So Long, Chester Wheeler(38)

I sat down hard on the opposing couch. And it hit me, like the proverbial Sherman tank, that I was tired. But not a normal kind of tired. Seriously depleted. Really spent. Done.

“You’re not looking at her now,” I said.

“I guess I just want to know why.”

“Okay. Fine. Let me go tell her you just want to know why.”

“Wait. There might be more.”

“You can think about that while I’m gone.”

I turned on the generator and set the air conditioning to 72 degrees, so Chester wouldn’t die of heat exhaustion in that metal roasting pan while I was gone.

I sorted his pills carefully onto the counter and then swept them into a little bowl with the side of my hand. Poured him a glass of apple juice. Handed him both.

“Here, take your pills,” I said.

Then I trotted down the steps and out into the desert oven.

I marched up the walkway and rapped on her door.

She pulled the curtain back within seconds. When she saw it was me, her face softened and she let me in.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, stepping into her living room. “I realize that was quite a crap show.”

“Now you know what it was like to live with him.”

“I’ve pretty much been living with him for about a week now. So I think I already knew.”

“Condolences.”

She wandered away without comment, and I sat down on her couch and waited. The place was artificially cool and dazzlingly clean. It was decorated in a style that might have been retro or might not have changed since the actual sixties. Lots of white leather and turquoise. Still, whatever I thought of her decorating style, it was hard not to admire all that clean.

She stuck her head back into the living room and held up a large bottle of Jim Beam.

“You want something stronger than water?”

“It’s still morning,” I said. Even though I really did want it.

“I know it. And I’m not a day drinker. I don’t want you to think I am. But every once in a blue moon you have a day that’s an exception to the rule. Any day my ex-husband comes looking for me qualifies. And you—you look positively worn down.”

“I’m . . .” I struggled for an apt description. “. . . tired right down into my bones. I can feel them buzzing with exhaustion. And not just physical exhaustion, either, though that, too. It’s just been a really tough week.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

She broke out two glasses and poured us each three fingers of whiskey. Sat down beside me on the couch.

“I’m sorry I helped ambush you,” I said. I meant it sincerely, and I know that came through in my voice. I could hear it. “I thought if I didn’t do it, I’d feel really bad after he was gone.”

“I give everybody one pass,” she said. “So we’re good. But only one.”

I took a long swallow of the whiskey. It hit me fast. It combined in a strange way with my exhaustion and made me feel as though I didn’t actually exist.

“He said something after we got back in the RV,” I said. “It felt pretty genuine. And that’s so rare for him. Of course I want to tell it to you, but I’m not sure I can quote it word for word. This is somewhat paraphrased. He said he thought he knew what he wanted to say, but then he was actually there with you and it wouldn’t come together in his head. He couldn’t think in that moment.”

“That makes sense, I guess. But you were back in the Winnebago with him. Could he think then?”

“I asked him. He said he thinks he just wants to know why.”

She took a long swallow of her whiskey, her eyes far away. She seemed to be looking out the window, but in a half-focused way.

“Why’s a hard question,” she said.

“I guess you don’t drive two thousand miles to ask an easy one.”

She gave a long, slow shrug.

“I fell in love,” she said. “People fall in love. Especially when they’re not happy in their marriage.”

We drank in silence for a couple of minutes. I was putting the whiskey away much too fast. I hadn’t eaten, and I hadn’t slept nearly enough. And when I looked down at my glass it was unexpectedly empty.

“Well,” I said, and tried to rise. And almost fell down again. She reached out to steady me. “I need sleep,” I added. “I’m going to go sleep. I’ll tell him what you said. I can’t believe this could really be it, but I’ll tell him.”

“Really be what?”

“I mean, he asks you one question and you give him a short answer. People don’t drive most of the way across the country for that. Do they?”

“Depends on the people,” she said. “But I doubt we’re done.”

She got up and walked me to the door.

“Get some sleep,” she said. “And, look. I’m making a lamb stew. I was anyway. Even before I knew I was being invaded. What I’m saying is, you’re invited. Come around seven. Chet is not invited, but I’ll make him up a plate. He can eat it in the Winnebago.”

“Okay,” I said. “All things considered I’d say you’re being pretty hospitable.”

I stepped out again into the desert heat. Walked down that concrete path. Stepped up into the cool rig.