Part 2, Chapter 13 // Though I Make My Bed In Sheol

 The Honey Slope Golf Club was not perfect, but it was cheap and it would probably be available.  The dining room had been updated sometime in the mid-nineties and the facility boasted fully carpeted bathrooms.  He set his computer on Abby’s lap and rubbed his head, which had been throbbing all day.  

     “Here, let me take care of that,” she said, balling up her hoodie and placing it on the couch cushion against her hip.  She directed him to lay his head down, then gently stroked his forehead.  He sighed and closed his eyes.  

     “You’re the best,” he murmured.  “So, what do you think?” he asked.  “The website says they offer something called steamship round.  I don’t know what that is, but they’re really excited about it.” 

     “Is this what you did all day?  I thought you had a job or something.”  He glanced up at her and saw a smile.  She bent down and kissed his hair.  “I love it.  It’s very…” she paused and made a vague movement with her hands.

     “Not…nice?” 

     “It’s so bad, Jorgenson.  My sister would hate it.  It would be perfect.”  He grinned and settled his head back down.  

     “Wanna see?” Joule, attracted to the sound of their laughter, abandoned his Hot Wheels traffic jam and put a sticky paw on the computer.  He craned his neck around the screen.  “What dis?”  When he realized it wasn’t a cat video, he returned to his work. 

     “Do you actually think your parents would go for it?” he asked.  Abby sighed and closed the computer.  

     “If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about that right now.”  

     “Fine with me.”  

     A few silent minutes passed, and he could have fallen asleep like that, with her fingers stroking his head, with the sounds of Joule’s heavy, focused breathing, and the squeaks of Firefly’s chew toy in the final throes.  But he didn’t.  He found his hand clutching her knee, his fingers slowly tightening their grip as he breathed in her scent. 

     “Was she nice to you, Cass?”

     He stiffened.  His eyes fluttered open.  He stared at the weave of her jeans.  Long, perfect lines of variegated blues, the threads tightly knit, yet softened and white around her knees.  He smoothed his finger over the worn fabric.  

     “Don’t call me that, Abby.”

     “Well, was she?” 

     “You never call me that.  Call me Jorgenson.” 

     “Just tell me.”

     “Why do you want to know?  I don’t want to talk about her.  There—now we’ve both declared the topics we won’t discuss today.  Ask me how many pimples I’ve had.  I’ll talk about that.  I’ve had a lot.  On my back, mostly.  Your turn.”  

     “Jorgenson…what, you want me to tell you something embarrassing about myself?  Fine.  One time I ate a whole can of refried beans.”

     “What, with chips?”

     “Cold.  With a spoon.”

     “Oh, Rice,” he shuddered.  “Wait a second.”  He turned his face to look at her.  “And you had the audacity to say my mashed potatoes were chalky?”

     “Well, they were,” she insisted, her fingers resuming their gentle movement.  “Did she ever criticize your cooking?  I bet she didn’t.” 

     “Rice, for Pete’s sake…”

     “It occurred to me that I don’t know anything about her except that she was crazy enough to turn you down.  But it couldn’t have been all that bad, right?” He sighed and rolled to his back till he was looking into her face.  

     “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” She shook her head.  “Fine.  I never cooked for her.  It was the other way around, actually.  It’s sort of how we became friends.”

     “You never told me that.”  He shrugged.  “So she’s a good cook.  What did she make for you?  Roast beast?  Chicken cordon bleu?” She pronounced the French syllable with a cynical, Gallic flourish.  He laughed.  “Don’t tell me she made you pot pie.”  He smiled up at her.  Abby loved pot pie. 

     “The roast beast was pretty good.  But she never made me pot pie.” He caught a bit of her hair and separated it into three parts, weaving it into a braid and watching the different shades of dark and silvery blonde intertwine.  “You good now?  Do you believe that she didn’t hate me the whole time?”

     “Just wondering.  It’s hard for me to like someone who doesn’t appreciate you.”  He groaned and sat up, rubbing his face.

     “Rice, come on.  Who says you have to like her?  But you can’t really blame her for shooting me down back then.  Believe it or not, you’ve only known the slightly improved version of me.  I wasn’t exactly King Arthur.”

     “Well, nobody’s perfect, Jorgenson.  But did she like that you have bad taste in music?”

     “Bad?”

     “I didn’t want to tell you, but there was that time in the car you played me your favorite song.  I don’t remember what it was called, but it was like twelve minutes long, but we had just started dating, so I didn’t want to tell you how awful it was.”

     “You didn’t like Journey Through the Bosom of Time?  Didn’t I explain that it features frequencies captured from deep space?”

     “Of course you explained it to me! My question is, is she nerdy like that?  Would she have appreciated that?”

     “Nobody appreciates it,” he muttered darkly, clamping a pillow over his stomach.  

     “Well, would she have stroked your hair when you had a headache?”

     “I don’t know,” he snapped, remembering a specific time when Reagan had done exactly that.  She had also brought him a heating pad for his stomach that night he ate too much hot dish.  “Maybe, all right?  Rice, this is stupid.”

     “So she was nice to you!”

     “Yeah, fine!  She was nice.  She was sweet.  Wonderful.  But I really don’t see what this has to do with anything.  You’re the one here with me, so can we please drop it?”  Abby nodded and twisted a handful of her hair.  “Is this really what you wanted to talk about tonight?” 

     “I just wanted to make sure.”  She clamped a lock of her hair between her fingers and stroked it intently.  “I wanted to make sure.” 

     His ears began to buzz.  Joule spluttered imaginary motors with his lips.  Firefly whined at a squirrel outside.  But he wasn’t there.  He was looking at a scene, an act in a play.  He wasn’t there.  

     He took her hand and pressed it.  

     “Abby, I love you.”  He kissed her hand.  “I love you.”

     “I know you do, Jorgenson.”  She glanced at Joule on the floor and smiled.  Her eyes brimmed.  She sniffed.  Then she turned to him again.  When she spoke, he could only hear the faint silhouette of her words.  “I know you love me, but I love you, too.” 

     “Abby—,”

     “And I hate seeing you like this. I don’t want you to be miserable anymore.” 

     “I’m not miserable,” he insisted.  She scoffed gently and stroked his forehead.

     “I know you haven’t slept in weeks.  You always have a headache.  This whole thing is making you sick, and I can’t stand it.  I can’t stand it anymore.  Not while I can do something about it.”

     “Abby, no.  No.  This isn’t your decision to make.  It’s mine, and I’ve already made it.  I want to marry you!”

     “It’s not just your decision, Cass! Do you think you’re the only one who has been begging God to make this go away?  Do you think you’re the only one who has been trying to convince yourself that,” she paused and thrust a finger out the window, “that she doesn’t deserve another chance?  I’ve spent hours staring at the ceiling every night, trying to believe that I need you more than she does.  That Joule needs me, that you need me—and that God couldn’t possibly make anything good out of anything else.”  Firefly padded up to her and placed her muzzle on her thigh.  Abby wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie and stroked Firefly’s head.  She looked at him with a strange, tired smile.  “But we don’t get what we deserve.  For better or worse.”  

     The calm, mighty hand on his hair.  Please.  I have nowhere else to go.  

     Her desperate hand on his.  Please.  We have nowhere else to go.  

     “Abby,” he began, taking a ragged breath.  But he couldn’t speak.  He watched dumbly as she straightened and looked him in the eye with a brave smile.  Her gray eyes, pink and trembling, gleamed with purpose.  

     “Jorgenson—it’s not you, it’s me.”  Was she trying to be funny?  

     “Abby—,” he tried again, but she held up her hand.  She sniffed and dabbed her nose with her hoodie.  

     “It became clear you would never break my heart, so I will have to break yours first.  It’s not personal.  We just want different things.  You want to look at concept art from Lord of the Rings, and I want to play pickleball.”

     “I like pickleball.”

     “No, you hate it.  Speaking of which, you’ll never be able to shoot free-throws.  Your height is entirely wasted on you, and it’s a tragedy.  And that reminds me—you’re also a sore loser.”

     “Me? I’m a sore loser?”

     “You see—,” she paused didactically.  “If I hurt your feelings, you won’t like me anymore.  Is it working?”  

     “No.”

     “Then get ready for this one.  I’m moving.  Yes.  To Cleveland.  This weekend.” 

     “This weekend?  That’s two days from now!”

     “My cousin Faith lives there and she’s looking for a new roommate.  I can finish my degree out there, and I’ll be really busy, so I think we should see other people.”  

     “You can’t move.” She blew out an exasperated breath and shook her head.  Her eyes gleamed.  

     “Always trying to hold me back from my dreams, Jorgenson.  Don’t you want me to be a sports therapist or whatever?”  She smiled and gently scrubbed his unshaven chin.  “And I definitely need to move.”  He didn’t want to think about it.  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t imagine his life, or Grover, or Mercy, without her.  It was impossible.  He tried to nod and smile back, but his vision blurred.  “Jorgenson,” she said gently, kissing his forehead and lacing her hands behind his neck.  “Listen to me.  Please.  I want you to do this.  I really do.  I know that it’s the right—,” she hesitated and gazed at him with a defiant light in her eyes.  “It’s the best thing.  We both know it.  But that doesn’t mean I want to watch it happen.  It would be like watching my own bowel resection.”  He didn’t want to laugh but he did anyway.  She grinned.  “I thought if I tried to be funny, it wouldn’t hurt so bad.”  Her lips quivered, and her nose flared.  “Is it working?” 

     “No.” He gathered her into his arms.  They held each other tightly, both unwilling to let go.  

     “I need you to know that I really wanted to be Joule’s mommy,” she said into his ear.  “I need you to know that.”  He smoothed her hair as he clasped her head, lingering as the final moment approached.   

     “You already were, Abby.  You were his mother when he didn’t have one.  And you need to promise me something.”  He released her but took her face in his hands one more time.  “You are a gift.” Her gray eyes welled up again.  “And you will not let it go to waste.  Promise me?”  She nodded.  “That guy out there, whoever he is, has no idea how great his life is going to be.” He smiled as tears blinded him.  “Better than he deserves.”  

—

     Joule didn’t understand what it meant when Abby hugged him and whispered in his ear.  He didn’t watch her car recede into the distance or wave until she was out of sight.  He immediately turned back to the house, tromping through the grass in his yellow rubber boots, searching in the low evening light for snails.  His life continued, unbothered and unconcerned.  But Casper knew he would eventually notice her absence and ask where she had gone.  And he knew what he would say.  

     Let’s take a drive.

     He couldn’t stand to be in his house.  He went to his brother’s house as much as he could, and Nick and Rosa assured him it would be all right.  It was all right that he was heartbroken and sick to his stomach.  It was all right that he could not forget her, and that he had no wish to.  It was all right that he strapped Joule into his carseat, pulled into the road and headed for Route 218, south toward Cleveland, before he turned around and drove back home.  It was all right that he still couldn’t eat or sleep.  It was all right.  

     It was all right that he didn’t want to tell Reagan what he had decided because he would slam down the phone when he detected the slightest happiness in her voice.  It was all right that the thought of her elation at his own misery chilled his heart.  It was all right that he didn’t feel the slightest inclination toward her, even now.  It was all right.  

—

     Casper opened the draft again.  

     Hey

     Delete.

     Hey, Reagan —

     Delete.

     A warm May rain shower was tapping at the window.  He took a sip of coffee and glanced at an instant message from Brent.  

     hey, man – just got the rundown you sent.  looks great. thx.

     Firefly snored at his feet, and Joule munched an apple slice at his elbow.

     What could he say?   Where did he begin?  

     He thought of her gray eyes, gleaming with determination.  I love you.  I don’t want you to be miserable anymore.  I want you to do this.  

      He had taken the small velvet box out of his sock drawer.  He stared at it on his desk.  He had wanted to throw it away or bury it.  He couldn’t bear to sell it.  The idea of anyone else wearing it was impossible.  But he couldn’t part with it.  Not yet.  

      Reagan’s face was alien and stiff beneath the makeup.  I can tell you love her, and I think she must be the best girl in the world.  She had clasped her dragonfly necklace and twisted it around her fingers.  I’m so sorry. 

     He opened the drawer and pulled out the sketchbook.  He flipped to her portrait.  It was strange.  Like a spell.  As he studied the face, he recognized her again.  And himself.  The trepidation in the mouth, the exhausted eyes, the fearful brow, the humiliated shamelessness of being brought low once again, but daring to clutch the nearest hand and beg.  

     Deep, tender, scarlet-red wells in the calm, mighty hands.  

     Please.  I have nowhere else to go.  

     Follow Me.  

     And he had.  Limping along, poor and good for nothing, he had followed.

     Do the right thing.  His parents and his brother nodded to him.  Do the right thing.  

     Abby had squeezed his hand and run ahead.  Do the best thing.  

     —

     The sun was shining as he stepped out of Dad’s truck, which he’d borrowed for the occasion.  They were only taking what they needed.    He took a deep breath as he followed the weedy sidewalk to the house, with Joule babbling at his side, Boba cradled under his arm.  The porch was still sagging, though the newspapers had been cleared away.  The plastic toys and miscellany were gone, and in their place, cardboard boxes stood packed, labeled, and taped.  

     He had offered to help, but she had assured him she could do it on her own, and she had.  She had done it all with impressive efficiency, completing the task in four short weeks.  

     By the time he had finally picked up the phone to call her, the stalwart, June-blooming lilac in Mom’s yard was heavy with pale pink flowers.  

     After dreading the sound of her voice, he was surprised at how relieved he was to hear it.  Sometimes he forgot the circumstances of their renewed acquaintance, and spoke to her like a friend.  Indeed, she seemed to understand what he felt better than he did.  But when she tried again and again to say she was sorry, over and over, he begged her to stop.  

     Because he had never been alone.  Not for a moment.  The unsearchable light had pursued him, unrelenting.  Where you can go from My Spirit?  He had been pinned down and forced back to life.  The calm, mighty hand laid on his hair.  Follow Me.  The dust pitted with a thousand footprints.  He hadn’t been alone.  Not for a moment.  

    When he stepped on to the porch, the door opened.  Her hair was tied in a floppy bun.  She was carrying a box.  He could see it was heavy.  Her back was arched as she tried to move it.   He propped open the door with his foot and moved to take the box from her.  But she dropped it.  It thudded to the porch floor.  She looked to him, then to Joule.  Her lips shifted, but she didn’t smile.  She opened her mouth to speak.  From inside, Casper heard Mark’s raspy voice barking from the top of the stairs.  Reagan winced.

     “Be there in a minute, Dad,” she called behind her.  She turned to face them again.  “I’ve got all his stuff packed up, so he’s probably searching for his Dylan records or something.  How’s Boba doing, Joule?”  Good, Joule answered as he clutched Casper’s leg, peering cautiously at the strange house.  Reagan smiled, her gaze lingering on their son.  With a hesitant hand, she reached down to sweep his hair from his eyes.  

     “See? I told you he needs a haircut,” said Casper.  Reagan looked at him.  Her face was cleansed of makeup, unmasked and unhidden.  Pale, exhausted blue in the shadows of her face.  Faded, hopeful pink in her cheeks.  The tender, yellow warmth in the depths of her eyes.  It was good to see her again.  

     Before he could say another word, she leaned forward and sank her head against his chest.  Without a second thought, he took her in his arms.  As natural as breathing.  

     “Thank God,” she murmured.  “I was afraid till the last minute that you would change your mind.”

     “And let down your dad?  Come on, Ray.  We both know how much he wants to move in with me.” He felt her laugh.  He tipped her face toward his.  Green eyes.  Leaf green.  He smiled.  “Wait till you see the cotton candy castle I’ve got waiting for you.”   

Epilogue

     Outside, a harsh November wind clawed the plains.  Inside, the four women were swarming in the kitchen.  Mom rolled the plush, white dough into long, thin sheets, and Rosa layered it with a mixture of scallions, five-spice, and garlic.  She nudged Reagan with her elbow.  

     “Ray, did you say heaping ‘tablespoon’ or ‘teaspoon?’”  Reagan consulted the cookbook she had borrowed from the Grover Public Library.  

     “Tablespoon.”   

     Casper watched as Reagan deftly wrapped and twisted the dough into knots.  Joule sat at her feet, conducting a Duplo airplane across the linoleum runway.  It took flight, steadily gaining speed and altitude as it climbed Reagan’s leg.  She shrieked and jumped, being dangerously ticklish, before giggling and begging him to stop.  Joule grinned up at her with shy adoration.  

     Reagan placed two buns in a steamer basket and brought it to the stove.  Mama Reyes was expertly working the batches, and with good-natured envy, remarked on their sprawling countertops to Mom, who heartily agreed.  Mikayla and Charlotte, heads bent over colored pencils and computer paper, were arguing heatedly at the dining room table over which Pegulina Pony was most powerful.  In a pool of sunlight at their feet, Miss Stacy dozed on a Goobaloo Gully blanket, relieved to have a brief respite from Firefly’s friendly marauding.  

     Casper wandered into the living room, where Dad, Nick, and Dan were busy rooting against the Badgers.  Mark, a proud alumnus of the University of Wisconsin, detested football, yet he had not protested when Reagan and Casper installed him in his easy chair that morning.  He was enduring a particularly long episode — speaking little, eating less — but did not bark or swear.  Instead, he sat still and vague, with his hand stroking Firefly’s glossy coat over and over and over.  The good dog leaned her head against his leg and occasionally hooked her paw around his wrist.

     He felt Reagan’s arm around his waist, and he turned to see her offering him an exquisitely shaped bun in her open palm.  The white dough had been scored to reveal striations of scallion, then twisted into an intricate knot.  She always insisted on giving him the first of anything new that she made.  

     “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” He held it in his palm and studied it.  “What’s it called again?”

     “Hua juan,” she pronounced carefully.  “It’s Mandarin for ‘flower twist,’ or ‘knot,’ maybe.  I found a few differing translations,” she admitted.  He took a bite.  She twisted her silicone wedding band around her finger as she waited for his verdict.  He hadn’t told her that he was saving up for a real one.  For their first anniversary, eight months away.  

     Everything she made was good, but this was great.  He was about to tell her so.  At that moment, there was a loud grunt of frustration as Charlotte stormed away from the dining room table and slammed her bedroom door.  It wasn’t an unusual occurrence.  Each day, there was a new, bewildering development in Charlotte’s psyche which neither of them felt able to decrypt.  

     The next moment, both of their phones vibrated, prompting them each to remember Mark’s noon dose.  

     Her shoulders instantly sank.  She still hesitated to ask him for anything, still so accustomed to being on her own.  It never failed to smite his heart.  

     “I get the meds, you check on Charlotte?” he suggested.  She nodded.  As he turned to the bathroom to get the medicine, she caught his hand.  She looked at him shyly.  Amber freckles danced as she pressed her lips.  

     “What do you think of the hua juan?”  A red-gold wave tumbled down from her bun.  Her green eyes gleamed hopefully, knowing what he would say but still wanting to hear it.  He smiled and tucked the strand of hair behind her ear.

     “I love it.” 

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