The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(117)

In Canada.

Daisy, who was always cold, living up in Canada.

He pictured her in a long wool coat, walking along snowy streets in boots, a hat pulled low and a scarf pulled high. Dance bag over her shoulder.

Walking alone.

Was she alone?

He put his fork down, pushed away his container of lo mein.

“Not hungry?” Melanie said.

“Not really.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Stop asking me shit.”

Calmly, Melanie made a gesture of reaching into her pocket and then held her empty palm out to him.

“What?” he said.

“It’s a f*ck,” she said. “I give it.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I love you. And I’m going to take my guitar out on the back porch and be moody.”

“Enjoy yourself,” she said, smiling, and gestured to his uneaten food with her chopsticks. “Can I eat that?”

It was a lovely night for April. The air was velvety soft. The perpetually-strung Christmas lights made the little porch into a warm, twinkling cave, and Erik sat there a long time. Deconstructing the opening riff of Led Zeppelin’s “Over the Hills and Far Away,” he tried to shut his thoughts out. Tried not to let it matter Daisy hadn’t spoken his name on the radio.

The back door opened.

Stark naked, Melanie lounged against the jamb, fingers combing through her plaits.

“I have a question.”

Slowly Erik put the guitar down, got up, and followed her inside.

Sometime later, in the dark of the living room, Mrs. Fiskare lifted her face out of the couch cushions with a concerted effort, and weakly pushed her tangled cornrows out of her mouth. Her shoulder blades were heaving and slick with sweat.

“Oh my God,” she said, gasping. “What was that?”

“A f*ck,” Erik said, falling onto the floor, panting and spent. “I gave it.”





Delivered in Person


April 28, 2002



What’s up, *? I heard the radio show yesterday. Then arrived home to find your letter and my necklace. Mind blown. If you delivered it in person you would’ve been blown as well. But it’s allergy season and I can barely breathe through my nose. So it’s for the best.

Seriously. I’m an overwhelmed and sloppy mess from this. But I wanted to let you know I got it. And thank you. Thank you for being the kind of guy to step in and help lug a stove out. Thank you for being the kind of guy to hunt me down and send back the thing that means the world to me. I don’t have words to tell you how much I appreciate it. (Other than “suck” and “cock,” of course.)

I’m taking care of my ass. It’s not as high and tight as it used to be, but it’s in one piece. And it is sorry...

I won’t f*cking call you. But I f*cking thank you.

E





Part Six: Kees





Testicular Failure


Melanie came to him one night, sat on the ottoman and put her hand on his outstretched legs. Erik looked up from the guitar he was stringing to see she wasn’t crying, but her eyes were bright and her mouth trembled.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“I got my period,” she said.

He stared at her. He didn’t want to say “And?” out loud but he was completely confused.

Melanie sighed, closing her eyes. Her mouth was set somewhere between a smile and a grimace. The last time she had this expression was when she dropped her cell phone in the toilet.

“Mel, you look like you need a body buried. What’s the matter?”

She took her hand off his shin. “I stopped taking the pill a year ago.”

“A year?” Erik set guitar and strings aside. “A year ago you stopped?”

She picked at her fingernails. “Nothing’s happening.”

He was too shocked to put a sentence together. “All right,” he said, pulling his hair back from his forehead. “But…” He exhaled, hands open. “Mel, I had no idea you’ve been trying to get pregnant since 2002.”

“I know,” she whispered.

He barely recognized her. They had their moments of miscommunication, true, but this bit of clandestine business seemed deliberate and devious. It was almost manipulative.

“Oh, Mel, that ain’t cool,” he said, trying to let her know he was upset, but not be harsh with her. Every line of her body was already laced in misery. She was crying now.

“I’m almost thirty-seven,” she said. “I’m worried something’s wrong.”

He took his feet off the ottoman, leaned forward and gathered her to him. “Don’t cry,” he said, running his hand along her hair. She had taken her cornrows out a year ago and had it straightened. “Everything’s fine, nothing’s wrong with you. Don’t cry.”

“Do you want to have a baby?” she asked.

He opened his mouth. An unequivocal yes should have tumbled right out but he had nothing. “I figured we would,” he said. “Of course. But let me get used to this, honey. You’ve been kicking it around for a year. I’m just coming into the picture tonight.”