The Lost Husband (28 page)

He glanced back at the TV, like he didn’t understand.

“Because Jean doesn’t have a TV,” I rushed to explain. “She doesn’t even approve of them. So it’s been months since I’ve seen any TV at all. And I’ve kind of been in withdrawal. You know, like getting the shakes and all.”

“You’re here to watch TV?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, suddenly feeling shy.

“I don’t mind,” he said, opening the door wider.

I slid past him to climb in.

The trailer looked larger from the outside. The sofa, in fact, doubled as O’Connor’s bed, which was still—or perhaps perpetually—unmade. He pulled the covers a little straighter, and I sat down primly, pausing only to notice that his sheets were a blue chambray and a much higher thread count than I would have expected.

I looked up to see O’Connor watching me.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m just wondering what we’re about to watch.”

I shrugged. “Anything. I’m not picky.”

He nodded.

“Except,” I went on, “I probably won’t want to watch shows with corpses in them. Or body parts. Or forensic pathologists.”

“Okay,” O’Connor said.

“Or war, either,” I added. “Or explosions, or bombs, or severed limbs flying through the air.”

“Okay,” he said, starting to look amused.

“And no serial killers,” I went on. “No rapists or child murderers. Nothing to do with death or destruction.”

“So, not picky at all.”

“Other than that stuff,” I said, standing my ground. “Does that surprise you?”

“No.”

“Good,” I said in my own defense. “Because I am a mom.”

“Moms can’t enjoy death and destruction?”

“No,” I said. “At least I can’t.”

He waited for an explanation.

“Because,” I went on, “here I am, busting my ass to raise these two little people and teach them how to make the right choices and do the right things and be kind to each other. I’m, like, pouring my own life into them and really giving it everything I have in the belief that I am doing something—you know—critically, vastly, staggeringly important.” I didn’t know how to explain it better than that. “And I don’t want to see Rambo or somebody come along and kill them.”

O’Connor thought that this was funny. “You don’t want Rambo to kill your children?”

“Anyone’s children,” I corrected. “I don’t want Rambo killing anyone’s children. Right? All those people he kills were once babies. They had mothers who changed their diapers and stayed up all night with them when they had fevers and loved them so, so desperately. And then Rambo just walks in with a big old blaster, and—
boom
—all of it was for nothing.”

“A big old blaster,” O’Connor said, shaking his head a little.

“It’s insulting,” I said.

“You realize they’re just actors,” he said. “They’re not really dying in those movies.”

“Irrelevant!” I said. “And patronizing.”

“Sorry.”

“I like shows about good things. Hopeful things.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Like people taking care of each other.”

O’Connor wrinkled his nose, like such an idea was too cheesy for comment.

“Isn’t there enough misery in the world?” I said. “Do I really have to spend my leisure time absorbing more of it?”

“Valid point,” he said.

“I don’t know why we all think war and dismemberment are the only important topics—”

“I think that’s a book, actually:
War and Dismemberment
.”

“What about kindness? What about resilience? What about bravery?”

O’Connor nodded, and then shrugged. “Well,” he said, “it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

“It matters to me!” I said.

“I mean,” he clarified, “in terms of watching television here.”

“Why not?”

“My TV only gets two channels.”

My shoulders slumped.

“Two and a half, actually,” he corrected.

I glanced with disappointment at the TV.

“But between those channels,” he said, handing me the remote, “it’s totally your call.”

He sat down next to me on the bed-sofa and picked up a library book that had been half hidden in the sheets.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, looking at the book.

He held it up. “I’m going to read.”

“What are you reading?” I asked, surprised to see how thick it was.

“Oh, it’s a war story,” he said. “You’d find it insulting. And patronizing.”

“Fair enough.”

Two hours later, I was still there, clicking happily between the two and a half available channels. O’Connor had started yawning loudly, but I was ignoring his hints.

Finally he leaned over and knocked on my head.

“It’s eleven o’clock, crazy person,” he said. “Dubbie crows at five in the morning.”

I ignored him.

He shifted positions so he blocked my view of the TV, but I just leaned to the side and kept watching.

“Okay,” he said, “if that’s the way you want to play it.” He started taking off his boots.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready for bed,” he said, pulling off his socks and dropping them on the floor. “I’m tired. Scram.”

“Five more minutes,” I said, glancing back at the TV.

“Nope,” O’Connor said, starting to unbuckle his belt.

“I just want to finish this—”

But he wasn’t kidding.

Next thing I knew, he’d unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them to his ankles.

“Hello!” I said, jumping up and stumbling back toward the door. “Unnecessary!”

O’Connor, in his boxers, gave a big grin. “Lucky for you I’ve got on underwear.”

I put my hand over my eyes. “Jesus, O’Connor!”

“Wasn’t entirely sure if I did or not,” he went on, looking down for confirmation.

And with that, I rattled open the door, darted down the steps, and fled into the black night.

“Don’t let the panther get you!” he called after me.

“Don’t let the underpants police get you!” I called right back. And I scampered across the yard to the house.

After that, I started showing up at O’Connor’s trailer door after bedtime every night, hoping for a TV fix. It was so blissful to space out in that particular way, and to mute all the worries that followed me like theme music, even if the only offerings on those two channels were
Seinfeld
reruns or the local news. I’d take it. I’d take it and be grateful.

Every night O’Connor read his book while I manned the remote. Every night around eleven he kicked me out against my will. And every night I skittered back across the yard to the house, worrying like hell about the infinitesimally small odds of a panther attack. Because that’s how I roll.

I kept deciding I was going to hold back from going over there—that it was time to stop the insanity—but then I kept doing it anyway. Once I saw that flickering blue light, I was pretty much lost.

Jean swore she didn’t mind losing me as her weeknight partner for Scrabble, dominoes, and gin rummy. She was reading a new series about a time-traveling zombie that she simply could not put down, and she actually seemed pleased to see me go. Even Russ was on pause until she got to the end of book seven.

“You’d rather read that book than hang out with me,” I said one night on my way out the door.

She shrugged as though it couldn’t be helped. “You have many great qualities,” she said, “but you’re not a time-traveling zombie.”

Things went on like this for a good week until one night I looked out at O’Connor’s trailer and found it dark. I walked over anyway and tried the door to the trailer, thinking I might just watch on my own until he got back from wherever he might be, but the handle was locked.

I took a seat in one of his woven lawn chairs and waited outside for a good while, feeling immensely disappointed, before giving up and heading home. Back at the house, I sat on the couch next to Jean and read a book of my own about a woman who planted an heirloom vegetable garden. We both turned in early, and I was pleased—as I mentioned several times—at the idea of how refreshed I’d be after a really good night’s sleep. After multiple glances through the kitchen window at the still-dark Airstream, I was down for the count by nine-thirty.

But at midnight I was up again.

Someone was banging on the back door, and after I flew down the hall to the kitchen, I saw it was O’Connor—leaning against it with his head and pounding it with his fist.

I turned the handle, and he stumbled over the threshold, catching himself on my shoulders.

“Shut up!” I hissed. “Everybody’s sleeping.”

O’Connor looked around as though it hadn’t occurred to him anyone might be asleep. “Sorry,” he said.

His hands were still on my shoulders, using them for balance, thumbs against my collarbone.

“You smell like beer,” I said.

He nodded. “That sounds about right,” he said. “It’s what I had for dinner.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re correct.”

“Are you looking for Jean?” I asked. It occurred to me he might be in crisis and need a professional. “I can wake her.”

“I’m not looking for Jean,” he said. “I’m looking for you.”

“Why?” I asked.

The question seemed to flummox him. “In case,” he said after a minute, “you wanted to watch TV.”

“Not at midnight, I don’t,” I said.

“Is it midnight already?”

“Yes, it’s midnight,” I said, getting all motherly and businesslike. “You have to be up early, I have to be up early. Let’s put you to bed.”

I turned him around to steer him out onto the lawn, and he said, “You’re wearing that damned nightgown again.”

I led him down the porch steps. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s too thin. It’s like tissue paper.”

“Well,” I said, steering us across the yard, “if I were in my bed under the quilt, it really wouldn’t matter.” I hadn’t stopped for shoes, so I was going slowly through the grass, hoping not to step on anything prickly.

“It’s been a long time since I saw a drunk person,” I added.

“Me too,” he said.

I gave him a look that said,
“Please.”

“Really,” he insisted. “I never do this.”

I kept walking.

“I couldn’t, could I?” he went on. “I had to stay alert and capable. I had responsibilities. But tonight it suddenly occurred to me: I can do anything I want. And I wanted to get drunk.”

“And how is it?”

“It’s awesome.”

Just then I got a sticker-burr in my big toe. I let go of O’Connor and he tumbled onto the grass.

“Hey!” he said, as though I’d fallen down on the job.

“Shh!” I said.

I pulled the burr out and tossed it at O’Connor, who by now was lying on his back with his hands behind his head, gazing at the stars. “I know all the constellations,” he said. “Did you know that?”

I held out my hand to help him up. “That’s great, Copernicus. Let’s go.”

Instead of me pulling him up, however, he somehow pulled me down, and I landed with an “oof” on his chest.

“Watch out!” he said to me, as if I had been clumsy.

I scrambled back up and dusted grass off my nightgown.

He thought it was terribly funny, but I put my hands on my hips. “Do you want me to help you or not? Because I could be sleeping right now.”

He got serious. “I want you to help me. I do.”

“Then get up, man. You’re wasting my time.”

When we got to the Airstream, there were beer cans littered around the lawn chairs.

“These weren’t here before.”

“Before?”

It felt like I was really admitting to something as I said, “I came over after I put the kids to bed.”

“That was a long time ago,” he pointed out.

It clearly was. “Are these cans all yours?”

“I never do anything half-assed,” he said.

It took him at least five minutes to unlock the door—and he wouldn’t let me help. Once we were up the steps, he sat on the bed-sofa, and I said, “I’m going to get you some water and aspirin. Then I’m going back to bed.”

“Okay,” he said, holding himself upright.

I found a bottle of water in his mini-fridge and hunted down the aspirin in the medicine cabinet—noting that we used the same toothpaste. I brought him two pills and said, “Take these. And finish off the water.” Then I knelt in front of him to pull off his boots, which somehow seemed like the right thing to do. He did as he was told and glugged the water, finishing off the bottle and lowering his head just as I finished with his second boot and raised mine—and suddenly we were nose to nose.

“Do you want to know what else I wanted to do when I realized I could do anything?” he asked then, his mouth just inches away.

I shook my head.

He looked down at my mouth, then back up at my eyes. The whole room felt completely still except for the two of us breathing. “I wanted to see you,” he said.

In any other situation I’d have leaned in to kiss him just then. But he was wrong when he’d said he’d realized he could do anything. He couldn’t really do anything. Because he was still married, no matter how agonizing or tragic or hopeless the circumstances. And knowing that was just enough to hold me back from the pull of longing that was tugging at me like a tide. I didn’t lean in, though every cell in my body wanted to. Instead, I did the only thing I could. I stood up and shoved him sideways until he tumped over on his bed.