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She Always Truly Loved Him

Jim Meirose

    He downed the third shot and walked across the silent living room full of dark heavy furniture picked out by her thirty years ago. They had gone to the store some weeks before the wedding. She had picked it all out.
    This, she said, throwing herself onto the big living room couch in the furniture store.
    It’s a little bit big, he said. And dark.
    So what?
    It was covered with great purple flowers. She loved purple, and she loved flowers. So they got it. And they got the bedroom set with the great heavy footboard and headboard and the great twisted posts at each corner.
    Ugly, he thought. He bit his lip.
    Do you like it, she said, throwing herself upon the bed the way she had the couch.
    Oh yes. Of course.
    Ugly.
    They went through the store that way. This, she said; and this; and that.
    Oh, I love it—can we get it?
    Of course.
    The house was filled that way; and then they married.
    He went back in the kitchen and poured himself another shot of whiskey and downed it. Again his thoughts strayed to the thing down the cellar but he shoved it aside just as fast. At the wedding she had been beautiful; they said their I do’s and kissed and he got sloshed at the reception but she had sat there so regally and quietly talked to him.
    You’re drinking too much.
    I know. I know.
    But he had to drink. It was the only way he could take being around all these strange people. Mingle, she said.
    Come on mingle.
    He headed for the cocktail bar.
    Screwdriver, he said. Straight up—
    Congratulations sir, said the bartender.
    Congratulations? For what—oh, I get it. For getting married.
    The bartender gave him a quizzical amused look as he passed him the drink.
    Go easy, said the bartender.
    Go easy.
    You know what? he said to the bartender.
    What?
    I was so nervous last night, I wet the bed—
    Really.
    It’s a big deal to give up your whole life.
    Is that what you’re doing?
    I suppose in a way.
    And he did.
    And so did she.
    They did it together.
    He walked across the kitchen and looked through the lace curtains on the window over the sink. The lace softened the hard world outside that he felt closing in on him more and more each day. The sun was on its way down; the darkness was fast rising. His hands formed to fists and again he recalled the thing in the cellar but another shot of whisky put it from his mind; and they had gone to Jamaica on their honeymoon and she had taught him about sex; how she knew so much, and he so little, made practically no sense given what he thought was her background but the whole time down there was magical.
    How had she known so much? Had she—
    She must have been reading books. That’s it.
    Those sex books. Those how to have sex books.
    The drink came to his lips and went down.
    Look, she said, where they sat on the balcony of the hotel room. The big black birds came around. She threw them crumbs. All her life, she fed the birds crumbs. The smaller weaker ones that depended on her could always count on her.
    He could always count on her.
    Because she truly loved him.
    Later, they sat on the back hotel patio overlooking the ocean. The beach stretched before them. The ocean stretched blue to the horizon. People were being served lunch on the beach at tables with white table cloths. Waiters in white jackets and black trousers brought the food out on covered silver platters. They snickered at the sight of it; why would we want such service, he said; such service was for other people. They watched from above.
    Everything good was for other people, his father had taught him.
    Nothing good can be for me.
    She cannot be for me.
    But somehow, she is.
    He sat low in the reclining patio chair with his hand scraping the concrete floor.
    The hotel cat cruelly cornered a rat nearby and a child stood barefoot watching.
    His hand came up from the concrete floor. He gripped his drink.
    He downed it.
    Go easy, she said.
    I’m okay—
    No you’re not. Go easy—
    She looked him full in the face and smiled.
    Go easy. For me.
    The cellar beckoned as he remembered this and it made him go for the fifth of vodka on the shelf up high, and he drank and forgot about the cellar again. The rooms grew fuzzy around the edges as he wandered alone through the house. His raw hands burned. Though it had been three days since he mixed the concrete, foolishly without gloves, his hands still burned, cracked and raw. At the home improvement store he had brought ten bags of dry mix concrete to the checkout line on a dolly. He paid with a credit card. He had never used a credit card before he knew her. He had always paid cash like his father. He had never had a checking account before he knew her. He had always paid cash like his father.
    Swipe the card here, said the checkout boy at the home improvement warehouse.
    Swipe it here and sign it here.
    The receipt spat from the register and the boy handed it to him.
    Have a good day, he said.
    They always said have a good day; and he said nothing back.
    You are so rude, she told him. You should talk.
    I have nothing to say.
    I’m not satisfied with that. You should have things to say to me.
    I’m sorry.
    So he forced himself to talk. Babble, babble.
    Now, back in the kitchen, he had more vodka to soothe his mind and hands.
    They had gone to drive-in movies when there still were such things. They had gone to concerts in New York City, and to the ballet, and to broadway shows.
    They sat in their lumpy mezzanine seats.
    The performers cavorted, and sang, and played; performances; all performances
    All false.
    He went to the drive-in movies and the concerts and the ballet and the broadway shows.
    All false.
    Everything he did seemed all false.
    But she did love him. She had no idea. She honestly loved him.
    He writhed inside more violently as the years passed.
    And then the child had come. The child was beautiful. Still is today, all grown up now.
    He spoke on the phone to her this very morning. She asked where her mother was—her mother had gone to take care of her sister three states over, he told her. Her sister was—dying. Yes. Her sister was dying. She cared about people. She had taught him what caring meant. The accident had started it.
    You don’t even care the child was hurt, she had said.
    You don’t even care the child could have been killed.
    You don’t even care.
    You don’t even care—
    How do you show that you care? What was he supposed to do? His head spun. But he held on through the years. She had been right after all. She was always right.
    He learned to care.
    He was made a better person in spite of himself.
    Years passed with him a better person all alone in his skin and she being always right all around him; and with him writhing writhing inside.
    But she did love him. She had no idea. She honestly loved him.
    She was a good woman.
    He was the one.
    He was the problem.
    The child; the problem child, as he’d been to his father; as his father had said.
    He drank more vodka as visions of the thing in the cellar came and went in his mind. He had had it; he had had it with how he felt about her, and this thought made him chug back more vodka and he sat at the kitchen knowing the story about her sister would only go so far.
    Give me her number, would say the daughter.
    I don’t have it.
    What do you mean you don’t have it?
    What I said! I don’t have it—
    No! No! No! But that would be tomorrow, and tonight was right now; and right now is what mattered; how he’d feel tomorrow was of no importance; how he felt now was all-important. How he could hold up from moment to moment since the thing he’d done was done; tomorrow was years away. But he leaned back in his chair and thought; oh they had had good times; the child had brought moments of joy after all; but the years of silent writhing had turned to rages and the rages gripped him as they had his father. He had yelled, and yelled; and when he yelled, there was always a reason.
    God damn you! God damn you!
    Why don’t you listen to me!
    Why don’t you care!
    Any reason at all was good enough.
    God damn! echoed down through the years.
    But still she loved him. Still! She, and the child.
    And now, the grown child says I want to get in touch with my Mother!
    Maybe she’ll call you, he said, raising a hand. Or maybe she’ll call me. I’ll get the number then—
    Why did she go? There were no signs—
    She’s gone to visit—her sister’s sick. That’s it—her sister’s very sick.
    Her sister’s dying.
    Dying? She never said anything about Aunt Nora dying—
    I guess she just didn’t mention it—look. I don’t know what’s going on. She said she had to leave. So will you please now GET OFF MY BACK?
    She stormed out.
    Now he sat at the kitchen table, and he shed a tear. Being alone now; he never liked being alone in the house, but that would now be forever. He pulled out the pills that had been hers from his pocket and downed five, washing them down with more vodka; he sought oblivion, and gradually he got it. The cellar was fully blocked out now. The room tilted and spun slightly and he would now stop thinking of what the end had been like; his hands pushing, pushing, pushing her down—the pills and liquor had taken over now, and he was at last left alone to silently cry dry-eyed with no further thoughts of the thing in the cellar, under that floor forever now. The tears flowed inside only; deep down, she was a good woman, she was; she had loved him; she had truly loved him; regret filled him, he shuddered with tears, but; what was done was done. She had simply disappeared, would be the story; she had truly loved the wrong man, a sick man, and because of that mistake she simply disappeared in the end.
    He rose, faced the kitchen window hung full of night; his thoughts gone with the daylight, he went up to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.

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