We pass through tiny beach communities, interspersed by stretches of lonely highway. The sea stays mostly hidden behind the wall of dunes that crowds the right side of the road.
Half a tank of gas remains. I never want to stop. I could drive like this for eons, putting mile after mile between us and that stone house on the sound and the things we did today on Portsmouth. I wonder if Vi feels like I do—like we’re the only two souls on the face of the Earth who’ve been told this awful truth.
# # #
Traversing the bridge over Oregon Inlet, the beam from the Bodie Island Lighthouse becomes visible, projecting its luminescence out to sea. My thoughts turn briefly to Karen.
# # #
The beach has been practically paved in Nags Head, and the dunes of Jockey’s Ridge, tallest on the East Coast, resemble snow hills in the moonlight.
I pull into the parking lot of a Motel 8.
'All right if we stay here tonight?' I ask, first words spoken since Ocracoke.
'Yeah.'
I walk into the office and request a room with double beds.
There’s only one vacancy left. It has one king-size bed.
We’ll take it.
I park in front of our room and give Vi a keycard.
Light from a supermarket and a burger joint shines in full bloom across the street.
'I’ll go get us some dinner. What do you want?'
'Nothing.'
'You’re a fuckin’ rail, Vi. I’m getting you something. Might as well tell me what.'
# # #
I cross Highway 12 and walk into Wendy’s.
'Can I get for you there tonight, sir?' asks the plump and smiling cashier.
I don’t remember how to talk to these kind of people.
# # #
I carry the greasy white bags into Harris Teeter, not that I intend to buy anything. It’s a compulsion. I can’t think of anyplace more ordinary and safe than the mopped, generic brightness of a supermarket. We’re at home among things, items, products, goods for sale. I want elevator music and strangers squeezing produce and price checks over the intercom.
# # #
The magazine rack is riddled with important news I haven’t heard in nine months. Smug celebrities watch me browse. None of it means a goddamn thing anymore.
# # #
On the wine aisle, I walk by three young women stocking up on Andre’s champagne.
I eavesdrop.
There’s a bonfire somewhere on the beach tonight.
They’re going to get wasted.
Going to get fucked.
They smell like cigarettes and energy.
# # #
Vi is sitting in bed nursing Max when I walk into the room, a romantic-comedy on the television. I set the bags of food on the table.
'Can I bring you yours?' I ask.
'He’s almost done.'
I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare at the TV screen.
She lays Max, gorged and sleepy, at the foot of the bed on a towel surrounded by pillows. I grab the white bags, and we have a fast-food feast on the bed.
When Vi finishes, she says, 'I want to take a shower. Watch Max for me?'
'Sure.'
She walks into the bathroom, closes the door. I turn off the television and move over to the window. Peeking through the curtains into the parking lot, I check on the car, see the dunes of Jockey’s Ridge State Park glowing more brilliantly than before.
Vi gasps in the bathroom.
I rush to the door.
'Everything okay?' I call out.
No answer, only sobs.
'I’m coming in, Vi. I’m coming in.'
I open the door slowly, giving her a chance to cover up in case she’s naked.
She’s slumped over against the sink, jeans on, T-shirt and bra in a pile on the floor.
'Vi, what’s wrong?' She shakes her head. 'Tell me.'
She straightens up, faces me, forearms hiding her milk-swollen breasts, and taps her right shoulder, taps the purple-yellow bruise the shotgun made when it bucked against her nine hours ago.
I step into the bathroom, wrap my arms around her bare back.
'Why don’t you take a bath, huh? I’ll run some water.'
'My clothes smell like that house.'
'We’ll wash them in the bathtub later. Here, sit down.'
As she takes a seat on the toilet, I kneel down, close the drain, and turn the hot water knob.
'How warm do you want it?'
'Very.'
I crank the cold water knob, get the mix just right.
'Check on Max, will you?'
I crack the door. Corralled by pillows, the infant sleeps, a stuffed dolphin at his side.
'He’s fine. Call if you need anything.'
'Stay with me, Andy.'
'You sure?'
'Just close your eyes for a minute.'
I turn my back, listening to her jeans unzip and slide down her thighs. She steps into the bathtub, eases down in the water.
'Okay, I’m in.'
I take a seat on the toilet.
Vi sits close to the faucet, her legs drawn up into her chest, arms wrapped around her knees.
'This feels so good,' she says. 'I haven’t had a bath in…I don’t know how long.'
She bats the running water into her chest.
Her legs glisten, unshaven for months.
'I’ll pour water on your back if you like.'
'Be great.'
I tear the wrapper off one of the plastic cups on the sink. Kneeling down on the floor beside the tub, I fill the cup and drizzle hot water over her back.
Her skin turns to gooseflesh.
I do this for awhile and then she lifts her hair off her back and says, 'Would you pour some on my neck?'
Feels good to please her.
I ask why she hasn’t called her husband.
'Andy, I feel like I’ve just come home from war. You know what I mean?'
'Yeah.'
I drop the cup in the water, run my fingers through her hair.
'And I’m not sure how to go back. All the drugs, the hypnosis, those terrible movies we watched—what if
