When the cops get here, I can’t do much to defend myself. He didn’t hit me. He didn’t threaten me. He didn’t use incendiary language. He did nothing to provoke me. I just assaulted him. So, as embarrassing and over the top as it is, I am being arrested. They don’t handcuff me. One cop even seems to think this is funny. But apparently, when the cops are called because you punched someone and they show up and you say, “Yes, Officer, I hit that person,” they have to at least bring you down to the “precinct.” One of the police officers escorts me to the backseat of the squad car, reminding me to duck as I get in. As he shuts the door and heads to the front seat, Mr. Callahan comes outside and catches my eye. I should be ashamed, I’m sure. But I just don’t care. I look at him through the backseat window, and I see him crack a smile at me. His smile slowly turns to laughter, a laughter that seems to be equal parts shock and newfound respect, perhaps even pride. The car starts to pull away, and Mr. Callahan gives me a sly thumbs-up. I find myself smiling, finally. I guess I do remember how to do it. You just turn the corners of your mouth up.
When we get to the police station, the cops take my things and book me. They put me in a cell. They tell me to call one person. I call Ana.
“You what?” she says.
“I’m at the police station. I need you to come bail me out.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m entirely serious.”
“What did you do?”
“I punched someone in the library stacks, somewhere between 972.01 and 973.6.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” she says.
“Wait. Don’t you want to know why I punched him?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” she asks, impatient.
? ? ?
It feels like hours until she’s here, but I think she actually gets here pretty quickly. I see her standing in front of my cell and . . . ha-ha-ha, how the fuck did I get here in a jail cell? She’s with the officer that arrested me. I am free to go, he says. We’ll wait to see if Brett presses charges.
Ana and I exit the building and we are standing outside. Ana hands me my bag of things. I now think this is really funny. But Ana doesn’t agree with me.
“In my defense, Mr. Callahan also thought it was funny,” I say.
Ana turns to me. “The old guy?”
He’s not just an old guy. “Forget it,” I say.
“I called Susan,” she says. It’s almost a confession.
“What?”
“I called Susan.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m out of my league here. I don’t know what to do.”
“So you told on me to my mom? Is that it?”
“She’s not your mom,” Ana says, sternly.
“I know that,” I say. “I just mean that’s kind of what you’ve done, right? You don’t want to deal with me so you’re trying to get me in trouble?”
“I think you’ve gotten yourself in trouble.”
“He was being an asshole, Ana.” She just looks at me. “He was! How did you even get her number anyway?”
“It’s in your phone,” she says, like I am stupid.
“Fine. Forget it. I’m sorry I called you.”
“Susan will be at your place in about an hour.”
“She’s coming over? I have to work until five,” I say.
“Something tells me they won’t want you back at work today,” Ana says.
We get in her car and she drives me to mine. I get out and thank her again for bailing me out. I tell her I’m sorry to be difficult and that I will pay her back.
“I’m just worried about you, Elsie.”
“I know,” I say. “Thanks.”
I drive myself home and wait for the knock at the door.
Susan knocks, and I open the door. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know why I’m apologizing to her. I don’t owe it to her not to get arrested. I don’t owe it to anyone.
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.”
She comes in and kicks off her shoes. She lies down on my couch.
“What happened?” she asks.
I blow out a hard sigh and sit down.
“This guy asked me out,” I say. “And I said no, but he kept at it and I told him I was married—”
“Why did you tell him you were married?” Susan asks.
“Huh?”
“I tell people I’m still married all the time, and I do it for the wrong reason. I do it so I can feel married. So I don’t have to say out loud that I am not married. Is that what you’re doing?”
“No. Well.” I stop and think. “I am married,” I say. “I didn’t divorce him. We didn’t end it.”
“But it ended.”
“Well, but, not . . . we didn’t end it.”
“It ended,” she says.
Why must everything be a life lesson? Why can’t I just act like I’m married and everyone leave me the hell alone?
“Well, if I . . . ” I trail off. I’m not sure of my defense.
“Go on,” she says. It seems like she knows what I’m going to say, but I don’t even know what I am going to say.
“If we stopped being married when he died . . . ”
She waits for me to finish my thought.