The Lost Husband (27 page)

That night I didn’t know them. Nor did I particularly care. They were suddenly strangers—as, of course, they’d been all along. Their lives were irrelevant to my own. The house they lived in, I realized then, no longer felt like my home. And next I realized something else: That house was no longer my home because, at last, I had settled into another one.

Chapter 22
 

A few nights later, at dinner on an unseasonably warm late April evening, Abby told us a new joke. “Why did the cow cross the road?”

“Why?” we all asked—especially Tank, who actually wanted to know.

“To go to the
moo
vies.”

We gave her a good laugh, and then she said, “Got that from the kid next to me at lunch.”

“Sarah B.,” I said, nodding. I had the seating chart memorized.

Abby shook her head. “No, we had free seating today.”

“It wasn’t Sarah B.?”

“No,” Abby said. “It was PeePants Gaveski.” She took a gulp of water. “Except everybody calls him Jimmy now.”

If I hadn’t been so busy gaping, I might have shared an appreciative glance with Jean over the idea that “Jimmy” was somehow PeePants’s nickname.

But I was too busy staring at Abby. “What was he doing sitting next to you?” I asked, forgetting the don’t-ask-what-you-want-to-know rule.

Abby shrugged.

“Was he bothering you?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

I was too shocked to appreciate the triumph of the way that Abby was looking at me. Like:
There was an empty seat. Why wouldn’t he take it?

Later that night, though, after the kids were asleep, I replayed the moment over and over. Because the expression on her face told me exactly what I’d been wanting to hear all this time. That things were better. That PeePants had stopped teasing her. And that Abby, in that beautiful way kids do, had carried on with her life.

Jean had even extracted the information from Abby that PeePants had moved on to another kid—a “really, really, really small boy” in her class named George.

“How small is he?” Tank wanted to know. “Mouse-sized?”

“No,” Abby answered, considering the question. “Bigger than a mouse. Maybe the size of a goat.”

“Without the hooves,” Tank added.

“That’s right,” Abby said. “He’s the shape of a person, but the height of a goat.”

Once that was settled, Abby admitted that she’d been teaching George some martial arts on the playground so he could protect himself from PeePants if the need arose.

“If O’Connor ever comes back, maybe I can invite George over for a lesson,” Abby suggested. “From a professional sensei.”

“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to get anyone’s hopes up.

But even as my worries about Abby waned, others cropped up
to keep me busy. I discussed it with Sunshine on what were becoming weekly trips up to the haunted house for séances: the way troubles seemed to resolve themselves only to make room for new ones.

Though I shouldn’t even call those nights by the bonfire “séances.” Aside from a few perfunctory calling-up-the-dead opening activities, there was nothing otherworldly about them. The haunted house seemed significantly less haunted now that I knew it was my childhood home, and the séances seemed significantly more like marshmallow-and-beer picnics now that Sunshine had become my friend.

She always listened carefully, and even though she didn’t have any more answers than I did, she had a way of asking questions that got me thinking in new ways. She told me frankly about her struggles to resist the addictive pull of her old life (which had surfaced most recently when her ex-manager called with an offer to do a reality TV show called
Where Are They Now?
) and to figure out who she really was and what she loved to do.

I told her about my struggles, too: my worries about Abby, how I was trying to comprehend the truth about my childhood, and even my crush on O’Connor—and the temptation I kept feeling to feign a reason to drop by his house and check on him. Something about him being gone made it feel like I was holding my breath underwater. And I really, really wanted some air.

“Go see him,” Sunshine said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’d be intruding.”

“He wants you to intrude.”

“There’s no way to know that.”

“I saw you two at Jean’s party. I saw how he was looking at you.”

That got my attention. “How was he looking at me?”

“The way cops look at doughnuts,” Sunshine said, wiggling her eyebrows.

I felt embarrassed then. I put my hands over my face.

But Sunshine was having fun. “The way smokers look at cigarettes,” she went on. “The way chocoholics look at Ding Dongs.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, waving at her to stop.

“It’s tragic, really,” she said. “That he’s not free.”

“It’s not
tragic
,” I said, wanting to be precise. “It just sucks.”

“Maybe I could stop by his house for a visit,” Sunshine suggested, “and leave my phone by accident, and then ask you to go get it for me. Or maybe we could break something at the farm and call him to come fix it.”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m not that desperate.”

“Okay,” Sunshine said. “We’ll just wait until you are.” Then she took a big swig of her organic beer, looked me up and down, and said, “Shouldn’t be too long now.”

And, in fact, it wasn’t.

Not even a full day later, as Jean and the kids and I were finishing dinner, O’Connor showed up at the screen door and stood outside without speaking or coming in. When Jean noticed him, she set her fork down.

“What is it?” she asked.

O’Connor’s voice was all gravel as he answered, “She’s gone.”

Nobody knew exactly what he meant, but even the kids could read that voice. They didn’t shout his name or run toward him to beg for airplane rides. They held still, and we all watched Jean stand up and step out onto the porch.

The moment felt so important that the kids and I tiptoed up
the stairs without a word and talked in a whisper all through bathtime. I didn’t know what “gone” meant, and all I could do was judge from his face that it was not a good thing. Had she died? Had she gotten lost somehow? What the hell was he talking about?

But I would have to wait to find out until after the bubble bath and the pajamas and the bedtime story. Though I couldn’t tell you which bedtime story we read. My head was entirely elsewhere.

As soon as the kids’ light was out, I tiptoed back down and eavesdropped. There at the foot of the stairs, I felt a swell of gratitude for Jean’s love of fresh air. With the windows open all around the house, I could hear the conversation perfectly.

They were on the porch swing, and the extra length of chain clinked against itself as they swung back and forth.

“You did the right thing,” Jean was saying.

“I’m not sure,” O’Connor said.

“I can’t believe she just showed up at your place without calling.”

“Actually, she did call. She left a bunch of messages.”

“Messages you didn’t return?”

“That’s right.”

“Becky can take better care of Erin than you can,” Jean said.

O’Connor sounded like his jaw was tight. “Erin hated Becky,” he said. “She really hated her.”

“Things were different back then,” Jean said.

“She thought she was prissy, and anal, and perfectionistic …” O’Connor went on.

“That’s right,” Jean interrupted. “All qualities that make her a perfect caretaker now.”

“Erin would never have wanted to live with her,” O’Connor said. “If she could understand what’s happening, she’d never forgive me.”

“But she can’t,” Jean said.

“You don’t know that,” O’Connor said. “Maybe she can understand but just can’t express it. Maybe she watched me hand her over to Becky and couldn’t even beg me not to.”

“Is that what you’re torturing yourself with?”

O’Connor’s voice seemed to trip over itself. “I promised to take care of her in sickness and in health.”

“A lot has changed since that day,” Jean said. “A whole lot.”

They got quiet. The swing creaked back and forth.

“Even if she did understand what was happening,” Jean went on then, “she’d know it’s the best option.”

“You don’t know that, either,” O’Connor said.

“I do know it,” Jean said. “And you will, too, when you’ve had some rest.”

He took a deep breath and let it out.

“Becky has money,” Jean continued. “She has time, an empty nest, and a busy husband. She wants to help, now that they’re back to stay, and she’ll be good at it. She needs a project.”

“Erin is not a project,” O’Connor said.

“You know what I mean.”

“If I sign over guardianship,” O’Connor said, “Becky could put her in a facility.”

“But she won’t,” Jean said. “She said she won’t.”

“But she could.”

“I suppose she could,” Jean said. “But that’s a risk you have to take.”

“Why?” O’Connor said.

“Because you need your life back.”

It was quiet then. Just the squeak and clink of the swing.

“I’m selling the house,” O’Connor said next.

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“It’s too empty there now that she’s gone,” he said. “I’ve slept in the Airstream the past two nights.”

“Is she all settled in?” Jean asked.

“Becky says so,” he said.

“But you haven’t been up to visit?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should go,” Jean suggested.

“Maybe,” O’Connor said, as though he didn’t for a second believe it. “Becky’s convinced it’ll give me peace of mind.”

“But?”

“But I don’t see peace of mind in my future.”

“You’re more likely to see a thing,” Jean said, “if you look for it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Jean said. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell you that.”

“Okay,” he said. “Don’t tell me.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Jean said. “You should come back to work. Libby’s killing herself with only Sunshine for help.”

“How is Libby?” he asked, and I tried to read his voice, but I couldn’t.

“She’s probably been better,” Jean said.

“You told her about her mom, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“How’s she doing with all that?”

“How do you think?”

There was a pause, when even the porch swing got quiet, and then O’Connor said, “I’ll be back to work in the morning.”

In the morning, when I found O’Connor milking Pocahontas in the barn, just like old times, I said by way of greeting, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting back to work,” O’Connor said, extra casually, as if it hadn’t been more than a month since we’d seen each other. And then I couldn’t decide if he was acting super casual because he really felt that way or because he
didn’t
. I myself was acting extra super casual. But only because everything I felt was the opposite.

“Where’s Sunshine?” I asked.

“I kicked her out,” he said, glancing up.

I still couldn’t believe he was really there. But I could see the proof. His Airstream trailer was parked out on the lawn like a space-age flying machine. I’d seen it through the window at breakfast and caught my breath.

“You’re back, then?” I asked.

O’Connor kept milking. “Yup.”

“And is that your spaceship out there?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Tank would like to go flying in it after school,” I said.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“You own that thing?” I asked.

“It’s not a ‘thing,’ ” he said. “It’s a 1973 Overlander. You should come for the tour.”

“Are you going to be—” I hesitated. “Living there?”

“Yup,” he said, as if no further explanation were needed. Which
it wasn’t, because I’d eavesdropped and heard everything I needed to know. But he didn’t know that.… Or at least I hoped he didn’t.

I was still standing there, watching him. He turned and met my eyes for the first time. “Jean is worried about you,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Jean doesn’t think so.”

“Jean doesn’t think you’re fine, either.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“Did you ask me a question?” I asked. He was still holding my gaze, and it made me a little woozy.

He stood up so we were face-to-face. “My question is, ‘Are you okay?’ ”

I nodded a little before I spoke. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” he said, as though he really meant it. There was a pause, and we both seemed to be resisting a magnetic pull to step closer. O’Connor looked away first. “Now get yourself to work,” he said, nodding at my milking stool. “Mary Todd Lincoln’s not going to milk herself.”

That night, kids asleep and dishes done, I decided to take O’Connor up on his trailer tour. And here’s why: He had a television, which I could see through his window, and it was on.

I slipped out the back door and crossed the yard in the moonlight, like a moth fluttering toward a porch light. Then I stood a few feet away from the Airstream for a minute, debating if I really wanted to knock.

Before I’d decided, O’Connor opened the door.

“Need something?” he asked.

“Um,” I said, “I was just wondering what you were watching in here.”