getting him back ; that was my
last coherent thought before I stopped fighting him and gave
in.
Later that evening, my sister was waiting
when I finally got home. “Well?” she wanted to know.
I shrugged to avoid meeting her steady gaze
and mumbled, “Do you really think he’s right for you?”
“Me?” she asked with a laugh. “Not at all.
But Henry, isn’t he just perfect for you?”
* * * *
From the kitchen, I hear Jim come down the
stairs. He opens the front door and I force myself to stay at the
stove, fighting the urge to check on him. I wait, head cocked for
the slightest sound—somewhere outside, an early bird twitters in
the morning air and further away, a lawn mower roars to life. Only
when I hear a shuffled step do I call out. “Jim?”
No reply. Dropping the spatula into the pan
of scrambled eggs, I wipe my hands on a nearby towel and move
toward the doorway as I try to keep the panic from my voice. “Jim,
that you?”
Before I reach the hall, the door shuts
quietly. When the lock latches, I let out a shaky breath and pray, Thank you . Then I see him at the foot of the stairs,
thumbing through a small pile of mail I left stacked beside the
phone. The way he lifts each envelope makes me sad, and I force a
smile to combat the frown that furrows his wrinkled brow. “Bills,”
I tell him. “Breakfast’s almost done. Did you get the paper?”
He glances up at me with blank eyes and my
heart lurches in my chest. Then recognition settles in and he
smiles. “Henry,” he says, as if to remind himself who I am. I nod,
encouraging. “The paper? No. Did you want me to?”
“Didn’t you go out to get it?” I ask gently.
At the confusion on his harried face, I shake my head. “Never mind.
Go sit down, I’ll get it for you.”
“I can—” he starts.
I pat his shoulder as I move around him
toward the door. “I’ve got it. Have a seat.”
It’s only when I’m on the stoop, digging the
paper out of the roses, that I remember the stove is on. “Jim?” I
holler as I shut the door behind me. I hate that I’m like this—I
know I should trust him but I can’t. If anything happens to him,
it’ll be my fault because I know I need to be more careful, he
needs me to watch out for him. I imagine him by the stove, the
sleeve of his robe brushing across the heating element, unnoticed
flames eating along his side… “Jim, where—”
The kitchen is empty. The eggs sizzle in the
pan where I left them and I turn the burner off before they get too
hard. In the dining room, a chair scrapes across the floor: Jim
sitting down. Without comment, I gather up the plates and
silverware I had set out in the breakfast nook and carry them into
the other room. Jim sits at the head of the long, polished table
where we rarely eat, but he gives me a smile when I hand over the
newspaper, and as I place a plate in front of him, he catches me in
a quick hug. He sighs my name into my belly, his arms tight around
my waist, then rests his head against my stomach and wants to know,
“What’s for breakfast?”
I don’t have the energy to tell him again.
“It’s almost ready,” I promise, extracting myself from his
embrace.
* * * *
My parents always called Jim Betty’s
friend , right up until the day she got married to someone else.
By then the two of us had an apartment together, and at the
reception my mother introduced us as simply, “Henry and Jim.” Not friend or roommate , just Jim—in those days, no one
felt compelled to define us further. My mother treated him like one
of the family when we visited, and that was all I wanted. Let her
believe we slept in separate bedrooms, if that’s what she needed to
think to welcome him into her home.
We bought this house in ’64; the market was
good and the realtor didn’t question both our names on the
mortgage. Jim was in college at the time, working nights at the
packing plant just to pay his half of the bills. We had plans for
the house—I wanted a large
last coherent thought before I stopped fighting him and gave
in.
Later that evening, my sister was waiting
when I finally got home. “Well?” she wanted to know.
I shrugged to avoid meeting her steady gaze
and mumbled, “Do you really think he’s right for you?”
“Me?” she asked with a laugh. “Not at all.
But Henry, isn’t he just perfect for you?”
* * * *
From the kitchen, I hear Jim come down the
stairs. He opens the front door and I force myself to stay at the
stove, fighting the urge to check on him. I wait, head cocked for
the slightest sound—somewhere outside, an early bird twitters in
the morning air and further away, a lawn mower roars to life. Only
when I hear a shuffled step do I call out. “Jim?”
No reply. Dropping the spatula into the pan
of scrambled eggs, I wipe my hands on a nearby towel and move
toward the doorway as I try to keep the panic from my voice. “Jim,
that you?”
Before I reach the hall, the door shuts
quietly. When the lock latches, I let out a shaky breath and pray, Thank you . Then I see him at the foot of the stairs,
thumbing through a small pile of mail I left stacked beside the
phone. The way he lifts each envelope makes me sad, and I force a
smile to combat the frown that furrows his wrinkled brow. “Bills,”
I tell him. “Breakfast’s almost done. Did you get the paper?”
He glances up at me with blank eyes and my
heart lurches in my chest. Then recognition settles in and he
smiles. “Henry,” he says, as if to remind himself who I am. I nod,
encouraging. “The paper? No. Did you want me to?”
“Didn’t you go out to get it?” I ask gently.
At the confusion on his harried face, I shake my head. “Never mind.
Go sit down, I’ll get it for you.”
“I can—” he starts.
I pat his shoulder as I move around him
toward the door. “I’ve got it. Have a seat.”
It’s only when I’m on the stoop, digging the
paper out of the roses, that I remember the stove is on. “Jim?” I
holler as I shut the door behind me. I hate that I’m like this—I
know I should trust him but I can’t. If anything happens to him,
it’ll be my fault because I know I need to be more careful, he
needs me to watch out for him. I imagine him by the stove, the
sleeve of his robe brushing across the heating element, unnoticed
flames eating along his side… “Jim, where—”
The kitchen is empty. The eggs sizzle in the
pan where I left them and I turn the burner off before they get too
hard. In the dining room, a chair scrapes across the floor: Jim
sitting down. Without comment, I gather up the plates and
silverware I had set out in the breakfast nook and carry them into
the other room. Jim sits at the head of the long, polished table
where we rarely eat, but he gives me a smile when I hand over the
newspaper, and as I place a plate in front of him, he catches me in
a quick hug. He sighs my name into my belly, his arms tight around
my waist, then rests his head against my stomach and wants to know,
“What’s for breakfast?”
I don’t have the energy to tell him again.
“It’s almost ready,” I promise, extracting myself from his
embrace.
* * * *
My parents always called Jim Betty’s
friend , right up until the day she got married to someone else.
By then the two of us had an apartment together, and at the
reception my mother introduced us as simply, “Henry and Jim.” Not friend or roommate , just Jim—in those days, no one
felt compelled to define us further. My mother treated him like one
of the family when we visited, and that was all I wanted. Let her
believe we slept in separate bedrooms, if that’s what she needed to
think to welcome him into her home.
We bought this house in ’64; the market was
good and the realtor didn’t question both our names on the
mortgage. Jim was in college at the time, working nights at the
packing plant just to pay his half of the bills. We had plans for
the house—I wanted a large
Similar Books
