A Good Cry

Here was a man that knew her heart, and all the places where it was cracked and bruised.  He knew all the secret stories, had done his part through her grief.  She knew he was a good man. There were no obstacles between them. There was nothing.

Grace arrived as usual, right at suppertime.  Carved hot dogs, shells and cheese, and canned veggies.  Green beans were the flavor of the night, judging by the hue of the infant's face.  Sweet little Benny was now testing the durability of the flatware, while Bobby, on the verge of kindergarten, carefully stacked green logs to be hauled away and consumed as a whole. Elvis the golden retriever was the self appointed janitor of the feast.  She found Carl in the kitchen preparing his own dinner, but her appetite remained silent. 

Grace wouldn't put down her bag until she had reached the bedroom.  Behind the door, she went to the bathroom and shut herself in.  For a full minute she stared at her reflection, expressionless.  What was it she had been trying to remember? Her mind was a fog, and she was lost in it. The splash of icy water took her breath away.  It had done the trick.  She remembered the woman in the mirror was Grace, who smiled.  Small hands pounded on the outer gate.  Still secure in her refuge, she sat and swiped a thumb across her phone.

Carl left the living room as she entered it, Benny pursuing him at a crawl and bawling when separated. She attended to her children, and their stickiness.  Bath time, then pajama time, then quiet  time before the TV.  Still he sat in the lingering summer light, smoking an endless cigarette. Bells of celebration rang deep in her mind at the arrival of bedtime.  She tucked the children in bed, turned on the hall light, and poured herself a drink.  There had been no need to bother Carl. If the weathered rocking chair was his island, then she was a native of the mainland, a gray-green sofa that looked cleaner than it was.  The cushions welcomed her form.  A near silent hum filled the air along with the blue light of the screen. She felt the familiar numbness begin to settle into her bones. 

After a while, Carl came in.  He asked her again if she'd read his blog.  She felt her inside tangle and knot.  She said she had tried to, but kept being interrupted.

"I was planning on reading it before bed, that way there are no distractions". Grace wasn't a great liar, but his reaction was controlled.  How had it gotten this far?

She went to bed alone, he wandered noncommittally from room to room.  In the silent darkness, she decided it was safe. Grace tried to open the floodgates in her mind, but the waters remained locked away from her.  When sleep wouldn't come, she scrolled through articles and lists until they blurred. Carl's text popped up in front of the 29 worst red carpet looks, pursuing her.  Apparently he wasn't going to let go of the issue, so she typed in the address of his online journal.

There was a poem there, in Carl's meandering style.  It was called "My Grace".  She felt an ache in her throat. He had been distant, hadn't he?  Wasn't it his decision to stay at home with the kids while she continued advancing? Carl had never been great with spoken words, but here was a man who lay his heart bare before her.  The hopeful words became hard to read, and the dam splintered in her mind.  Ancient tidal forces churned and she felt the oncoming rush of emotion like wind blown ahead of a storm.

Her abs were sore and her face swollen as she rose to find him, but she had a deep sense of relief warm inside her bosom.  He met her in the kitchen, and held her without a word. She curled her hands around his shoulders.  They stood there for a long time.  At last, they were alone together.