“You’re tapping your nails and analyzing your neurotic husband. Stop. I can pay to be analyzed if I want it.”
Her nails stilled. “It’s a puzzling side of you, my love.”
“Oh now I’m a box. Well, there are five other sides to me, hopefully you like those.”
“I like all of you, I just…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She stood up and went over to the refrigerator. “I am so glad you got your necklace back. Are you happy?”
He held it up, gazing at the charms. “I don’t have a word for what I am right now.”
“You’ll take it in to be fixed?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll take our wedding bands in to be polished, too, if you want.”
Her head popped over the open fridge door. “I can defrost some chicken? Or we can get Chinese and chill out?”
“Perfect.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Are you done asking me questions?”
She stared him down. “Do you want pork or vegetable lo mein?”
*
Though he wasn’t outwardly curt or moody with his wife that evening, Erik was all anxious brooding within. He kept catching himself whistling bars of “The Man I Love,” which was annoying. So was the hydra in his gut, rearing a thousand emotional heads, hissing and biting at him.
He felt guilt for not attending the ceremony, then justified because he didn’t know about it. Then he was insulted at not being informed, and regretted cutting himself off to the point of exclusion. On the heels of regret came relief he avoided seeing Daisy, or worse, seeing her being awful sweet on John. David was an unquestionably dodged bullet. Then again, Erik could have seen Will—another helping of guilt. But Will was in a professional collaboration with Daisy now.
In Canada.
Daisy, who was always cold, living up in Canada.
He pictured her in a long wool coat, walking along snowy streets in boots, a hat pulled low and a scarf pulled high. Dance bag over her shoulder.
Walking alone.
Was she alone?
He put his fork down, pushed away his container of lo mein.
“Not hungry?” Melanie said.
“Not really.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Stop asking me shit.”
Calmly, Melanie made a gesture of reaching into her pocket and then held her empty palm out to him.
“What?” he said.
“It’s a fuck,” she said. “I give it.”
He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I love you. And I’m going to take my guitar out on the back porch and be moody.”
“Enjoy yourself,” she said, smiling, and gestured to his uneaten food with her chopsticks. “Can I eat that?”
It was a lovely night for April. The air was velvety soft. The perpetually-strung Christmas lights made the little porch into a warm, twinkling cave, and Erik sat there a long time. Deconstructing the opening riff of Led Zeppelin’s “Over the Hills and Far Away,” he tried to shut his thoughts out. Tried not to let it matter Daisy hadn’t spoken his name on the radio.
The back door opened.
Stark naked, Melanie lounged against the jamb, fingers combing through her plaits.
“I have a question.”
Slowly Erik put the guitar down, got up, and followed her inside.
Sometime later, in the dark of the living room, Mrs. Fiskare lifted her face out of the couch cushions with a concerted effort, and weakly pushed her tangled cornrows out of her mouth. Her shoulder blades were heaving and slick with sweat.
“Oh my God,” she said, gasping. “What was that?”
“A fuck,” Erik said, falling onto the floor, panting and spent. “I gave it.”
Delivered in Person
April 28, 2002