“Forty-two — and the same. God.”
The record player sat on a table near the window in the otherwise empty room.
The bulk of his furniture he’d sold. Other items Sam had taken when she’d left.
The player looked alone but not lonely.
There was a difference. And Cal understood it well.
Not even a plant...
Unable to care for living things.
But he had this.
A gift from E.W.
Perhaps his grandfather had said goodbye after all...
A handful of records lay beside the turntable, and the remaining LPs sat in boxes, packed, on the floor.
A single black circle spun.
One she liked. In fact, he’d bought the album for her.
Listening to it made him feel strange.
Like something was both finished and beginning. Simultaneously. Regrets swimming with what could never be, swirling with all the possibilities.
A knock broke his concentration. He removed the needle before the Tears for Fears song ended, switched off the machine, and went to open the front door.
“God”—Cal flashed a smile—“you both look like hell.”
John’s arm wrapped around Maggie’s shoulders. The gray trench coat she wore matched the sky, her mood, her skin. She wouldn’t look at Cal, but John did.
“Did you just get in?” Cal cleared his throat and stepped aside.
John nodded.
“We came straight from my dad’s funeral,” Maggie droned, finally gifting Cal her lackluster gaze.
“I know, Maggie.” Cal sighed and glanced at John.
“Well, we didn’t just come from the funeral. We came from the airport. We were going to go to a hotel…” She surveyed the room, seeming to twist deeper inside herself as she did, the raincoat a perfect disguise. “I mean ... we didn’t know if we could stay here ... with you.”
John slipped behind his wife and tried to remove her coat, but she shrugged him off. “We flew here ... out of our way … to see—”
“Are we doing this now?” Cal asked, furrowing his brow. “Already? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funer—”
“You haven’t even returned phone calls or a single fucking email. Why would you bother—?”
“Maggie,” John reprimanded.
“And I said… Tell him what I said, honey.”
“When did you start drinking?” Cal asked Maggie but stared at John.
“Fuck you.”
“That seems to be what’s going around lately. Fuck me.” He started for the kitchen. “Do you want some water or anything?”
“I said,” Maggie blathered on. “I said… ‘Why don’t we visit our old friend Cal?’”
Cal stopped and turned around.
“And John ... he didn’t want to.”
“Maggie,” John pleaded again.
Those chocolate eyes he’d been missing weren’t so sweet now. Bloodshot. Unreasonable. Tracking Cal’s every move.
“And here you are…” Like a cat, she began to slink across the nearly empty room, twirling the thick, gray belt of her coat in her palm, her heels clacking across the floor as she peeked into the kitchen. Then her gaze swung back to Cal. “The same.”
She squinted, pointing an index finger toward him, foot to crown. “How old are you?” She snapped her fingers. “Forty-two?” She scoffed. “Forty-two — and the same. God.”
“How much did you let her drink, Jack?”
“Let me?” Maggie snorted. “I drink. I’m not a fucking little girl.” She slapped a palm over her mouth and began to sob.
John came up beside her and rubbed her shoulders while peering at Cal.
“I’m sorry, Maggie.” Cal inched toward them.
“No, you’re not.” She lifted her head. “You only care about yourself.”
“Can you make some coffee?” John asked.
“I don’t want coffee.” She batted her husband’s hands away.
“Why don’t you come sit down?” Cal nodded, but no one moved. “In the kitchen. I have barstools.”
“After seven years…” Maggie shook her head. “Seven.”
Cal wanted to pace, pinch his neck, go for a run, or fuck — anything to ease the tension, to escape. Why must she bring up his failings now?
Women confounded him.
One minute, Maggie was crying over her dead father — now, it was Samantha she waxed poetic about.
“This isn’t news, honey.” John moved some errant curls away from her face.
“But it’s the first time we’ve seen him since—”
“Jesus Christ.” Cal couldn’t help but massage the back of his neck now. Maggie had always liked Samantha, doted on her, offered her advice — she’d probably slipped the word baby into casual conversation, insinuating Sam might talk Cal into having the child Maggie couldn’t. Fuck… “I’m standing right here.”
“Are you?” she snarled. “I don’t see you.”
Cal felt queasy, lightheaded, his eyes blurring as he stared across the room.
“You wouldn’t give her anything,” she choked out.
“I gave her everything.”
"No.” Maggie chuckled, then seconds later, she burst into tears.
“Go lay her in my bed,” Cal said to John. “The other room isn’t ready.”
“You’re a bastard, Cal. You don’t know what you have ... when you have it. You never have and never will,” Maggie finished calling out as John walked her down the hall, her head slumped against her husband’s shoulder.