No Hiding in Boise Page 16

  “You forgot I was here, didn’t you?” he says.

  I did, in fact. I’d expected to be up all night, wondering what Lindsey Benton has to tell me, but I slept hard—because of the wine at our post-funeral lunch, or the vodka after lunch, or the emotional exhaustion of saying goodbye to Jed.

  Gary sits up against the headboard. He is naked, except for his boxer shorts. I stare at the curls of gray chest hair. There are patches of it in locations other than his chest—the back of his upper arms, the middle of his lower back. It’s as if the hairs were originally planted on his chest, but some seedlings migrated to other locations and grew unexpectedly.

  I certainly didn’t plan on him being here—in my house, in my bed. I pull the sheets up to my chin, embarrassed, which is silly. He’s already seen my body—last night and so many nights before.

  He gets out of bed, walks to the bathroom. I stare at the back of him, the way his boxer shorts gather between his legs, the thickness of his tree-trunk thighs. He turns on the shower. He doesn’t ask, “Can I take a shower?” He’s comfortable enough with what’s happened to assume his right to my shower.

  If I lean forward slightly in bed, I can see into the bathroom. The shower glass is lime-stained, but I can see the shape of him, the roundness of his gut. He leans back, lets the water hit his face, his eyes closed. I take this opportunity to get out of bed and go to my closet, my arms wrapped across my naked body. I’m not even wearing underwear. This is so unlike me.

  After the service, we drove back to Boise for lunch. Gary had found a number of lunch options in Caldwell, but I didn’t want to have lunch in Caldwell. Now that I have the urn, now that Jed is with me, I’d be happy to never visit Caldwell again.

  We went to a little café on Eighth Street. We sat outside. It’s been a warmer-than-usual April. Normally, it’s too cold to sit outside at cafés until May, sometimes June. I couldn’t help but think of Jed’s rants about global warming.

  We ordered our food at the counter inside, then took our number to a table out front. A server brought out our glasses of wine.

  “Thank you for organizing everything,” I said to Gary.

  He took a sip of his wine. “I was happy to help.”

  “I’m sorry about the other day,” I told him.

  “No need to apologize,” he said, though I could tell by the way he sat back in his chair that he was satisfied by this apology, that he needed it.

  “It’s just been so emotional for me,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  The server came with our food. Gary had ordered a pasta dish. I don’t know how he could stomach something so heavy. Men are strange that way—never really losing their appetites. I ordered a spinach salad. It came with a baguette. I started with that, nibbling at it like a rabbit with a carrot.

  “Anything else I can get you?” the girl asked. She was so young and so chipper. She irritated me. It’s not her fault; she didn’t know where we’d come from. She thought we were two old people lucky enough to be retired and enjoying a weekday lunch in the sun.

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Gary told her.

  After she left, we each took bites of our food. Then I said what I’d been wanting to say, that “clearing the air” thing.

  “I know you never liked Jed.”

  Gary wiped his mouth with the napkin from his lap, took time doing so, as if thinking about what to say.

  “I didn’t know Jed like you did,” he said.

  “But you can admit you didn’t like him.”

  He took in a breath so big that his nostrils flared to accommodate it.

  “I didn’t like the hold he had on you.”

  “The hold?” I asked. “He was my son.”

  He nodded. “I know. I’m not trying to upset you. I just wished he was more independent, less depressed. I wished the same things as you.”

  I set my fork on the edge of my plate. “You thought he was depressed?”

  He looked at me with pity that made me feel ashamed.

  “He was depressed,” he said. There was so much certainty to the statement. I felt my cheeks get red.

  “I guess I didn’t know it was that bad.”

  I stared at my mostly untouched salad, picked up my fork, pushed around spinach leaves.

  “None of this is your fault,” he said,

  He’s wrong though. Some of this is my fault. What I didn’t notice, what I refused to realize, is my fault. I’m no longer interested in perpetuating lies to myself.

  I decided to change the subject. “What do you think Lindsey is going to tell me?”

  I asked this knowing full well that Gary would have no idea. It reminded me of being a teenager, asking my girlfriends when they thought my crush would call me. I just liked hearing their guesses. I liked entertaining the notion that one of them had psychic abilities.

  “I have no idea,” Gary said, not playing along.

  “It’s just weird—her talking to him the day it happened.”

  I was trying to incite a conversation, trying to get Gary to guess, to participate in corralling the thoughts in my head.

  “You’ll find out tomorrow,” he said.

  That’s Gary—straightforward, logical. That’s most men, I’ve learned.

  The too-bubbly server asked us if we wanted a second glass of wine when our firsts were three-quarters empty. Gary said yes before I could even consider. I don’t know if it’s because he was stressed by the day’s events or if he just assumed I was.

  After our second glass, I felt light, airy. I hadn’t been drunk in a good while, and that’s what I was—drunk. There was no hiding it. Gary wasn’t drunk—he has at least eighty pounds on me—but he was as close to drunk as I’d ever seen him. He laughed more easily. He touched me in small ways—his hand on my back when crossing the street, that kind of thing. We walked around downtown like a couple of bored teenagers in the middle of summer, sampling caramels at the chocolate shop, browsing the trinkets and greeting cards at The Record Exchange. I felt young and silly and smitten. I wondered why I hadn’t been drinking too much wine every day since Jed died, or every day of my life, for that matter.

  It was just before three o’clock when Gary said, “How about I drive you home?”

  When you’re old, a couple glasses of wine is exhilarating for about an hour, then you are overcome by the need—the absolute requirement—for a nap.

  “We can have a nightcap there,” I said.

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  “A daycap then.”

  WHEN WE GOT to my house, I pulled out a step stool from the bottom of the coat closet and used it to reach the cabinet above the fridge. That’s where I’ve always kept the liquor. Some of the bottles must be twenty years old. I’ve never been much of a liquor drinker; wine is just fine by me, or a light beer on a summer day. Ed liked a glass of scotch a few times a week. There are a few bottles of that, along with bottles of other things—vodka, tequila, white rum, triple sec, sweet vermouth—remnants of attempts to be the type of person who throws sophisticated parties. I’ve never hosted a party at this house—not an adult one, at least. When Jed was young, we had a few of his birthday parties here. His birthday was right before Halloween, usually too cold for any outdoor venues.

  “How about vodka?” I suggested.

  Gary shrugged a “why the hell not?” type of shrug.

  I grabbed the bottle by the neck and stepped down.

  “I don’t have fancy cocktail glasses,” I said.

  “And I don’t have fancy taste.”

  The late afternoon was turning to evening. It was chilly outside, but we decided to sit out there anyway, at my rusted bistro table and chairs. I bought them at Walmart, couldn’t expect them to last.

  We drank the vodka out of ridiculously small juice glasses with oranges painted on them. I’d used them when Jed was a kid, when I wanted to limit the amount of juice he drank because I was cautious about sugar. I was that type of parent— ca
utious. Or I thought I was. Maybe I was focused on the wrong things. Maybe while I was worried about sugar, my son was becoming a monster.

  I scooted my chair close to Gary’s. After just a few sips of vodka, I reached over, put my hand on his thigh. He raised one eyebrow at me—a curious eyebrow, not a scolding one.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  I don’t know if that’s true or not. I think it’s more true that I’ve missed having someone around, another body in the house, another heart beating.

  “I’ve always said you’re something special,” he said.

  He placed his hand over mine, like playing paper to my rock.

  “Do you think we could try again?” I felt silly asking this, even with the confidence lent to me by the alcohol.

  “Is that what you want?”

  I let my hand wander to his belt. I fiddled with the buckle.

  “You look nice in a suit,” I said, completely ignoring his question.

  “I can’t wait to get it off, actually.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  WE DIDN’T FINISH the bottle, but we came close; it had been only a quarter full to start. When I stood, I felt like I was standing on a Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. I laughed at the absurdity of my inability to walk a straight line.

  We went directly to the bedroom, didn’t even bother pretending we had another destination in mind. Jed would have thought this was gross, two old people wanting each other with sloppy urgency. It was sloppy—the way I yanked on his belt and nearly fell on my rear end, the way he stumbled while unzipping my black dress. When we were naked, I closed my eyes, but then quickly opened them because my head was spinning. We didn’t have sex. Well, we did, technically. But neither of us finished, so it hardly counts. We’d had too much to drink to do anything properly but sleep. I didn’t care. I liked just being with him, our warm bodies pressed against each other. I liked the feel of his stubble—already there, even though he was fresh-shaven in the morning. I liked the salty taste of his sweat when I kissed his chest. I liked the reminder of being alive. Jed is dead, and I am alive.

  I PUT ON a pair of flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt. When Gary comes out of the shower, he says, “I feel like a new man.”

  “The shower helped?”

  He is naked, just standing there, unashamed. Men have the luxury of this.

  “I still need about five Advil, but I feel better.”

  He grabs a towel off the hook, dries himself off.

  “I have Advil,” I tell him, “in the medicine cabinet.”

  I go to it, hand him the bottle.

  “You first,” he says.

  I shake two from the bottle, tilt my head under the sink faucet, fill my mouth with water, swallow. Then he does the same.

  “So …” I say. I want to ask all the usual female questions: Does he feel strange about last night? Does he regret it? What does it mean?

  He goes to the bed, the towel now wrapped around his lower half. He doesn’t have any clothes here, besides the suit he wore yesterday. There’s no way Jed’s clothes would fit him.

  He picks up his suit pants and shirt, sitting in a pile on the floor next to the bed. He puts them on, grumbling as he does so.

  “Two days in a row wearing a suit—this is unprecedented.”

  “I’m sure you want to get home, but do you want some breakfast?”

  I tell myself if he says no, that means he regrets what happened and just wants to forget about it. If he says yes, that means there may be something between us still. It would make me happy to be with him, I think. I don’t know if I’m saying that because it’s dreadful being alone at a time like this or if I genuinely love Gary. Does anyone really know their intentions? It seems like we recognize them only in hindsight.

  I make us plates of eggs and toast and bacon. I’m hungry for the first time since Jed died. I feel angry at my body, in a way, angry that it’s returning to its usual priorities so soon.

  I eat slowly, though I could finish my food in under a minute if I really wanted to; I’m that famished. It’s the alcohol probably. That much liquor requires food, proper sustenance. Gary has no problem eating quickly—another luxury for men.

  “So …” I say, attempting to resurrect a discussion of us, our relationship, where we stand.

  Gary tops his last piece of toast with his last bit of eggs, shoves the mini sandwich into his mouth.

  “So?” he says.

  “About last night.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

  “We both drank too much.”

  “This is a fact,” he says.

  He wipes his mouth with a square of paper towel.

  “I don’t know if you’re happy about what happened or …”

  “I’m not unhappy about it,” he says, straight-faced, betraying nothing.

  I nod. “Okay, then.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if it happened again,” he says. “Minus the vodka. I think that did me in.”

  I smile. “We should stick to wine.”

  Right then, my phone buzzes with a text message. It’s Lindsey Benton.

  Hi, Ms. Ketcher. Still okay if I come by today? Maybe around 11? I’ll have the baby with me. Hope that’s alright.

  I write back:

  Sure, of course. You still know the house?

  She writes:

  Of course. See you soon.

  I set the phone down. “Lindsey,” I say to Gary.

  “You nervous?”

  “I am. Not sure if I should be.”

  “You want me to stay?” he asks.

  This question is how I know we are back together, even if we are not saying it that way quite yet.

  “No, you go home. Change clothes. Take a nap. I’ll call you later.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He stands, takes his plate to the sink, rinses it. He dries his hands, then folds the dish towel, places it back on the counter. I’ve always told him his wife, Sandy, trained him well.

  “Until later,” he says.

  Then he kisses me—quickly and softly, as if it’s nothing special, as if it’s something we do all the time. And that, strangely, makes me feel more loved than any passionate, cinematic kiss ever could.

  DAN VELASQUEZ

  VICTIM #5

  IF YOU WOULD HAVE asked me five years ago if I’d ever be a bartender, I would have said, “No freaking way.” I had bigger dreams than that. I still do. I’m in grad school for civil engineering. This bartending thing is just a little detour. I need the extra money. I have scholarship money for school, and my internship pays enough for me to rent a room near campus, but that’s not going to cut it for long.

  When Kenzie told me she was pregnant, I was like, “Holy shit.” We’ve been together since undergrad and we love each other, but still. This wasn’t planned, obviously. I don’t know how it happened. She’s been on the pill for years. My guy friends say, “Are you sure about that?” But Kenz isn’t like that. She’s in grad school too, getting her master’s in social work. It’s not like she wants a baby. Not right now, at least.

  We talked about going to Planned Parenthood, making an appointment to discuss our “options.” But the more we thought about it, it just didn’t seem right to get rid of the baby. We’ll be done with school in a year. We’ll both be ready to get jobs—real jobs. I’ve always said I want to marry Kenzie. Things are just happening faster than we thought.

  First order of business: get an apartment together. She’s renting a room in a house with some girls in her social work program; I’m renting a room in a house with some guys. That’s not going to work with a baby in the picture. Kenz’s family has been supporting her financially while she goes to school, but they’ve made it clear they won’t support her if we move in together. They’re super conservative, religious. They hate that my last name is Velasquez. She hasn’t even told them about the pregnancy. We both know that won’t be a good conversation.

&
nbsp; I told Kenz not to worry. I’ll save up money for us to get an apartment. I’ll just have to bust my ass for a while. I saw that Ray’s was hiring a part-time bartender and figured the tips would be good. Plus, the shifts work with my school schedule. Kenz doesn’t love the idea of me bartending, but we both know it’s temporary.

  “HEY, DAN,” TESSA says, tossing her purse on the shelf underneath the cash register.

  Tessa is the bartender who’s training me. She’s nice enough. She looks like a teenager, but she must be older if she’s serving alcohol.

  “Getting busy already, huh?” she says, surveying the bar.

  I’ve been working here only a week, so I don’t know what “busy” is. There’s a table of girls celebrating someone’s twenty-first birthday, and their volume level is making it feel busy. Other than them, there are some old guys in the back. Tessa says they’re regulars. I need to make a point of getting to know the regulars, greeting them by name. That’s the way to get good tips.

  Kenz said she might come by tonight. I hope she doesn’t get weird when she meets Tessa. Kenz has a little bit of a jealous streak, and Tessa isn’t exactly unattractive.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Tessa doesn’t seem to care if I’m on my phone at work. “As long as everyone’s drinks get served,” she said on my first day.

  It’s a text from Kenz.

  Hey babe, don’t think I can come by tonight. Sorry!!! I feel like

  I get this emoji from her a lot. She’s been having bad morning sickness. The doctor said it’s normal. Supposedly, it’ll get better in a few weeks or so.

  I text back to her:

  No worries, babe. Be home late. Don’t wait up. U need ur sleep.

  I start to get tired around eleven o’clock. That’s when I’m usually in bed.

  “You awake over there?” Tessa asks from her end of the bar. I’m mid-yawn. Just as I’m about to explain that I was up late studying the night before, a guy comes in and sits in front of her at the bar. I’ve seen him before. One of the regulars. I make a mental note to get his name.

  Tessa gets the guy a beer. He seems stressed out, like he had a hell of a day.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Kenz again.