Triangles (40 page)

crooning a bastardized version

of the Beatles’
Michelle: My Shel,
my belle, these are words that

go together well. My-y Shel.

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Marissa sits stiffly, eyes closed.

I might think she’s asleep, except

her head bobs in time to Chris’s

gentle beat. Mom is in the kitchen, fixing chili for whoever might feel the need for sustenance. The smell

of frying onions wafts throughout

the house, fragrant. But it can’t

mask the blend of odors here

in Shelby’s room—perspiration,

oxygen, and discarded Pull-Ups.

Shane has claimed emptying

the trash as his contribution to

making Shelby as comfortable

as possible. He’ll be home from

school soon. Marissa insisted he

go every day.
You can’t get behind
the very first week. Junior year
is important.
And so he goes, but he comes straight home. I wish

Dad were here for him to talk

to, but the old man is off on

his pilgrimage, with no means

of communication. I’ve encouraged

Shane to open up, but he dams

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his grief inside. In that he too

closely resembles his parents.

When the coming storm rages

and the levees go, the damage

will be incomprehensible.

SITTING HERE

With nothing to do but think and wait is pointless. I slip quietly from the room, wander to the kitchen. Mom has her back to me, and when she turns, her face is tear-streaked. No need to ask if she’s okay. None of us are. “If you’ve got things covered, I think I’ll run home for a few. Check on Harley. Grab a shower. I smell like …” Carrion is what comes to mind, but I say, “B.O.”
We could all use a shower, couldn’t we?

Go on home. If anything happens …

She shakes her head, turns back to stir the pot simmering low on the stove.

Food and death. Somehow, the two have become interwoven in the human psyche.

We eat, to celebrate our living. We eat, to feed our memories. We eat, to keep from talking when words are meaningless.

When I open the door, a river of sunlight floods over the threshold, lifts the gray shrouding the curtained room. Nearby, 792/881

a dog barks at a passing car, frightens a covey of quail into startled flight.

Today, the ordinary seems extraordinary.

FRIDAY EVENING

On a holiday weekend, traffic is ugly.

It takes almost an hour to get home, and when I finally do, the house is empty.

Hollowed of energy. Holly picked

Harley up from the bus stop. I asked her not to mention Shelby’s condition yet. That news should come from me.

Death is largely an unknown quantity for Harley. I’m not sure whether

to prepare her for it or wait until its meaning becomes concrete.

I check messages. One from Holly,

letting me know Harley is safely

in her care, with a sidebar from

my daughter.
Happy birthday, Mom.

Don’t forget about the rib cook-off !

A local Labor Day Weekend to-do.

I take Harley every year. But this year?

I just don’t know for sure. The machine 794/881

beeps. One last message. From Jace.

Very sorry about your niece. Let me
know if you need someone to talk to.

His voice is a campfire in the wilds.

Of course I need someone to talk to, and of course I want it to be him. Here.

With me. Holding me. Kissing me. Lov—

Stop. Can’t think that way. No one has talked love. It would be enough to talk life. But to talk at all is problematic.

I can’t exactly call their house and ask to speak to Jace. Affairs are complicated, and a fling with your best friend’s spouse is way beyond complex. It’s bewildering.

Right now, a shower beckons. I run the water hot. I need to steam off more than sweat.

I wash my hair twice. Use a sea sponge to scrub away dead skin cells. When I finish, I tingle clean. Smell like apricots and ginger.

And for a moment, I forget where I just 795/881

came from, thinking instead about where I might be going to. I wrap myself in a big old fluffy towel. Happy birthday to me.

I AM STANDING NAKED

In front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear, when the phone rings.

The disembodied voice of the caller ID lady approximates:
Jace Carli-izle
.

You’re home.
His voice is warm with sympathy and I thaw, just a little.

Everyone went to the cook-off in Sparks.

Would you like me to come over?

“Oh, yes. Please.” He’s on his way.

I look down at my unclothed body,

suddenly just a little embarrassed

by it. Why didn’t I stay on Harley’s diet?

God, now I sound like Holly. And why did I have to think about her? What should I wear? Shorts? Nope. Those

would show my legs. Jeans? Not casual enough. Lingerie? Yeah, right. That’s me—major vamp. Maybe I could strip, give him a little lap dance. Damn it.

Holly, again. Could I be more pathetic?

I want to slap myself. Jace is coming over. That’s what I want. Everything’s 797/881

okay. I slip into an age-soft pair of capris, a clean tee shirt. I think what I really need is to allow myself the relief of a good cry. But then my eyes would get all red and swollen. My nose would run.

I’d look like hell, and tears won’t change a thing. I am dry-eyed when the doorbell rings, but when I open it and Jace steps inside, arms opened in invitation, I accept and fall apart completely.

He holds me while tears swell into sobs.

I cry until I go weak, spent emotion soaking the front of Jace’s soft cotton shirt. “I’m sorry.” Lame. Really lame.

Hey, now. Nothing to apologize

for. Come on.
Still propping me up, he guides me into the kitchen, sits me at the table.
Have you eaten today?

I shrug. “Some cereal for breakfast.” He nods, as if to say,
I figured as much,
starts rummaging through the refrigerator.

“I’m really not all that hungry, though.”
Good thing. Not much in here. How
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about I order in some pizza? Starving
yourself won’t help.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Looks like it’s Domino’s.

SUDDENLY THAT SOUNDS REALLY

GOOD

Pizza. Something normal. And—why

not?—a beer. Pizza and beer. Perfect.

I get up, go to the fridge, grab a couple of Corona Lights, hand one to Jace.

We talk about Shelby. Marissa. Chris.

We drink beer. The pizza arrives.

I pick off the pepperoni. We talk about rib cook-offs. Birthdays. Funerals.

Finally—I can’t help it—I ask, “How are things with you and Holly?” I want him to say awful, and he sort of does.
We
hardly talk at all, and when we do,
we fight. I know it’s hurting the kids,
but I don’t know how to avoid that.

We find something else to talk about.

Finish the pizza. Drink more beer. I start to feel almost normal. A mellow buzz begins to soften the razor-edged pain.

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Jace looks at me, a question in his eyes.

I nod. What I need now is comfort sex.

COMFORT SEX

Sometimes you just want

a loud, long, licentious fuck.

Anything goes. No sound allowed

but the soft-speak of sheets

and unbidden vocalizations.

But that kind of sex

is

often best enjoyed with no

expectation of a repeat

performance. A five-star dessert,

compared to sugar-free Jell-O—

the everyday low-cal, low-carb

treat that, with rare exception, will not

rank near the top of anyone’s

“most desired” list. Segue to “most requested,” you might find the daily lay, no real effort required except the post-activity cleanup. But every now and then, sex becomes

about

remembering you’re wanted.

Knowing you’re alive. Folding

yourself into someone else’s skin

and suckling their life force

to rekindle your own. Resurrection

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within the fusion of

orgasm.

Holly

FUSING LIVES

Old, newer, and just-discovered,

is like mixing a variety of not-quite-finished-off cereals, shaking the blend, and seeing what ends up on top.

Raisins? Nuts? Little oat clusters?

Mouse turds, maybe? What if you

decide you want what’s on the bottom after all? How do you discard the rest?

I’m not sure what to toss or how to do it.

I only know I can’t go back to the way it was when this summer started—

hungry. Always hungry for … what?

Not love. I had that, times three kids and Jace. Is four times mediocre

equal to or greater than one time

spectacular, minus a monumental dose of his commitment to someone else?

Sex, yes, my mouth did water

for something beyond the day-to-day 804/881

let’s-get-this-over-with variety,

but even now that I’ve experienced it, I’m not satiated, and I don’t know that more or kinkier or any other type of different will make me feel any less empty.

Last night, I took the kids to the rib cook-off, and when they wandered off on their own, I strutted my stuff down the street, and yes, I turned some heads.

And while that didn’t exactly feel bad, what I really wanted was to be with Bryan, who happened to be there

with his wife. I couldn’t even say hello.

Our eyes met as we passed each other, and his hand dropped away from

her waist, and seeing that made me

flush heat, like a hit of vitamin B12.

We haven’t connected, except by texting, since before he and she went off to San Francisco. School started, for one thing.

Please tell me I wasn’t just a summer fling.

Do teachers have those too? He smiled at me, but his eyes dropped away too 805/881

quickly. And when I turned—subtly—

hoping he’d spare another glance my way, instead I saw his hand lift again to her hip, ride its gentle sway. I no longer connect to Jace like that, and a little voice insists I should consider it a warning.

THAT SAME VOICE

Keeps nagging at me not to get

my hopes up about meeting Sarah

Hill. Mikayla and I are off to Vegas today. It’s only an hour flight,

and we plan to return first thing

in the morning, so all we take are

small carry-ons with a change

of clothes, toothbrushes, lotions, and makeup, the last two neatly packaged in the requisite plastic bags for

easy TSA viewing. Tickets, printed

out. ID, within reach. Good to go.

Jace drops us curbside. Comes

around to give us goodbye kisses.

Take care of your mom,
he tells Mikayla. Then, to me,
Keep your
head, and don’t expect too much.

No wonder I have that nagging

little voice. “No worries. I’ve got things pretty much in perspective.” And why not? I’ve had four decades

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to put them there. “We’ll call tonight.

I gave Andrea your cell number, in

case she needs you to pick up Harley.

They’re at the rib cook-off. Lucky

Harley. Two days in a row. She’ll be sweating grease and barbecue sauce.” He smiles.
Sounds delightful.

Okay. That airport cop is giving
me the evil eye. Better go. Love you.

“Love you too.” There is no

valid emotion behind the words,

nor within the quick kiss I give

him. It’s all for show, but how

could the kids
not
notice the rift between us? It wedges wider

every day. “Okay, Mik, we’re off.”

Midday Saturday, the airport

isn’t especially busy and security

takes no time at all. “We’ve

got an hour before our flight.

Want some lunch?” Mostly

because I could use a drink,

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and beyond security, the sports bar is the best place for sandwiches.

Mikki looks at me like I’ve lost

my mind.
Uh … no. I’m barf-

free right now, but if I eat …

I STILL WANT A DRINK

Liquid courage, I’ve heard it called, and I’m in dire need of a shot—or two—

of nerve. I deposit Mikayla in a seat near our gate. “Back in a few. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the bar.” The scathing look she gives now reminds me of Jace.

Think that’s a good idea? You don’t want
to be drunk when you meet her, do you?

“First of all …” It comes out louder than I intended. I lower my voice, and my temper.