Husband and Wife (27 page)

There are distinct categories of what a person will do for love. What had I done for Nathan? Had his children. Matched pair after pair out of pile after pile of nearly identical white socks. Read nineteen different versions of the same damn paragraph. For Rajiv I was lying in a ditch at sunset with my neck at an awkward angle, sticky with corn-syrup blood. Would I have done that for Nathan? No, I would not. Oh, hell no, I might have said, or, You have got to be fucking kidding me, and in fact I would have been hurt that he didn’t know me well enough not to ask.

For Rajiv I had written a poem. My first poem in two years. I’d even showed it to him. He’d said it was beautiful, and when I asked him what I should change and he said, “Nothing,” I decided to believe him. To believe he meant it, anyway. Another thing I would not have done for Nathan—I would not have believed he really thought there was nothing I should change. Had I ever written a poem for Nathan? I’d written about him, but for him? I had written, he had written. His books were dedicated to me.
For Sarah
,
they said, right there on the page. But I was there when he was writing them, and he didn’t seem to be writing them for me. The dedication was a thank-you for my support, a gesture of affection. I said as much to him once, and to my surprise he seemed offended. He said the books
were
for me, that I was his ideal reader. I was the one whose opinion mattered the most.

“The light is just perfect,” Rajiv exulted. He walked around me, examining my corpse through the lens, and though I was supposed to be dead, I couldn’t help the way my fingers twitched out of the way of his feet. “Don’t step on the died girl,” I said.

“What?” Rajiv said.

“Something Mattie said.” I closed my eyes, because it seemed easier to be dead that way. I couldn’t help but notice that, where Nathan’s interest would have perked up, where Nathan would have asked for the story, would have listened with his eyebrows raised and a smile at her amusing phrasing and a wince that she’d said it at all, Rajiv just said, “Oh, OK,” and knelt beside me, studying my face. Because she wasn’t his child. And you’re just not as interested in the funny things a child says when she’s not your child. Why was I thinking about Nathan? I was supposed to be thinking I was dead. What did a dead person think about? The question struck me as humorous, so I tried to think of something sad, because I couldn’t be lying here all covered in fake blood with a goofy smile on my face. Let’s see. Sad. I could think about the economy, about what would happen to my family if I got fired and couldn’t find another job. I could think about Kristy’s voice mail from that morning, asking with a note of impatience how I was, and how I had yet to return it. But that wasn’t good, that was too upsetting,
and if I started down that path I’d set in motion anxiety that would last all night and ensure I didn’t sleep.

“You’re frowning,” Rajiv said.

I opened my eyes. “Sorry. I was having anxious thoughts.”

He bent to kiss my forehead, and then my mouth, so that he came away with a little fake blood on his cheek. “All you’ve got to do,” he said, “is be totally still.”

“Got it.”

“You look beautiful,” he said.

Beautiful? I was covered in fake blood. It was matted in my hair. But beautiful, okay, sure, why not. It was nice to know I made for a beautiful dead girl. Rajiv moved away, and after a moment I heard him call, “Action!”

I was lying there with my eyes closed, so I couldn’t see Rajiv’s actor friend Paul stumble down the road from the car. I could hear his frantic footsteps, I could hear him calling my name. “Sarah! Sarah!” Such desperation in the sound. And then it struck me—it was my actual name. Why had Rajiv used my actual name? If I was going to be somebody else, couldn’t I be somebody named Penelope, or Camille? Paul said, “Sarah?” like he’d suddenly spotted me, and then he came running. I felt him drop to his knees beside me and touch my face; he touched me more and more frantically, he shook me a little, and I managed to stay limp as a doll. All the while he said my name, over and over, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, and then finally he began to scream. “No!” he screamed. “No!”

I started to laugh. I felt the laugh coming, and I tried to repress it.
I’m dead
, I told myself,
I’m dead, and it’s not funny
. I kept my mouth pressed tight, but I couldn’t keep the laughter from vibrating through my body, I couldn’t
keep the breath from snickering out my nose. Paul let go of me. “I guess we have to do that again,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. I pushed myself up on my elbows. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s OK,” Rajiv said. “It happens. Just take a deep breath and tell me when you’re ready and we’ll try it again.”

I took a breath.
I’m dead
, I thought.
I’m dead
,
I’m dead
. “I’m ready,” I said. And it all happened again, the running, the touching, the Sarah Sarah Sarah, and then the “No! No!” and as if on cue the laughter returned.

“Come on now, Sarah,” Rajiv said. “Dead people don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” I said. “I’m not making a sound.”

“Your whole body is shaking,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but I was laughing even as I said it. I looked at Paul and thought about his shrieking, “No! No!” and I laughed until tears came into my eyes.

“Let’s take a break,” Rajiv said, and Paul went stalking off, muttering something that I was certain was not complimentary to me. Rajiv offered me his hand, pulled me to my feet. “He’s a little bit of a diva,” Rajiv said.

We leaned against the bumper of his car, and he offered me a bottle of water. “Laughter’s not an unusual reaction,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I’ve watched the outtakes on DVDs.”

He nodded. He watched the sunset broadcasting its undeniable beauty, beams of light streaming out from behind distant trees, and I knew he was thinking that we were soon to lose that perfect light, and I wondered if he would say so out loud. I didn’t think he would. How long would we have to be together before he would say something like that out loud?

“Can I just ask you something?” I asked. “If I’m your dream girl, why do you want to kill me?”

“What do you mean?” he said, and when I heard the bristle in his voice, I knew I’d sounded accusatory where I’d told myself I only meant to tease.

“Well, this is the second film now that’s been somehow about me, right? And for some reason I’m dead again.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not dead in the other film.”

“There’s that image of the woman with the handkerchief—it’s very Camille, very
Moulin Rouge
. She sure looks dead, or close to it.”

“That’s not supposed to be real. That’s one of the images that represents his feelings about her.”

“His feeling that she’s dead?”

“His feeling that she’s unattainable.”

“And then she disappears.”

“Right. She’s unattainable.”

“Well, I’m attainable. I’m standing right here. So how come you’re killing me off?”

“I think you’re taking this a little too literally.” He sighed. “I told you that film was bad.”

I wanted to push it, I really did. But I looked at his face and saw a mixture of worry and impatience and apology and irritation at my lack of understanding. This was a look I recognized, a look anybody who’s been in a longtime relationship will recognize, but it was the first time I’d seen it on Rajiv’s face. As soon as I did, I wanted to erase it. If I wanted to be looked at like that, I could go back to Nathan. Nathan and I could look at each other like that until the cows came home. But not Rajiv—Rajiv looked at me with longing. That was what he did. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I want you to get what I’m doing.”

“I do,” I said. “I do.” I looked him in the eye. I tried to project sincerity, and gradually that expression faded off his face. He kissed me. “If you keep doing that,” I said, “the blood’s going to be all over you.”

“It’s hard to resist.” He touched my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay with all of this?”

“I’m positive. I promise I’ll stay dead this time.”

And I did. I lay there like a stone while my pretend husband screamed my name, and I thought about my real husband. Not about what he’d do if he found me, a bloodied corpse, at the side of the road, because I figured he’d pretty much do what this guy was doing now, the screaming and the crying and so on. I thought about how much Nathan would appreciate this story, the story of what was happening here, how he’d understand exactly why I found the whole thing strange and disturbing and funny at once, how he’d point out nuances of meaning I hadn’t even noticed. I really wished I could tell it to him.

All that wistful longing blinked off like a light when I walked into Helen’s living room and saw him sitting there. He was sitting there. Nathan. He’d gotten one of his severe haircuts since I’d seen him last, and as always the sight of his hair close-cropped and curl-less, the sight of his ears, was a shock, on top of the shock of seeing him here. His cheeks were shiny, as though freshly shaved. He was wearing my favorite shirt. He stood up when I came in. He almost, but not quite, smiled at me. He had one of Helen’s iced lattes in his hand. Without meaning to I shot her a look full of accusation, and how could she know it wasn’t because I blamed her for Nathan’s presence but because she’d given him something to drink?

“I’ve been trying to call you,” she said.

“My cell phone was off,” I said.

“I left you a message,” she said.

“I haven’t turned it back on.” I was looking at Helen, but still I could see Nathan looming in the corner of my eye. He didn’t vanish when I looked away. I hadn’t, after all, conjured him. “What are you doing here?” I said, and Helen looked puzzled, but then I turned my gaze to Nathan. I looked him in the eye before I looked away.

“Mr. Dodson,” he said. “He died.”

“What?” I said, or maybe I said, “He died?” because we always do that, we always repeat the unwanted phrase, we always ask for confirmation, we can’t quite believe it, and we hope that in the moment before we admit, yes, we understood the first time, and no, we didn’t really need to hear it said again, that the news will disappear, it will not, after all, have been said. I cheated on you. He died. What did you say? What?

Just a month ago—or two? Had it been two?—I’d come upon Mr. Dodson putting up No Trespassing signs along his fence. “I’ve been wanting to warn you,” he said when he saw me. “Some no-good types moved into the house on the corner. The Keeters. My wife’s cousins. Caught them skulking around, looking in my shed.”

“You think they wanted to steal something?”

“I know it.” He shook his head. “My wife’s cousins,” he said again, as though somehow Mrs. Dodson’s relationship to them made her responsible for their skulking ways. The Keeters. It sounded more like a designation for a species of redneck than a name. “Don’t get married,” Mr. Dodson said. Then he grinned at me. “Too late!”

Nathan was still talking, something about the funeral. I caught the words
bright moment
,
angel
,
important to them
,
and I understood he wanted to take my children to the funeral, I understood he was here because he wanted us to go back home. I knew it was me he wanted and not just the children. I’d known that the instant I’d seen the haircut, the shirt, the shave. Only moments had passed since I’d come in the house and closed the door behind me. I could still conjure the sensation of the doorknob in my hand. I took a few steps, reached for the door, and I was outside again, letting the last few minutes vanish with a satisfying click.

Helen had put two metal pinwheels in the rock bed around the front yard’s tree, and the wind was just high enough to spin them in a start-and-stop, halfhearted way. They spun. They stopped. They spun. Nathan came outside. “Was this necessary?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked. I didn’t answer. He knew what I meant. “They really want Binx at the funeral,” he said. “I didn’t want to argue about it over the phone.” I waited for him to add something aggrieved like, “I’m sorry it’s such a blow to see me,” but he surprised me. He said in a voice that was wistful and naked, “I thought maybe if you actually saw me, you’d decide to come home.”

I looked at him. Did actually seeing him make me want to go home? His sideburns were uneven, and really, now that I looked at him more closely, a little long, given the severity of the rest of the cut. “Where’d you get your hair cut?”

“Great Clips.”

“The one by the Harris Teeter?”

“No, the one on North Duke.”

“What were you doing in Durham?”

“Talking to Gail about the possibility of picking up a class or two.”

“A class?”

“I’ve been looking for work,” he said. His expression when he said this—it reminded me of Mattie’s when she handed me a drawing she’d done at school, shyly, hopefully certain of my approval.

“I guess I may have made that a necessity,” I said.

“Have you been wanting to quit?” he asked. “Should I have known that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t really know it.”

“But maybe I should have.”

“How could you if I didn’t?”

“Maybe you didn’t think about whether you wanted to quit because you didn’t think you could. And maybe I didn’t think about it because I didn’t want to, because your working made my not working possible.”

“Wow,” I said. “I thought my working was changing my values and generally destroying my soul.”

“I’m sorry about all that,” he said. “I was being a prick.”

“I didn’t quit, anyway. I’ve been calling in sick this whole time, though I don’t know if they really believe me anymore.”

“It’d be a pain to replace you.”

“Well, yes. That’s true.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” he said.

I surveyed the yard. “Moonlight on pinwheels,” I said.

And he said, as he always did, “Are you writing a poem?”

“All the time,” I said.

“Have you and Helen been staying up every night getting stoned and talking about all the possible uses of the word
the
?”