| |
AFTER I GOT OFF THE phone with my brother, I wandered into the living room, where Aldo sat watching TV, Al Bundy style, with one hand shoved languidly inside his trousers. When I walked into the room, I caught him picking his nose. One hand in his pants, the other lodged up a nostril.
He didn’t stop just to humour me. He looked up, thumb inserted deep inside his nasal cavity, and asked, “Who was that on the phone?”
I told him who. I told him about the house I grew up in, about it coming up on the market.
“Oh yeah?” he said, which might give you the impression that he was engaged in our conversation. I can assure you he was not. He removed his thumb from his nose, but he didn’t take his eyes off the TV just because I was pouring my heart out.
I told him how much I would love to put my feet inside the old place, see what kind of changes the new owners made after my parents sold up and died.
“Can’t you see it online?” Aldo asked.
To his credit, he clearly was listening, at least to the words if not to the spirit of what I was saying.
And I’ll give him this: it’s true. These days, you can look up anything online.
I went into the kitchen and grabbed my tablet and brought up the MLS. The listing was there, sure. But were there pictures? Only one. An exterior shot that looked as if it had been taken in 1974. No photos of the home’s interior.
When I got here, I could plainly see why the sellers weren’t keen on showcasing what the house really looked like. But at the time, at home, with Aldo, I was intrigued.
My husband still had both eyes glued to the television when I returned to the living room. “The listing’s online, but no interior shots. Gee, I’d love to check out the old homestead.”
“Oh yeah?” he said—his old standby.
“I want to go back,” I told him. “I know it’s far. It’s a plane ride and a rental car and a room for the stay, but this is why we’ve been working so hard all these years. Working our butts off and tucking money away, saving for a rainy day. Saving, always saving, never spending one red cent.”
Aldo didn’t respond. Something on television captured his full attention.
“Do you want to come with?” I asked him. “Want me to show you the house where I grew up? The town I lived in back when I was young? You’ve never seen it—any of it. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
It took him a very long moment to respond, and I’m sure he only said anything because I was staring at him so intently. Finally, he shook his head and said, “No, I...”
Something exploded on TV, and that’s all I got.
“No, I...”
That’s it.
But that was enough.
I took my tablet upstairs and looked at flights. There was one leaving the next morning, just after five. Soon. But I had to leave soon. If I didn’t leave soon, I wouldn’t go at all. And something compelled me. Something I couldn’t name. The old house was calling me home.
So I booked my flight. Called in to work and left a voicemail for the bosses: “I’ll be taking tomorrow and Monday off. Sorry for the short notice. Something came up. Unavoidable travel.”
Then I started packing. Thoroughly packing.
I must have known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I didn’t plan on coming back. You don’t pack as much as I did for a four-day weekend.
It was only after I’d called a taxi that I made my way downstairs—with a lifetime’s supply of luggage. You might think it odd that it was after one in the morning and my husband hadn’t come to bed, but this wasn’t odd in the least. Not for him. He’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, as usual: feet up, head back, looking corpse-like—except that corpses don’t snore, as far as I’m aware.
After dragging my luggage to the front hall, I crept into the living room to say goodbye. I expected to feel... something. Sadness or... something.
The last thing I expected to feel was numb.
And yet, when I looked at my husband with his mouth gaping wide, all I could think about was his thumb crammed unapologetically up his nose. He didn’t stop picking just because I’d entered the room. He would call that intimacy—he didn’t have to put on airs. But you know what? A couple of airs here and there wouldn’t hurt.
Everything happened in a daze. I told myself this was only natural, considering the time of night—of morning, rather. My body begged for sleep, and yet, when I was finally in my seat waiting for my 5 o’clock flight to take off, all I could see in my mind’s eye was my husband’s gaping mouth.