The Good Widow(4)
I can’t manage to remember the sound of his laugh. I’ve been trying, the way you do when that actor’s name is on the tip of your tongue but you just can’t spit it out, squinting hard as if the concentration will help me recall it. A few nights ago, after polishing off half a bottle of port—the only alcohol left in the house—I tore through a box of home videos, searching for the one from our wedding. I wanted that moment when, after Tom gave his best-man speech, James let out a belly laugh that rippled through the courtyard of the hotel. It was infectious, that laugh. And now I can’t remember it. And I never did find the video.
James and I had eight years together, but in many ways we hadn’t even made it out of the gate, like a racehorse that gets spooked by the sound of the gun. So many things had held us back. The loss of his job during our first year of marriage that led him to the one he has—had—that forced him to be out of town each week; my arrogance that we could wait years after getting married to start a family.
Which leads me back to the whys. Why did it end before it ever really began? Why were the last words we spoke to each other hostile? Why can’t I forget how he blew past me out of the house and got into the Uber driver’s rusted Toyota Camry without looking over his shoulder? Why can I still feel the way the house trembled after the front door slammed?
He shouldn’t have died. He paid his taxes. He coached Beth’s son’s baseball team. He was thoughtful, once turning the car around to drive twenty minutes when he realized he’d forgotten to tip our server. Why had the knock from two police officers been on my door? Why not on the door of the awful woman from across the street, who once yelled at a group of gap-toothed kids in our neighborhood for placing their lemonade stand too close to her driveway? Why not hers?
After three glasses of sauvignon blanc at James’s memorial, which Beth had planned without my even having to ask, I’d found the courage to ask his boss, Frank, if he knew James had been in Maui. My stomach churned as I studied Frank’s bushy eyebrows and his bloodhound eyes, both wanting and not wanting to know if Frank had been covering for him—that I was the only one not in on the joke. It was incredible how many questions I wanted and didn’t want the answers to. It felt like when I had learned to drive, the instructor jamming the passenger-side brake as I pumped the gas. But Frank shook his head vehemently. He knew only that James had requested a few days off, nothing more than that. And, oh yes, he was so very sorry.
Later that night—after Beth and I had said good-bye to James’s mom, Isabella, and dad, Carlos, my parents, and a few other stragglers—Beth searched the house for clues. (She actually called them that. Like she was starring in a bad episode of Law & Order.) We started with his personal items that had been shipped back to me and arrived the day before. I unzipped his suitcase and sifted through his clothes, pulling out a mix of clean and dirty items, my hand resting on his favorite bathing suit, a pair of red board shorts with a frayed waistband. The same ones he’d worn on our honeymoon. I dug deeper, but there wasn’t so much as a bar receipt. His cell phone and laptop proved to be just as unhelpful—every single password attempt denying me access to the man my husband had been. The thing was, I had naively—or stupidly, I don’t know which at this point—never thought I’d need that access.
CHAPTER FOUR
JACKS—AFTER
Our conversations about where James was going on business always went something like this:
Him: I’m off to Des Moines (or another city name) tomorrow.
Me: Um, hmm. When will you be back?
Him: In a few days. I’ll text you when I land.
Me: Okay. Can you pull the trash cans out before you go?
We were finishing our fettuccini Alfredo when he mentioned the Kansas trip. I looked up from my plate and watched the noodles swirling inside his mouth as he told me he’d be leaving the next morning and would be gone until Saturday. There was a dinner he couldn’t get out of on Friday night. He went on about how the clients were impossible and closing this deal could potentially double his bonus check next quarter. I frowned, mentally canceling the reservations I’d just made at a new Italian spot down the street. Trying to convince myself that maybe the timing was good. I had a ton of prep work to do for the end-of-school-year open house in the fourth grade class I teach. That night was just a week away, and I still had to decide how to display the kids’ essays about their heroes and come up with a creative idea of how to showcase their family-tree projects.
Noticing my face fall, James came around to my side of the table and kissed me softly, and my irritation began to dissolve, as it often did. We fell in and out of arguments easily, like that snap on your shirt that doesn’t quite clasp. You think you’ve finally secured it and then, bam, ten minutes later it’s popped open again.
Could I have asked him more about his trip to Kansas? Sure. But I wouldn’t have. I had stopped doing that a long time ago. In the beginning of our marriage, I’d pepper him with questions about his job. But he would give me clipped answers, finally admitting he saw his job selling web conferencing software simply as a means to an end—a paycheck. One day, he’d leave and start his own business. He had ideas, ones that didn’t involve the lack of legroom in seat seventeen C or the gate agent who loved to scold you if your carry-on was larger than twenty-two by sixteen by ten inches. He liked his job and was very good at what he did, but he hated all the travel that went along with it. So I learned not to ask about it. And definitely not to bring up his plans to leave.