The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(114)
Daisy’s voice. At one point it had fractured into little slivers of pain.
“The shooting changed me,” she said. “It changed who I was and I didn’t like her.”
She described part of herself as haunted. Spoken of things she lost she would never get back.
Me, Erik thought when he heard it, leaning forward, his head practically touching the dash. Fingers reaching to caress the radio in a transfixed wonder. The tiniest thawing in his heart. A shift in his atoms he could not prevent.
She means me.
But she didn’t say his name.
Melanie was waiting for him at the steps to the kitchen door. She had left Brockport State, landing a plum job as a music teacher at a private school. She had to commute to East Rochester every day, but the money was good and she loved the work.
“Were you listening to NPR?” she called out before he was out of the car.
“I was.”
“Did you hear it? The thing about Lancaster?”
“I heard it,” he said. He kissed her and went inside, crouched down to be greeted by Harry.
“They barely mentioned you,” she said.
“You think so?” he said, scratching the dog’s ears and neck. “No, they talked about me.”
“Not much, though.” Melanie had pulled two beers from the fridge. She popped one and gave it to him. “Cheers, baby.”
“Sk?l.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
He sat down. “Go where?”
“To Lancaster. To the ceremony.”
“I didn’t know there was one.” Erik took a long drink and let the day fall away from him. Harry put his head on Erik’s knee.
“What do you mean you didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know.” He drank again, running his hand along the dome of Harry’s head, lost in thought. Finally he looked up again. “What?” he said to Melanie’s incredulous expression.
“It’s the ten-year anniversary and nobody called you?”
He shook his head.
She took a pull of her own beer, looking expansive. “How many questions do I get here?”
He smiled at her. She was getting better at respecting the sore spots of his past, not probing. It had been her idea to set limits on how many questions she could ask in a given situation. “Two,” he said. “For a blow job, you can ask three.”
She rolled her eyes. “Have you been back to Lancaster? Ever?”
“No.”
“In ten years, you have never gone back and you’re not in touch with anybody?”
“Mel, those are questions you already know the answers to. I told you what happened and why I had to leave. Nothing’s changed.”
“It’s… I’m sorry, I’m not invalidating what you felt at the time, but it just seems so extreme.”
“It was an extreme situation.”
She tapped her nails on the table, finishing her beer. “Well. I blew my quota. I will now go and let you brood in peace.”
He laughed against the mouth of the beer bottle. “I’m not brooding. I feel incredibly surreal right now. I’m in a little bit of a time warp and—”
“And possibly you will be short, curt and moody the rest of the night,” she said, putting up her palm. “It’s all right, as long as I know in advance.”
She got up from the table and, as she passed, Erik caught her hand. “Are you sure you don’t have a third question?”
“You’re adorable,” she said. “And no further questions. Oh, this came for you. Registered mail, I had to sign for it.”
From the counter she handed him a padded envelope. She kissed his head and left the kitchen. Erik drank the last of his beer, eyebrows wrinkled at the envelope. A return address in the corner, but no name. Slowly he set the empty beer bottle down as he realized the address, postage and postmark were Canadian.
Canada.
Daisy.
“Shit,” he whispered, his heart breaking into a gallop. First the radio segment, now this knockout punch.
Breathing deeply, he broke the seal on the envelope and drew out a typed letter. He unfolded it, glanced just at the first line—What’s up, *?
He knew immediately.
Not Daisy.
Will.
Waiting To Be Found
25 April 2002
Saint John, New Brunswick
What’s up, *? I know what you’re thinking: how the hell did he find me? Well, I know you’re isolated out there in East Bumf*ck but there’s this nifty new invention called the internet. It makes it really difficult for your enemies to hide from you. Especially when they work for a State University with a website. And let their pretty faces get captured in college newsletter articles. What an amateur move. Honestly, are you even trying anymore?
Well anyway, you’re still a handsome little f*cker. And congratulations on your recent accolade. A national award from the United States Institute for Theater Technology. Aren’t we doing nicely?
So here it is, 2002. I was at Lancaster for the ten-year anniversary. Nice of you to show up. What, you think your angst doesn’t smell?
Kidding.
(Not.)
Anyway, I was at Lancaster. Don’t know if you heard but they rededicated the auditorium to Marie. They made a really nice ceremony and Daisy and I danced “The Man I Love” because DUH. Haven’t danced the thing since 1993 and to tell the truth, I’m fine retiring it from my resume. It’s just riddled with f*cking context and I can’t dance it without crying, plus Daisy gained six ounces and lifting her makes my knees creak.