ALL THAT’S LEFT of my sundae at Eckert’s is the bright red cherry. I pick it up, and Paul warns, “I wouldn’t. They’re nasty.” I frown at him. “But I believe I’ve bossed you around enough today, so I’ll be quiet.”
“That’s better,” I say, and bite into the cherry. Immediately, I regret my decision. The thing has the consistency of a rotting, sticky eyeball, and I gag.
Paul bursts into laughter, and when I can’t help joining him—right in that moment—I think I could make this work, this wonderful life right in front of me with Paul, our home. Maybe I could even get a job. Gradually those nagging feelings of doubt and disconnect would lessen, till finally they disappeared altogether.
But first, plan B.
I scan Eckert’s and spot a sign over a doorway at the back of the store near a kid restocking napkins: RESTROOMS AND TELEPHONES.
“Bathroom,” I tell Paul, gesturing to the sign, and start to stand. He rises, too, but I put my hand up. “No. Myself.”
“Okay, honey,” he says. I sense a little concern in his voice, but he sits back down, and I slowly make my way to the hallway. But once inside it, I bypass the ladies’ room and head for the telephone booth at the end of the hall. “Booth” is the wrong word. It’s a whole tiny room lined with dark wood paneling. Inside, a man is rising from its bench. He hangs up the phone and exits the booth, giving me a lingering once-over and a tip of the hat as he walks past—a credit to Eloise’s makeover efforts and my tight sweater.
I slip into the booth and skip the phone, going straight to a brown book on its shelf: Directory of Subscribers. Culpeper, Bixby, and Hanover, VA. Mary said the sheriff’s deputy was a local boy. I flip through whole chunks of pages as fast as my fingers will go, trampling through the alphabet till I get to the W’s. There, at the bottom of a page, I find it, Officer Worthy’s address and phone number: Worthy, Thomas R., 14 Foxtail Ln.… Bixby 4–5733.
But then I hear Paul talking to the kid restocking. He’s seconds from the hallway. I rip out the bottom of the page, slam the book shut, and bolt. Barely manage to stuff the scrap in my bra and reach the ladies’ room door before Paul appears.
“There you are.” Paul’s talking to me, but his eyes are taking in everything, including the phone directory, now on the floor. He holds his hand out, and I take it. “You all right?”
“Tired,” I say. It’s true. I’m exhausted.
“Don’t you dare tell Eloise she was right, that I’ve run you ragged,” he says, smiling. “Let’s get you home.”
Eloise has her arms crossed when we come through the front door. “Dorothy’s going to take a little nap,” Paul says to her, and the judgy look on her face ratchets up a notch.
In the bedroom, while Paul folds the covers back, I quietly stash the stolen scrap of phone book in the bottom of my lingerie drawer and kick off my shoes. I’m struggling with the fastener in the back of my skirt when he comes up behind me and unhooks it, giving the zipper a slight tug to start it for me.
His hands rise to my shoulders, and he speaks softly by my ear. “So good to have you home, Dee.” The vibration of his words travels down the little hairs on my neck like they’re telegraph wires. “I’ll let you get some rest now,” he says, and turns to walk away, but I grab his arm. He looks at me, head cocked in question, and I pull him closer, till our lips brush against each other, then kiss him.
And there in the kiss is all the recognizable and real that have eluded me today.
A thrill begins working its way through my body, down paths it’s well-acquainted with.
I know sexual attraction shouldn’t be the bedrock of a marriage, but what I feel when he touches me is certain, quantifiable. It promises nothing more than itself. And in a world where I’m surrounded by the unknown, its simple, strong, and familiar declaration is a welcome thing.
My lips travel up to the single freckle on Paul’s left cheek.
I know this freckle well. More than I know this man.
So this freckle and the rest of my husband’s body—that is where I will start my rediscovery of Paul. Grow back my knowledge of him. Of us. It’s as good a place to start as any.
My lips begin to explore his face, his neck, seeking out other landmarks. His do the same. But when I start to unbuckle his belt, he stops me. Looks me soberly in the eye. “I’m not sure we should be doing this so soon—”
I kiss him to silence his sensible words while my hands work his buckle open, get his zipper down. He breaks off the kiss long enough to ask once more, “Are you sure?” before I push him onto the bed.
Eloise has been instructed to fatten me up and has cooked accordingly: roast beef covered in gravy, creamed spinach, and roasted potatoes. And for dessert, a slice of heavenly chocolate cake, which I cannot inhale fast enough.
But when Eloise takes our plates and disappears through the swinging door into the kitchen, I turn to Paul. “When can she go?”
“You can ask that after eating this cake? Have you ever tasted anything so delicious in your life?” he asks, grinning. I do not grin back. Just wait for his answer. “Soon, assuming things go smoothly, and we get you settled. Give it a few days.”
“I’m fine. Don’t need a nurse. You’re treating me like a child,” I say, getting up from the table.
Eloise comes in carrying a glass of water. In her hand are two capsules for me, one blue, one green. I look to Paul. “The green one’s your antiseizure,” he says.
“And the blue?” I ask.
“That’s your sedative, Mrs. Frasier, to help you sleep,” says Eloise. “Come, take them,” and she holds the glass and pills out to me.
“No thank you. Don’t need a sedative.”
Eloise frowns. “Dear, the hospital advised—”
“See? Like a child,” I say to Paul, whose face is inscrutable. He’s quiet for a few moments, thinking. “Okay, we’ll try no sedative tonight.”
Eloise shakes her head, “I don’t recommend it, going against the doctor’s advice—”
“Duly noted, Eloise,” Paul says, and she purses her lips in displeasure. Hands me just the green pill.
It’s chilly in the bedroom, but I’ve ample blankets, and Eloise has laid out a heavy flannel nightgown and thick wool socks on the bed for me. As I change into them, I think about my next move. Tomorrow, I might talk to Paul about my getting a job. Do it while he’s still feeling guilty about losing it today, lecturing me on the sidewalk about ground rules and freedom depending on cooperation … which obviously is true, cooperation is the price of freedom …
Anyway, tomorrow I’ll convince Paul I can handle a job. That I’m fine.
The only problem is the lie—putting it to bed.
Plan B. Find a way to call Officer Worthy. I pull out the torn phonebook page from its hiding place in the lingerie drawer and commit it to memory: Worthy, Thomas R., 14 Foxtail Ln.… Bixby 4–5733.
Is this crazy?
Yes. If Officer Worthy’s words don’t come back, maybe they weren’t meant to. Maybe whatever Paul’s lie was, if there even was a lie, it doesn’t merit my dishonesty. My defiance. I need to stop dwelling on the deputy and what he said to me, on my doubts. Let go of plan B. Toss this shred of paper I’ve secreted away like a criminal and cooperate. Let Paul and I restart our lives on solid ground. I owe him that, don’t I?
But that’s the regression talking.
The truth. That’s how Paul and I find solid ground.
And I need it soon. Now that I’m home, I can’t live with this uncertainty hanging over me. If I don’t remember what Officer Worthy said by the end of the week, I’ll find a way to call him.
That’s how I say yes to this life in front of me.
I slide the scrap back into its hiding place and climb under the covers.