On my way out the front door to work, feeling dazed from fatigue, I stumble over an envelope held up against the exterior by a leaning cinderblock. I pick it up. A letter from Michelle, apparently hand-delivered. This elicits not hope or excitement, but a feeling of overwhelming exhaustion. Also, slightly delayed, a trace of self-congratulation for not being pleased to hear from her for a change. At least this gives me hope I'm in the process of setting aside my past.
I don't read the letter, don't even open it, but fold the envelope in half and carry it in my pocket. Maybe later.
At work, I'm not surprised to find Karl isn't there again. Lately he's missed quite a few days, in fact hasn't even been home in such a long time, I've lost track. On one hand this seems kind of alarming, but I know I shouldn't worry. He seems focused on his girlfriend. Probably they're at her place every night.
During the lunch break, even though I plan to eat at my desk, I venture into the break room to buy a Cherry Coke. Really I'm curious to see if Constant says anything, so I linger by the corner where he's holding court.
Constant sees me. "Too bad about our boy." His mouth splits into a gap-filled uneven grin. All the hardhats call him "Hollywood," because of this uneven ragged smile, and his clownish red hair which stands out in every direction. I used to think the crazy hair was an affectation, at least an attempt to be funny, then I realized he simply doesn't care. The nasty mouth is strange, though. Constant may come from a working-class background, but he's pretty well off now, and we have good health and dental insurance.
Anyway, Constant thinks they call him Hollywood because of all his expensive cars.
"Karl, you mean?" I act surprised.
"You seen him this morning?" he asks. "Ain't he at home?"
I have to guess how to play this. "He said he felt lousy and might have to call in."
Constant looks suspicious. "Brown bottle flu, maybe, Monday after all those weekend plans?"
I want to ask what he knows of Karl's weekend, but can't reveal that I have no idea myself. Instead I do what Karl would. I shrug. Constant loses interest, so I leave the break room and return to my desk.
Quickly I compose an email to Karl's personal account, in case Constant has someone checking Karl's work inbox.
Subject: Are you okay?
Message: Constant's not happy. Get back in here if you can.
I'm about to click send.
"What the fuck's this shit?" Constant squawks behind me.
I spin, resisting the urge to cover my screen.
He's not looking at my computer display, but a pair of photos on my cubicle wall. I'd forgotten them, framed photographic prints of abstract water textures, hung at least five years ago. He pokes one with a greasy fingertip, and I'm glad they're under glass. Constant's hands always stink like transmission fluid. I think he likes the smell, applies it like cologne.
"Water photographs," I say. "They're textural."
"God fucking damn, Guy, you want to see water, we'll get you a job outside, there." He points toward his office or more likely the boat yard beyond it. "Don't you already got enough fucking river, boy?"
Constant has always been kind of a bully. He enjoys selecting people to give a hard time who can't talk back. Today, at least, I figured he might leave me alone, since Karl must be on his list with so many recent absences. I should know better. Now that I live with Karl, his attendance problems reflect on me, too.
Even after Constant returns to his office, irritation remains. I feel like an outcast here, worse than ever since Karl's gone. Just one of the office girls. Of course I'm feeling sorry for myself, but not a lot is going right for me at the moment. I used to have a wife who seemed to get me, though obviously she didn't. I have a roommate who's almost a friend, but he's gone too. Otherwise I'm surrounded by men slick with grease and stinking of chemicals, so rough they make Karl seem like an English butler. They shout what they mean, snatch what they want, and if sometimes their hand gets slapped away, they only laugh.
I need to clear my head, get focused. There's more than enough work to keep me busy, at least for a while. I won't wonder about Karl, or imagine seeing his girlfriend in the dark, or picture the strange woman in the field. Just to make sure I avoid distractions, I shut down email, turn my back on my main computer, and instead focus on the dedicated CAD workstation on my side desk. The work I do at Constant Marine isn't something just anyone could manage, but the truth is, since I've become familiar with the AutoCAD program tools and shortcuts, and understood the basic concepts, it doesn't exactly require all my mental focus. Actually, I wish it demanded more. The days would go by faster.
In no time, the first design is done. I consider starting work on the next, but decide I need a break.
Outside, the welders sizzle and pop. Usually when Karl's gone, nothing happens. Constant must have gone out and raised hell, gotten them started putting something together. I scroll up the production schedule, try to guess what they're building.
Sometimes I hate this cubicle. Gray fabric walls, a soft prison. A padded cell.
Still no word from Karl. It's stupid of me, worrying like this. I wasn't going to think about him.
I need to change things up, start some new routine, shift my sense of self. I feel a little stronger, more self-assured. How can I really cement this new beginning? Maybe change the way I dress at work, or how my desk is decorated. These things may seem superficial, but they're the frame that surrounds much of my daily life. I still have photos of Michelle on my desk. That's fucking depressing. I sit here pretending I don't look at those pictures five hundred times a day. My ex-wife, still front and center.
Time for something new.
I turn one of the frames face-down on the desk, slide out the back and remove the photo. I don't have any new pictures I want to put inside, that's the problem. All these frames, Michelle on all sides, and I've got nothing new worth replacing them. I slide the empty frame back together, stand it up in the same spot. It's ugly, looks cheap, but at least this way I know I'll remember to find something new to replace it. I repeat the process with the other Michelle photos, replace empty frames, throw prints in the trash. Then I place a blank sheet from a legal pad on top of the photos so I don't have to see her looking up at me.
A few minutes later I take the pictures back out of the trash and put them inside my drawer, face down. By three o'clock, all I've accomplished, other than an hour of CAD work on fixtures and joints for that 5086 H321 aluminum project, is moving around photos of my ex-wife. Now the only thing in my trash is that single plain sheet of paper I used to cover the photos.
Never mind. I'll give some more thought to redecorating my cubicle, and consider another idea. Maybe start eating different lunches. No. I'm thinking too small.
That blank paper in the trash keeps bugging me. I roll my chair over, lean in, grab it.
My cell phone rings. It's Karl. I answer without speaking his name.
"What's the problem?" he asks. "That loony email you sent."
"Just letting you know what's up." I let the yellow sheet flutter back into the trash. "You've been gone a lot."
"Yeah. And I won't be home for a bit."
"Must be nice." I spin into jealousy. It's stupid, but I can't help it. Just imagining what it must be like, avoiding work, and getting to know someone new.
"Something wrong, Tiger?"
"What? Why?"
"You sound pissed, is all."
"Ah... Just Constant, giving me trouble again." Though the boss hasn't said anything today to upset me, I dredge up something from a few days ago, because I don't want Karl knowing he's the one who's actually got me irritated. I keep my raspy imitation of Constant down to a whisper. "Ever since Michelle kicked your ass out, your attitude's for shit. Always coming in bug-eyed hung-over, and smart-assing me."
"He's right about the bug-eyed part."
"Fuck off, Karl. At least I'm here."
"Just trying to help a fella, Tiger. You need to get laid, relax, and get some sleep. Total reboot."
It pisses me off, hearing nothing from Karl for days, then he immediately starts in with telling me how I need to be more like him. "Fuck off with your stupid advice."
"Anyway, you got the place to yourself. Jack off in the living room if you want. Actually, never mind, don't get on my sofa with that shit."
I want to ask where he's been, and about the girlfriend. I consider telling Karl what I saw that night, the dark, his door left open. I remember, even if he doesn't. While I debate whether I should, Karl signs off, hangs up.
Back to my PC, the production list. I don't feel like drawing fixtures any more. I get up and walk outside, down the edge of the parking lot and around behind Constant's office. I find the corner of the yard with the best view of the river, away from solvent fumes and smoke from welding and plasma cutting. Also, the lowest likelihood of grit-caked meatheads bothering me.
I take out Michelle's letter.
It's shorter than I expect, just a single page, one-sided. Expensive textured cotton stationery. The ridiculous thing is, despite everything that's happened, the sight of her handwriting makes me think I might actually start to cry. I put the letter back in my pocket until this idea passes. Anger helps. Fucking engaged, so stupid. I breathe slow and deep, looking out across the water.
I pull out the letter again. This time I'll get through it, no problem.
The note is a sort of catalog, a series of points justifying Michelle's point of view, rationalizing a string of disparate acts as if they're somehow connected. Root causes of her withholding of intimacy. Why I had to leave the house. The reason divorce was the only answer. Her suggestion I keep paying the mortgage. The logic by which my books and CDs became hers. There's nothing in the letter about her recent engagement. Maybe she recognizes it for the doomed, irrational gesture it clearly is.
Michelle hopes I grasp her hopes, her intentions. I used to believe I did. Now, having read this note, I wonder.
One sentence sticks. "I will always love you, but can never say those words face-to-face or even on the phone, because I know you would misunderstand them as a kindness."
After, I'm able to see my ex-wife from a new, completely unfamiliar vantage point. This involves a bizarre sense of disorientation, following so many conversations, so much living, almost a quarter century of relationship and intimacy, and even these recent months of abjection, to become abruptly aware how delicate it all is, and must always have been. Maybe all I've ever needed to grant me this perspective was to read a letter like this one.
Yes, she's struggling to understand herself, to act her way toward life's next chapter. Wonderful. In that sense, we're the same. So why does this letter infuriate me? Why this uprising of anger toward myself, rather than her? Though I understand some of what she's trying to convey, it doesn't matter. She waited to share these secrets until they were no longer any use to me.
I stand at the corner of this rectangle of land studded with cranes and man-lifts, stacks of rusting steel plate and heavy chain, ranks of gear for welding, cutting, grinding. Beyond this, the wide river moves. I dare myself to cry, sincerely wish it to happen. I want this out of me, want to heave it up and feel cleansed. But no tears will come.