Long Division (19 page)

The box inside the box is the small velvety kind that announces “precious jewelry” in a smooth, classy voice. David has never bought me jewelry before, and the sophisticated texture of the box causes my guts to tense up in a way that makes me glad he isn't here to witness the reception of the gift. Jewels mean it's serious. A diamond pendant he'll see you wear for anniversaries to come. Dangly tennis bracelets that symbolize an unending love. Pearl earrings to show that you're precious and that you're worth it. It's all a bunch of crap to me. And I thought David knew that. Did he forget about the note he left on the motel room pillow promising my freedom if I want it? Isn't this whole mess about obtaining “freedom” anyway? Did David send me a diamond-bedazzled set of handcuffs? A four-million-pound engagement ring? The only other tiny velvet box I own belonged to my mother and contains the entire set of my baby teeth. Could David be sending me
his
baby teeth? Is that creepier than sapphire studs? Should I make the teeth into a necklace? Should I bleach them first?

I turn the box over in my hands one more time before I open it. It snaps open with a loud crack, causing the contents to hop off their plush resting place. It rattles and settles. It's a necklace. I force out an exaggerated sigh and laugh at myself. At David. Along a delicate sterling silver chain and resting in an equally shiny silver bearing is a Scrabble tile. An
A
for “Annie” worth a measly one (million!!!!!! ☺ ☺ ☺) point(s). It is cute. As long as I don't equate it to those gross sweaters that teachers wear with appliquéd pencils and school buses on the pockets, I like it. It's a very thoughtful gift. A reminder of how many times I've kicked his business-major ass.

B
ig fat sigh.
⁷¹

The rest of February and the first weeks of March were unremarkable. In the movie version of my story, they would be depicted through a musical montage of the following scenes:

Even that was a bit long for a rather dull month. But the editors will know how to pare it down. So it's probably a wise editorial choice to glaze over it and get straight to my spring break camping trip. I took a break from writing because I was starting to feel too self-indulgent and repetitive and generally lame about it. One night I went online and read all these blogs
⁷³
of wives whose husbands are deployed in Iraq. The blogs are called things like “On the Homefront” and “While My Love Is Gone.” All the ones I read belong to young women with babies. Two babies, three babies, a woman in Nebraska with four babies—ages six months to six years. And reading these blogs depressed the hell out of me on many levels. Please allow me to explain.

This is quite obvious. All those cute, chubby offspring with stewed carrots dripping down their ARMY BABY bibs have no idea that Papa might be blown to smithereens. They probably just know that he's gone and that his certain variation of peek-a-boo has been discontinued. The older children—Stevie, Junior, Mary Rose, Freedom
⁷⁴
—they understand that Daddy's away working and that he's fighting in a WAR. I know twenty-nine third graders. They're amazingly, disturbingly, well acquainted with the subject.

When I stumbled upon the first blog and started to search for others, I thought I'd busted into some new resource: a backstage tour to the women who were similarly coping. I thought that I'd cluck my tongue at clever survival tips and snort at amusing anecdotes. I thought these women—army and marine wives of years—would say things to encourage this Woman at Home and teach me more about the fucked-up situation we all share. I thought it would be like the boiled-down version of the Knitwhit Wife Ladies. I'd get the helpful scoop without all the shit-talking and social pressure. It'd be this authentic, insightful dialogue . . . but organized! Miss Harper Loves Organized! But my expectations fell far outside of what actually exists on the World Wide Web. It was all wholesome, obvious, and a big fat waste of time. It was kind of like reading the directions on the back of a shampoo bottle, but with all the lovely adjectives missing. Or maybe the instructions on a can of soup. Or the ingredients label for a jar of applesauce. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Heat. Stir. Apples. Sugar. Yawn.

Am I the only psycho who fantasizes about my lover's death and gets pissy when he writes short, boring, no-meat e-mails? Well, I guess I can't blame a woman for not posting that kind of confession on the Internet. But still. Nothing to learn really. Generic, weepy crap.

Generic, weepy crap is a horrible thing to call someone's real life. Especially someone with whom I share a common risk and situation. Our hearts are all cast across the same fat ocean and dangling from the same wimpy fishing line with the same incompetent Texan holding the reel.
⁷⁵
I shouldn't scoff at their woes. And I shouldn't feel superior because I think I'm approaching this in a different, more creative, more analytical way. Because I'm not really. They're raising humans. I'm raising a chicken and learning to play pinochle. Big whoop.

So pretty much all of the blogs have wedding pictures. The husband decked out in his dress blues, the now-blogging wife radiant in a sweeping white gown. Her arms are sleek, tapering down to a modest bouquet of lilies that nearly covers the span of her feminine waistline. And then there's the
now
photos of Mrs. Blogger standing behind her twin three-year-olds on the swing set. The kids are smiling for Daddy. She's smiling for Daddy. But there's a whole lot more of Mommy behind those swings. A stomach bulging out of an elastic waistband. Mounds of flesh draped over her cheekbones. Thick arms and thunder thighs. She's too busy wiping off drool and washing peed-on bedsheets to get to the gym. She's eating the Tater Tot and taco casseroles, rich with creamy condensed soups and kindly delivered by a member of the church ladies' guild each week. A few of the bloggers even discuss their deployment weight gain on their sites. They are all good-natured about it, owning up to stress-eating and whatnot. Dare I ponder if it's from lack of S.E.X.? P.S. None of the blahgers mention anything about S.E.X. on their blogs, which I guess I get, because their mothers probably read them.

 

So that's why I quit writing for a bit. David and I don't have any children. I'm not praying or thanking anyone else for praying. Everything I say is probably Generic Weepy Crap. And thank Jesus and Helen that my protein-rich, poverty diet has kept me fit as a fiddle. What do I have to complain about?
⁷⁶
slkdfjf slkdjhfskldj fskldjfh sdkjnv,xmnseduiskjhsd. !!!!!!!!!!!!!! fuck.

 

But first, the fishing trip.

Gus invited me to join Gina; himself; and his college buddy, Stephen, on a five-day fishing/camping trip at the Potholes State Park in eastern Washington. The Potholes are this smattering of tiny lakes (some are natural volcanic leftovers; others are manmade reservoirs used for crop irrigation) nestled at the eastern side of the Cascade Mountains and the Columbia River. Their plans coincided with my spring break, and I couldn't think of a more lovely way to spend it.

The weather was perfect. And in Washington State, perfect weather permits incessant commentary. It's not considered lame or master-of-the-obvious to say things like
Oh, it's so gorgeous
or
What an amazing night
several times an hour. So we did. We packed up Gus's van on a Saturday morning that was crisp and clear enough to necessitate sunglasses. I rolled my dorky cargo pants up to midcalf and we listened to a cassette tape of Aesop's fables that Gus brought along in the van. We cracked our windows and slipped our fingers outside to curl over the lip of the cool glass. Stephen turned out to be a great guy. Not that I expect Gus to have lame friends, but I was skeptical when he told me of Stephen's prep-academy upbringing and present enrollment in dental school. Yes, he was a bit soft and delicate-looking, but he jabbed that first earthworm on his first fishing hook with a fearless, devious smile that both impressed me and scared me a bit for his future patients. Stephen was big into making up songs about fishing
⁷⁷
and looking for animal tracks. The way nature can set city folk
⁷⁸
reeling in raw wonder is beautiful. It's like when I show my students a simple crystal of salt under a microscope or this one video about deep-sea creatures that look so much like aliens. He had that same stunned appreciation for things. Stephen is fantastic.

The four of us had long talks around the campfire. Gus and I told embarrassing stories about one another from our teen years. Once he went off about how I got my eyebrow pierced junior year and that it got so infected that my eye swelled shut and he had to build a dam out of a playing card and masking tape to prevent the pus from leaking down and seeping into my eye socket.

“Yeah, I drove her to the emergency room, where all the doctors wanted to take pictures for their medical textbooks. It was that gross. Do you remember the names of the books that published the photos, Annie? Didn't they give you free copies?” The fire had dwindled down to a few glowing embers, and it was too dark for Stephen or Gina to see my hand wrapped across my face holding in the laugh.

“No way!” Stephen said. “I bet we have those books in the Harvard Medical Library!”

But then Gina asked, “Did you ever get any other piercings?” and Gus and I both lost it.

“Sorry to disappoint, guys,” I spit out after finally allowing a laugh to escape my lips. “None of that never happened. Gus is full of shit.” Stephen threw a beer cap in Gus's direction and Gina cursed him playfully.

“Full of macaroni and delicious lake trout, to be precise,” Gus said. But now that I'm in analyzing/writing mode, the story about my pus-filled eyebrow could have happened. Gus told it so well I nearly believed it myself. I've known Gus for so long, and we have so many dumb stories about one another, that we can fictionalize small bits of our past without it feeling artificial. I very well could have pierced my eyebrow. (I did dye my hair black twice junior year.) And if I had pierced it, Gus and I both know that I wouldn't have been too great at remembering to swab the healing hole with alcohol and keep it sterile. And when the pus started to brim and swell, Gus would certainly have put his perfect-SAT-math-score brilliance to work and constructed the described apparatus. So as humorous as the fireside fable may have been, it just as easily could have been fact. When you know someone well enough to properly portray their character, what's the harm inserting that personality into an alternate reality? Not factually true, but pretty much
actually
true. Annie, you need to home in on this theory a bit before you attempt to present it to the critical reader. Yikes.
⁷⁹