—Do what?
—You didn’t do it and that’s all right. That’s fine, darling. We will get through. We will manage. Come, sit by me, my life. Let’s eat a nice dinner and see a funny movie.
He had a drink in one hand and a book in the other. William Carlos Williams, Spring and All. His hair was rumpled. There were green stains on his collared white shirt.
—Lenny, I think you’re confused.
—Yes, and I’ve confused you. I’m a terrible man, Lenore, and I don’t deserve our life. Come close to me, my body. My woman in blue.
I worked for a few months at a supermarket in Utah, sealing chicken breasts in plastic. My boss was a man in a cowboy hat and a bolo tie. He always had his hands in his pockets. He went crazy one day and shot his wife in the neck. Of course, these things don’t happen one day. It was likely brewing for months, but how could I have noticed, sealing chickens and not looking at the clock for chunks of time so that I might be pleasantly surprised at how much of it had passed. But when the police came and they started asking questions, I recalled how my boss had several times called me Shelley: Shelley, we need more breasts on the cooler, and transfer yesterday’s into the discount section. I never corrected him. I hadn’t seen the point at the time.
—Lenny.
—Love?
—Leonard, I said. I’m not Lenore. I think you’re having an episode.
I said this calmly. I watched his mind return to his body. As reality crept in, his color faded. His face drooped and he appeared a decade older.
He looked around the room, realizing it was his old house and that he didn’t live there anymore.
—Oh God.
—It’s all right. Why don’t you sit back down, I’ll get you a glass of water.
—Jesus. I’m embarrassed. I’m so embarrassed.
—Don’t be.
—Grief does strange things to you.
—I can only imagine.
—It’s awful. One day someone is screaming at you for how you’re driving. The next day you’re free.
I brought him warm tap water in a dusty glass.
—On top of the grief, he said, there are also the drugs I did in my youth.
—What sorts?
—LSD. Mescaline. Peyote. And on. They make me lose my mind for a stretch. Here and there.
I thought of the groceries I’d bought on the way home, the milk warming out there in the heat. This second child’s death had twisted my intestines. Going to grocery stores was one of the best ways I knew to calm myself. The clean, cool aisles. Everything was brightly lit at any time of day.
—Do you mind, Lenny, I have to get my groceries from the car. I’ll be right back.
—Let me get them. Let me be a gentleman so I don’t feel like an embarrassment.
—No. Stay.
It was almost four and I decided to cook him dinner. I had many fresh vegetables and they wouldn’t all fit in the fridge.
In the beginning I cooked for Vic all the time in my apartment. You shouldn’t do that. If you cook for a man, and you cook very well, as I did, they will think you belong to them. The truth was I was always practicing for a man I might actually love. Big Sky, for example. With every crisp quail I roasted for Vic I was perfecting my technique for Big Sky. There would be long oak tables set for Thanksgiving in his deluxe lodge in the mountains. There would be twigs and pinecones strewn about, no tablecloths, and fresh sparkling water with twists of lime.
Lenny sat on one of my modern barstools, which were out of place in that rustic hovel. He watched me mince garlic. My mother minced garlic very quickly, so fast I would always check that all her fingers were still there when she was done. I took my time. Unlike her, I didn’t have a child at my knee and a husband on his way home.
But this time I minced sloppily. I nearly sliced my finger. My mind was on that phone call. I hadn’t thought about the people Vic left behind, not enough, anyway, until I heard her voice. When you’ve suffered as much as I have, you begin to see everything in perspective. You know exactly the ways in which people will move on and you know that they will laugh again. It makes their present suffering seem prosaic.
—What are you making?
—I’m sautéing broccoli with garlic, red pepper flakes, and bread crumbs.
—Sounds spicy.
—Are you one of these old men who can’t tolerate spice?
—You have some cruelty in you.
Let me tell you: men love cruelty. It reminds them of every time their fathers or mothers didn’t think they were good enough. Cruelty looks better on a woman than the perfect dress.
—How about gluten? Salt? How’s your heart?
He knocked his chest.
—Strong, he said. A few things I have are still strong.
I knew he meant between his legs. I wanted him to know that there was nobody left in the world who would fuck him.
We opened a bottle of wine. Garlic skipped in the pan. When I tossed the thick stalks of the leek, Lenny said, You can tell the worth of a woman by how much food she wastes. There were moments like that when I wanted to strangle him. And then he would compliment me, tell me my hair was like onyx, or reach with an old arm to fill my glass.
I asked about Lenore because it soothed me to hear people talk about love like it was real. I want you to know about Lenore, about the women who men make you feel are better than you. I want you to know about everything I may not be able to teach you.
Lenny was happy to oblige. They’d known each other only a month before he asked her to marry him, and the wedding was two weeks later. He went on about their honeymoon in Anguilla. Snorkeling
