|
Friday, July 2nd, 2010
Courtney peered into the rearview mirror and Michael was gone. She knew he hadn’t abandoned her, that he had only gone in to pay for the gas, but that kind of sudden disappearance grabbed her in a delicate spot in the lining of her stomach. And then just as suddenly, the thunk of the door opening and the huge, firing electricity of his presence. It was early in the morning, and she felt things more.
They had crossed into Colorado in the dark, so she was just beginning to see it, the hardness of it. They were on their way to Michael’s step-father’s funeral in Parker.
“All done?” she said.
“All done.”
Michael squeezed her hand with his strong, warm fingers. She liked it when her hand was taken suddenly, it relieved her of some stress she wasn’t aware of until it drained away.
When they were on the highway again, Courtney said, “I want you to stay awake.”
“Why do you need me to stay awake?”
“I stayed awake for you,” she said, though she could not account for long stretches of the night. She remembered trying to knit a scarf, and then simply thinking. Was she born the way she was, or was she warped by need? What would it be like to have a different name? She had finally said to Michael, “If you didn’t know me, what would you think my name was?” At first, Michael didn’t want to play the game, but when she persisted, wouldn’t let it drop, he said, “I would think it was Naomi.” But she knew that was his favourite name- his answer had nothing to do with
|
her.
She added, “I don’t like driving alone.”
“You’re completely capable of driving alone.” But Michael reached into the compartment between the seats and pulled out his Plutarch, Makers of Rome.
“What’s Plutarch talking about now?” Courtney said.
“Same old.”
Michael put the book face down in his lap. “I was just thinking,” he said.
“Thinking what?”
“That we’re going to be okay.”
“Are things not okay?”
“You know what I mean.”
A couple of weeks ago, Courtney told Michael that every decision she had ever made had been the wrong one, and that she didn’t know what the right ones were. The main decisions of her adulthood had been to earn a master’s degree in philosophy, to marry Michael, and to never bear children. She couldn’t say what was exactly wrong with her choices, only that she was beginning to feel buried. What she said was cruel, but Michael held her and let her grieve her mysterious grief.
“Do you believe me?” Michael said.
“I believe you,” she said, because it was the only thing to say. Though all of her decisions had been the wrong ones, she could not exist without Michael.
He began to read to her, what he did to stay awake. His voice was bold but sensitive, like someone reading on the radio. She was sure that if he had lived a thousand years earlier, he would have been an orator, wandering dusty streets, beloved of his followers.
***
They arrived at the motel in the middle of the afternoon.
Courtney turned on the television, found a tennis match, then sat on the end of the bed. There was the sound of water pouring into the tub--Michael always took a bath after car trips. Finally, the water stopped. The tennis match almost hypnotized Courtney.
“Courtney?” Michael called.
She waited for him to call her again.
“Courtney,” he called again. “Get in here.”
His voice pulled her to a standing position. She found herself stepping stiffly towards the bathroom.
|
