The text from Ty came through minutes later as I sat next to a drunken businessman in a crumpled suit who mumbled stuff about insider trading and the deal of the century. Somehow I didn’t think he’d made that good of a deal if he was still on the crowded and foul smelling 5 bus.
I read the message again.
How does he hate you? Let me LIST the ways… J
While it confirmed everything I’d suspected, it gave me no sense of closure, and left a gaping hole in my gut.
Plus, there’d been no need for the smiley face. That was just cold.
Sucking up my pride, I called Eric one last time. Straight to voicemail.
“This isn’t fucking fair, Eric,” I said, right after the beep. “So, please call me, okay?” I hung up.
I dialed Roach. Voicemail there too. Beep. “Valentine’s Day is the work of the devil,” I yelled. A smattering of applause broke out on the bus. I stood and gave a clumsy bow. The drunk slumped over, his forehead smushed into my seat.
By the time I connected with the 17 and bussed it back to Monty’s, I’d been through all the stages. Anger. More anger. Followed by some serious self-reproach that I’d quickly twisted back to anger, and I’d come out the other side. Really fucking mad.
I’d made mistakes and maybe Ty had cashed in on that fact, but Eric shouldn’t have stood me up. He’d had multiple options. Telling me off on the street, telling me off in the middle of a crowded theatre, or here’s a thought…how about just showing up and asking me what the hell was going on?
I stormed into the house. Kicked my boots off. Fired my hat across the hall. And waited for Monty to react. All I heard was an absurd laugh track from the TV in the living room.
I trudged inside.
Monty sawed logs on the couch with Mona curled around his feet. What was it with old people and the magic sleepy-time hour of nine o’clock?
Deflated, I grabbed the knitted afghan resting along the back of the couch and draped it over my grandfather’s suddenly smallish looking form. Mona growled and pulled a section of blanket over herself with her teeth.
Smart little bitch.
Just as I was about to leave, Monty shifted and a piece of paper slipped from his hand to drop onto the carpet. I picked it up. It was an old black and white photograph, you know the kind, with the white border that made every picture look important.
But this one really was. The most important. I turned to catch the glow from the TV. In the photo, a young beauty sat perched on the hood of a classic old Buick with Niagara Falls in the background. Pencil skirt, sailor blouse and man’s tie draped loosely around her neck. My grandmother, no question, Mom looked so much like her.
I’d only seen a few pictures of her and each one was imprinted on my mind. This I hadn’t seen before. None of the others were when she was so young.
So alive.
Monty must have taken the pic during their honeymoon. I remember Mom wanted Dad to take her to the falls for their twentieth anniversary, kind of as a tribute to Grandma. Course Dad died way before that milestone. And even if he’d lived, their marriage never would have lasted.
But my grandparents? They’d have made it if cancer hadn’t stolen Grandma away. They’d really had it, that something special that welded two people together better than sex, better than a head-on collision. They’d been in love.
Flipping the photo over, I noticed words scrawled on the back. A message Monty must have written to himself when he realized he was starting to slip. I wasn’t even sure he could read the wobbly handwriting anymore.
This is Vera. She was your wife. Don’t forget.
I gently placed the photo on the coffee table and stumbled downstairs, bashing my elbow on the hand railing thanks to tears that wouldn’t stop. I stripped off all my clothes, letting them drop to the floor where I stood and fell stomach-first into bed.
The bar in the middle of my pull-out couch stabbed me in the ribs. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I thrashed on my comforter, but found no comfort. The sharp pain in my ribs was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.