Widowish: A Memoir(41)

“Why else would he be so involved in the church?” I asked. “He runs or helps out with the food pantry, and he lives right there with his son. He was probably some horrible alcoholic or drug addict. He probably has a tattoo.”

“What a shock,” Joel said, smiling. “You’re making up stories.”

“But it tracks, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t really thought about it but, sure.” Joel was always so patient with me.

I continued. “He probably hit rock bottom, found Jesus, found the church . . .”

Joel shrugged.

“Found God or whatever and is now devoted to giving back.” I was so pleased with myself. “I bet he’s, like, a Jesus freak but kind of low-key about it. Makes total sense.”

“Yeah,” Joel said. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know. His girlfriend is an actress or a model or something. I think she lives there with him.”

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” I said, trying to see how she fit into my story. “Hmm, maybe she’s an addict, too.”

Marcos’s life was intriguing. It was so different from mine and Joel’s. I wanted to figure it out. Figure him out. He seemed grounded and confident. Very masculine. He was a musician. Jesus Lover. Addict. This was the story I had made up about him, and I was sticking to it.

I was feeling good the day Marcos came over. I was looking forward to my writing group that night. I was also happy to be making progress cleaning out the garage. I wasn’t just getting rid of Joel’s things either. I had boxes of tax returns I was happy to shred and dispose of. I had boxes of scripts from every show I’ve ever written on. I had yearbooks and articles I wrote for my high school newspaper. I found my childhood report cards and journals and old photo albums.

I got rid of all of it.

Stuff was just stuff. I didn’t want to hold on to any of it. This was something that Leigh called high-level spirituality. Fine with me.

When Marcos showed up, I had just gotten home from a long walk with the dogs. I was sweaty, my hair was a mess inside one of Joel’s baseball caps, and I may not have brushed my teeth yet that morning. I had lined up the guitars and amplifiers in front of the garage. I opened the gate to my driveway when I saw Marcos pull up in his big black Toyota Tundra. I saw him get out of his truck in a red T-shirt and jeans, his mass of thick dark hair slicked back as if he had just gotten out of the shower. He took a sip out of his coffee cup—an actual ceramic mug, not a Starbucks paper cup—and approached with confidence, all business.

“Hey. Good morning. How are you?” he said. But he wasn’t looking at me at all. He was eyeing all of the gear. He immediately picked up a guitar for inspection. He strummed it a little bit, tuning it, listening. He smiled and set it down.

“I have a student looking for these,” he said about some pedals and a microphone, making a pile.

He moved over to two amplifiers, inspecting them.

“I’m pretty sure this stuff all works. Joel kept everything in such great condition,” I said.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

I watched him fiddle with cables on the back of the amps as I tried to keep the dogs from barking and running around this stranger.

He finally glanced my direction. “I have a guy in Torrance. He’d take these off your hands.” He made another pile, looked at his watch.

“Is any of this worth anything? I mean, I’m happy to donate it but—”

“Oh yeah,” he said, “people will pay for this stuff.”

“Well,” I said, “take whatever you want or need first. I mean, I appreciate your help so . . .”

I felt he should be compensated for his time. He picked up one of Joel’s electric guitars. He examined it, played it although it made no sound, not being plugged in.

“This one,” Marcos said, smiling. “This one is special. I know where to take it, but you’ll probably have to go with me. There might be paperwork.”

“Um . . . OK.” I didn’t understand what I was agreeing to, but fine.

Marcos started carrying some of the lighter gear to his truck. “OK if I take this stuff with me now?”

“Sure,” I said.

He seemed hurried. “I’ll get back to you, OK? You have some good stuff here. Really.”

“OK, great,” I said.

“You’re going to be fine. Joel did a good job.”

I must have made a face. I had no idea what he meant. Joel did a good job keeping his music gear in good condition? Or did he mean that Joel did a good job in life? In choosing me as his wife? With our family?

Marcos looked back and smiled at me. He laughed a little and reached out, touching my arm. “You’re doing good, Melissa. It’s going to be OK.”

His brown eyes crinkled at the sides, and he looked genuinely happy. I watched him get into his truck.

“I appreciate you coming by,” I said as he started the engine and rolled down the window.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said as he reversed out of my driveway, coffee mug back in hand.

Then he was gone. The whole exchange was so fast. I looked around like, What just happened?

I walked up my driveway and saw less than half of what I had pulled out of the garage. I felt a sense of relief. I trusted Marcos to handle it.