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Authors: Nancy Nau Sullivan
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continual shriek of the horn, lights, one after another, blinked on in the other houses. But nothing changed at 1776 Fairview.
Then a shadow passed over the light inside. The door cracked open. I wanted to see his face, but darkness interfered. I imagined his confusion, and surprise, and then, the nonchalance of someone who always had his own unimpeachable reasons for everything he did. Then she came to the door. The two of them stood together, his foot propping the screen open, just a silhouette at first. He was wearing a T-shirt and unbelted pants, and she, her head like a growth sprouting from his back, peered over his shoulder. They didnât move, and all the while, I sat in the Taurus in the alley, my fury exploding. I kept up the wild assault on the horn even though it wouldnât do any good. He wouldnât answer a screeching horn. Besides, there was no answer for this.
I glared at him across the back yard of her house, over the garbage cans. I squinted through my anger; I wanted to see his face, but I couldnât make it out. All I saw was an outline of the two of them. Then, she withered away from his shoulder, and he pushed the screen door all the way open. In response, I leaned out of the car window and screamed at him, my face rock-hard, words I donât even remember. It was as effective as the horn. Up and down the alley, more lights came on, and doors opened. I didnât care. I think I yelled that I never wanted to see his face again. At least that was true. After that night, I could hardly look at him.
He stood there and listened to me scream, until finally, he stepped back into the house. The door slapped shut. Thelights went out, and by then, all the doors had closed up and down Fairview.
He let me finish my screaming, and that was the last of it. At least he gave me that. But it didnât feel good. Nor do any good. Although I sat there for minutes, or maybe an hour, I donât really remember, he didnât come back out. I didnât expect him to. I didnât want him to. I couldnât move, sitting there, clutching the steering wheel, my motor running like crazy. I didnât know where to go or what to do, but one thing I didnât doâthen, or everâI didnât cry. It just wasnât in me. I was far too angry for that.
I sat in the car in the middle of the alley. It was near sunrise, and most of the world was still. I didnât hear a bird or a garbage truck, but thoughts ricocheted through my brain. The road ahead had rolled up that morning. And now I had to figure out what direction to take to get out of this mess of a marriage. It was broken; beyond fixing. Lucyâs words from one hellish Christmas past came back. âYou canât go on.â I had agreed with her then, although, at the time, I was not thoroughly convinced. Now I was.
What the hell. I wanted to believe this tearing away would make me stronger. I would make myself believe it. Whatever happened next would be on meâall my own doing. No matter what, I had to make the best of it.
That day was the last day of âusâ together, as a couple. But it wasnât the last and only time he was a cheat. It no longer mattered; I was finished, and I guess, he was, too, because he beat me to the finish line. In a phone call, not long after that morning, he told me, âIâm filing. On Tuesday.â
8
HEAVY LITTLE KEYS
I sorted Dadâs clothes. I packed boxes to ship later. I threw out fifteen garbage bags full of stuff that my parents had moved into the condo that I was not going to move againâexcept to the curb. The furniture had been appraised, and with Dad giving us the go ahead, we decided to divide it up among us. Fortunately, that was something we could all agree on.
In the blur of activity, however, I forgot about the Cadillac. But Dad didnât.
âThe Cadillac,â he said abruptly. âWe need the car down there.â He was sitting at the
Then a shadow passed over the light inside. The door cracked open. I wanted to see his face, but darkness interfered. I imagined his confusion, and surprise, and then, the nonchalance of someone who always had his own unimpeachable reasons for everything he did. Then she came to the door. The two of them stood together, his foot propping the screen open, just a silhouette at first. He was wearing a T-shirt and unbelted pants, and she, her head like a growth sprouting from his back, peered over his shoulder. They didnât move, and all the while, I sat in the Taurus in the alley, my fury exploding. I kept up the wild assault on the horn even though it wouldnât do any good. He wouldnât answer a screeching horn. Besides, there was no answer for this.
I glared at him across the back yard of her house, over the garbage cans. I squinted through my anger; I wanted to see his face, but I couldnât make it out. All I saw was an outline of the two of them. Then, she withered away from his shoulder, and he pushed the screen door all the way open. In response, I leaned out of the car window and screamed at him, my face rock-hard, words I donât even remember. It was as effective as the horn. Up and down the alley, more lights came on, and doors opened. I didnât care. I think I yelled that I never wanted to see his face again. At least that was true. After that night, I could hardly look at him.
He stood there and listened to me scream, until finally, he stepped back into the house. The door slapped shut. Thelights went out, and by then, all the doors had closed up and down Fairview.
He let me finish my screaming, and that was the last of it. At least he gave me that. But it didnât feel good. Nor do any good. Although I sat there for minutes, or maybe an hour, I donât really remember, he didnât come back out. I didnât expect him to. I didnât want him to. I couldnât move, sitting there, clutching the steering wheel, my motor running like crazy. I didnât know where to go or what to do, but one thing I didnât doâthen, or everâI didnât cry. It just wasnât in me. I was far too angry for that.
I sat in the car in the middle of the alley. It was near sunrise, and most of the world was still. I didnât hear a bird or a garbage truck, but thoughts ricocheted through my brain. The road ahead had rolled up that morning. And now I had to figure out what direction to take to get out of this mess of a marriage. It was broken; beyond fixing. Lucyâs words from one hellish Christmas past came back. âYou canât go on.â I had agreed with her then, although, at the time, I was not thoroughly convinced. Now I was.
What the hell. I wanted to believe this tearing away would make me stronger. I would make myself believe it. Whatever happened next would be on meâall my own doing. No matter what, I had to make the best of it.
That day was the last day of âusâ together, as a couple. But it wasnât the last and only time he was a cheat. It no longer mattered; I was finished, and I guess, he was, too, because he beat me to the finish line. In a phone call, not long after that morning, he told me, âIâm filing. On Tuesday.â
8
HEAVY LITTLE KEYS
I sorted Dadâs clothes. I packed boxes to ship later. I threw out fifteen garbage bags full of stuff that my parents had moved into the condo that I was not going to move againâexcept to the curb. The furniture had been appraised, and with Dad giving us the go ahead, we decided to divide it up among us. Fortunately, that was something we could all agree on.
In the blur of activity, however, I forgot about the Cadillac. But Dad didnât.
âThe Cadillac,â he said abruptly. âWe need the car down there.â He was sitting at the
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