not even remembering what album I was last playing, but figuring it has to be an improvement. Oh, but it’s not. Beth made me a compilation she titled Great Love Songs from Broadway Musicals, so first I get Ella Fitzgerald doing her version of “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man of Mine,” and then Shani Wallis performing “As Long as He Needs Me.” If I remember correctly, the character singing that second song is later killed by her abusive boyfriend; there’s a scenario that hits a little too close to home. With an inarticulate sound of irritation so intense it borders on hysteria, I punch back to the radio, then turn off the stereo system altogether.
It doesn’t really matter if music sends me messages of warning, if friends gaze at me with worry and concern. I am rushing headlong through the darkness to fling myself into my lover’s arms, and I don’t believe even the apocalypse could stop me.
When I pull over to get gas, I find that Dante has texted me. (He disapproves of people who talk on cell phones while they drive, which is why he didn’t call.) The message merely reads ROOM 1415. He’s got the key, he’s got the room, and he’s waiting for me.
It is all I can do to remain reasonably close to the speed limit for the remainder of the drive.
It’s almost eight thirty by the time I arrive in Kansas City. I get lost trying to find the Plaza, but finally make my destination. I sling a bag over each shoulder and practically run through the lobby to the elevator bank, and then I am almost insane with impatience as the maddeningly slow cage creaks its way to the proper floor. By the time I am finally knocking on the room door, I’m breathless from exertion or excitement or both.
Dante pulls the door open and I stumble into his arms, the luggage thumping at my feet. I clutch him to me and mold myself against him, lifting my face to be kissed even as I inhale the pleasing scents of soap, new clothes, and Dante’s skin. He seems a little surprised at the intensity of my greeting, but he responds enthusiastically an
yway, gathering me up in a hug that lifts me off my feet, and theatrically kicking the door shut behind us.
“I guess you missed me,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I kiss him and then kiss him again. “You don’t know the half of it,” I say. Not that I’m about to tell him.
“Well, then,” he says, carrying me deeper into the room. “Let’s make up for lost time.”
I spend most of the next thirty-six hours lying to Dante.
We don’t leave the hotel room for the first twelve of those hours. After that passionate kiss in the doorway, we head straight for the bed, where we remember, in exhaustive detail, all the pleasures of each other’s bodies. Even when our lovemaking has ended, I cannot bring myself to move more than three inches from his side. I want to feel the length of his body against mine; I need the constant reassurance of his steady heat, his untroubled breathing. I need to know that he is alive and, at least for this brief time, out of danger. It is not enough to merely be able to see him across the room. I must be able to press my hand against his chest, feel the swell of muscles, catch the faint rhythm of his heart, and read on his skin the story of his soul as if it were written in Braille.
He is always most willing to snuggle during his first few hours back in human form, and so my clinginess does not annoy him, at least not right now. We order room service, turn on the cable TV, and climb back into bed. I’m not really watching, but I can see familiar actors flickering across the screen, and once in a while I hear Dante’s low chuckle. I don’t care that he’s actually watching the show instead of paying attention to me. His arms are folded around me from behind, his chin rests on the top of my head. He envelops me, he surrounds me, and I experience the most profound sensation of contentment. If I could die now, I think, wrapping my fingers around his forearms, I would die happy.
A commercial break prompts him to mute the volume. “So what’s going on back in St. Louis?” he asks.
I don’t allow my body to tense; we are so entwined he would surely notice. “Not much. Same old boring routine. I work, I come home, I wait to see you again.”