Dry as Rain (6 page)

“Enough,” I said through heavy breaths. A ball shot at me so fast, I didn't have time to do more than raise my leg just in time to protect the jewels. It nailed me in the side of my right thigh. I howled and grabbed my leg.

Larry grimaced at me. “Turned it the wrong way. Sorry about that.” He yanked the knob in the other direction then turned his attention back to me. “You all right?”

Even though my leg throbbed with pain, I waved it off as if it were nothing. Trying not to grimace, I limped over to where Larry stood and looked down at the knob he'd just adjusted. It was clearly labeled with big black letters. How could he have confused
curve
with
of
f
?

“You almost made it so I couldn't have more children.”

He laid a hand on my back and smirked. “The last thing the world needs is another one of you anyway.”

Picking the bat off the ground, I said, “Your comedic aptitude is second only to your abilities as a pitch machine operator.” I held the bat out to him. “Here, your turn.”

He took it from me and leaned it over his shoulder like a hobo with his bindle. “Nah, I'm not in the mood. This was just for you.”

Good old Larry.
I gave him a tired smile, then followed him out of the batting cage. The sun still played hide-and-seek behind a stream of clouds. We sat side by side next to our water bottles that had been waiting for us on the wood bench outside the fence. He handed me mine and watched as I took a long, cool swig.

“Still cold?” he asked.

“The water, or me?”

“Both.”

“The water's lukewarm and I guess I'm about the same.”

“Still want that noose?”

“I told you I was joking.” I lifted up my T-shirt and wiped the sweat from my face with it. “Maybe I kind of did, but I feel better. Thanks.”

“Good,” he said.

We sat silent a few minutes listening to the pings of aluminum bats whacking balls in surrounding cages, along with the occasional grunt and expletive.

“So, were you picturing her face on it?” Larry asked.

I turned to face him. “Whose face on what?”

“Kyra's on the ball when you were hitting it,” he said. “When I found out about Tina and her dirtbag lover, I used to come here and smash the heck out of those balls picturing their faces on them.”

I couldn't believe my friend was actually admitting to an un-Christian thought. “Why would I do that? She hasn't done anything like that.”

He took a gulp of his water. “She must have done something.”

I thought of Kyra's mood swings and her ongoing accusations and rejection, but I couldn't conjure an ounce of anger. “No, I wasn't picturing her face.”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Come on, man, you can be honest. I'm not going to judge you.”

My phone rang from my pocket. “I wasn't picturing her face,” I repeated. “I was picturing mine.”

As Larry considered my answer, I pulled the phone out, glanced at the number and put it to my ear. On the other end, Dr. Hershing told me I could pick up my wife tomorrow morning.

“What if I'm not ready?” I asked with Larry's eyes glued to me.

“My asking if you wanted was really just a formality, Eric. If you prefer, I can try again to contact her sister.”

When I said that wouldn't be necessary, he filled me in on her progress and lack of.

When I hung up, Larry gave me a funny look. “Who died?”

Seven

She was the bridge between heaven and earth. That's how I'd felt about Kyra, but something happened to turn our marital utopia into a living hell. I knew how it had started—with her growing disappointment in me and our lives. But until I woke up in Danielle's bed, I hadn't known how it would end. Until that moment, reconciliation was at least a possibility.

It was the irreversibility of my actions I thought of as I unlocked the door to what used to be my dream home. I wasn't exactly sure why I'd come by here. Maybe I just wanted to see my house one more time before she banned me for good.

It hadn't seemed fair that I'd been the one who had to move out when we separated. Wasn't it my money that had built the thing to begin with? Besides, it was Kyra, not I, who had wanted the split. She should have been the one to go.

As I unlocked the door, the house key had never felt so cold and foreign in my hand. Memories of toting my wife over the threshold of our honeymoon suite flashed through my mind.

“You don't have to carry me,” she said through laughter. “You're going to give yourself a hernia.”

“If I'm going to strain something this week,” I dipped her down to slide the room key into its slot, “it's not going to be there.”

Her ivory skin turned pink. Although I'd tried everything to get her to make love to me during our short courtship, she hadn't given in. Glancing down at the platinum symbol of forever wrapped around her finger, I was thankful she lived the faith she professed. So few—myself included—really did.

I almost dropped her as I turned the doorknob. This made her laugh even harder. I used my hip to push the door open. Holding tight around my shoulders, her giggles rang in my ears.

“Did you just snort?” I asked her. It was the first time I'd ever heard her do what I would, over time, grow quite used to.

Bobbing along in my arms, she stopped laughing and her expression turned severe. “There are a few things you need to know about your wife, Mr. Yoshida.”

I gave a hurried glance around our hotel room. One king-size bed with four fluffy pillows and thick white comforter, a desk, one chair, two floor lamps, one TV with remote, and a balcony overlooking a halfway-decent view of the Atlantic—patio furniture included. Perfect.

I set her down on the bed. Although she didn't weigh much, my arms still ached with the reprieve. “What's that, Mrs. Yoshida?”

She batted her lashes at me, melting my heart for the hundredth time that day. “I don't snort, fart, or use the bathroom, except to brush my teeth and powder my nose. Understood?”

I raised my eyebrows, faking surprise. “Wow. Ever?”

She turned her head to indicate the conversation was over.

“Understood.” I kissed her forehead, pausing to take in her vanilla-almond scent.

With a sudden fire in her eyes, she grabbed my face and kissed me with more passion than she'd ever shown me. Than maybe anybody had ever shown anyone. I couldn't stand not having her a moment longer. I spun her around and wasted no time unfastening the hooks on her wedding gown.

She jerked around and grabbed my hands. “Not so fast. I want this to be perfect.” She glanced around the room. “I need my suitcase.”

I started to object, but her pleading eyes were no match for my protests. “Please, Samurai, the candles are in there.”

I loved that we already had pet names for one another. It made it all feel so right. I pulled her to me. “We don't need the candles. You, my little chili pepper, are hot enough to warm us both.”

She pulled away. Even then, Kyra could be so stubborn. Until the scene was perfectly set, love would have to wait.

Shutting the front door behind me, I grinned at the bittersweet memory. Oh, but that wait had been so worth it. I could almost taste her cherry lip gloss, feel her breath on my neck and imagine her silky hair between my fingertips. I hadn't known when I'd given her the nickname that she'd live up to it.

An undercurrent of longing pulled at me with such unexpected force I felt as though my guts were being yanked right out. Ushering the memory from my mind and my feet forward, I made my way to the dining room.

Ghosts of holidays past lingered around the table as well as the countless meals Kyra and I shared there over the years. If I had known the last time we sat there together would be the last time, what would I have done differently?

On the oval mahogany table rested a picture of me hugging a younger Benji. It was winter and we both wore toboggan caps and the thick, itchy sweaters Kyra's mother had made for us the Christmas before she died. In the photograph, a snowman, who had lost one of its pebble eyes, leaned beside us. Benji had an arm wrapped around its misshapen shoulder, wearing a smile more blinding than the snow.

It was the first and only snowman we'd ever made together. Kyra had taken over that job in winters that followed. Although I was glad my salary could afford her staying home, I still found myself jealous about all I had to miss that she was able to enjoy. Especially the snowmen.

I traced Benji's sweet photographed face, regret eating at my insides like battery acid. The picture was displayed inside a simple black frame and rested in front of Kyra's spot at the table. Her chair was still pulled out and a glass of water, half-empty, stood beside it. This was where she had been sitting when Benji had called from Great Lakes; I was sure of it. Maybe she'd been looking at the picture, thinking about how, despite her protests, I had bought our son a bucket of army men for his seventh birthday.

I left the dining room and headed for our bedroom.

As I walked down the hall, my fingertips dragged along the shelves holding our family photos. I paused in front of our wedding portrait. In her flowing white gown, Kyra stood before me, her arms draped over my tuxedo-clad shoulders. Bride and groom stared into each other's eyes as all the hope in the world passed between us in the form of a smile.

My hands trembled as I fought the urge to slam my fist into it—shattering the lie of that promise of a happily ever after. Why did she still display it while kicking me out of her life? She was never one to worry about keeping up appearances. It made no sense, but then neither did she most of the time. That was the one thing that hadn't changed over the years—I knew when I'd said “I do” that when it came to understanding her, I didn't, and never would.

Standing before our closed bedroom door, I leaned my forehead against the painted wood. How was I going to face her today? She'd take one look at me and know what I'd done. Maybe I should just sit her down and tell her the whole truth. Maybe if she understood why I'd done it . . .

Yeah, right after she puts a lawyer on retainer.

I opened the bedroom door and the smell of flowers hit me. A powdering of deodorizer blanketed the beige carpet. The vacuum cleaner stood plugged in and ready to suck it up. I walked to my closet and opened the door. Half my suits and shirts still hung there, but not for long. She'd be throwing my stuff out the windows soon enough. I closed the door and turned around.

Our poster bed stood neatly made and looked the same as always except that all four of the pillows were now piled on her side with a novel resting beside them. I turned it over and glanced at the cover. A man held an adoring woman in his well-dressed arms. Since when did she take to reading romances? She was already disappointed enough in our relationship, the last thing she needed was an idealistic hero to compare me with.

“You think you'd know what to do with her?” I asked the one-dimensional man, before setting the book back down as I'd found it.

I left the bedroom and walked into the living room. Everything was tidy as usual. Kyra had been such a pack rat when I'd first met her, but over the years my anal need for order and cleanliness had rubbed off on her. Now, like me, she preferred everything in its place.

A fish bowl sat on an end table beside a lamp. A small blue beta floated between two leaves of a fake plant nestled into blue gravel. I'd forgotten all about our fish, Steve. I tapped on the glass, wondering if he was dead, but he took off like a shark was hot on his tail.

Good old, hearty beta fish, I thought. The perfect pets. They didn't need to be walked or petted and could even go days without food. Too bad I didn't marry one.

I sprinkled a few flakes on top of the water, then checked my watch. This time tomorrow my wife would be home. I recapped the fish food, took one more look around our home, and shut the door behind me.

Eight