by D.B. Gardner
The hall clock chimed five, and Ray Crider shuffled into the kitchen, through the laundry room, and out to the back porch. The stars to the east were beginning to fade, and Ray huffed at the air, frustrated and falsely energized, sharp quills of pride stabbing his stomach. Three months had passed since his retirement, yet he continued to rise each morning, shave and shower, and ready himself for the thirty-minute, bluff-lined drive to the gypsum plant before the realization hit.
A sliver of sunlight broke beneath the window shade, dusting Kate’s cheek as she rolled out of bed. She trundled into the front room and past Ray, seated in his chair at the south window, the county gazette in his lap.
“You’re up with the robins again, Mr. Crider,” Kate said, stepping into the kitchen. She returned minutes later with coffee and took the adjacent chair. “Watched the late game, didn’t you?”
Ray lipped his cup, cagey as a convict. “They blew it in extra innings. We’re nearly out of the playoffs.”
“All of this TV in the wee hours. Blue light affects your sleep patterns, you know?”
“Can’t help it. They’re playing on the West Coast,” he groaned.
Kate rummaged through a canvas bag and pulled out a pair of crochet hooks. “No golf today?” she asked, acutely aware of Ray’s ten a.m. tee time. He golfed every morning now, and when he came home, he either mowed the lawn, cleaned his guns, or washed the cars. This was his new summertime regimen, their winter counterparts being the bowling league, snow-blowing the driveway, and gun cleaning. The garden sundial was less predictable.
“Yes—at ten,” Ray grunted, his puffy face turned away. The coffee mug on his stomach heaved like a ship in a storm with each wheezy breath.
“You should play without an electric cart one of these times, you know,” Kate said as she began a new row. “A daily walk is the key to good health.”
Ray’s head flopped over, and he aimed one sour eyeball across. “Good health just means the lowest possible rate at which I can die?”
He was in a mood, and Kate decided not to engage him further. She completed a scarf, tied off the ends, and departed for work, grateful for her part-time job at Dent’s Pets. Six hours free of Ray’s vinegary disposition was pure bliss, though her new position came with a few trade-offs. After twenty-three years as a small-town librarian, Kate had learned to appreciate a certain level of quietude, which didn’t match well with the ceaseless cacophony of the pet shop and its array of odors, awakening her senses in unimagined ways. And Mrs. Dent, the owner’s elderly mother, had a coarse way with the animals. A shipment of hairless guinea pigs once got loose from their crates, and Grandma Dent chased them into a corner with a corn broom, sending the creatures into a frightened frenzy while the employees gathered them up.
“She’s a one-woman circus attraction of aggravation,” Kate told her friend Jenny over the phone. “She raps on the walls of the hermit crab tank, shakes the hedgehog shelters, and menaces the geckos. Why, in the blue blazes, she’s so determined to agitate those adorable little iridescent reptiles is beyond me—raking her nails back and forth along the grate until they lunge and hiss.”
“And you were so excited to get the job,” Jen said.
Kate heard a metallic flick on Jen’s end of the line. “I thought you quit?” Kate said.
“I did—I mean, I am. I found a partial pack in the glove box the other day and wanted to finish them off; that’s all. But never mind about that. I called because I’m going to be ten minutes late. Can you go inside and grab a table?”
A hermit’s stew of dread and envy accompanied Kate to their monthly ritual meal, simmering at a low boil in Kate’s midsection. Jen was twenty years younger with a size 8 figure, an unreserved, self-indulgent former head-turner whose hair color changed with the seasons. She and Jen were as mismatched as a cat and a bird, but had forged a unique bond during the bleak times they’d gone through together at the library.
Dinner was at Lonnie’s, one of the last holdouts in a downtown littered with boarded-up storefronts offering discounted lease agreements. Kate angle-parked the car and went inside. The room was a beehive of whispered midwestern conversations, the sobering din of their whistle-ended words caroming off the tin ceiling as the hostess led Kate through the dimly lit eatery. Kate selected a slice of stale toast from the bread basket and began to peruse the tea-stained menu, hearing the unmistakable clomp of Jen’s boots behind her.
Jen slid into the booth and shed her overcoat as the waitress returned. “Bloody Mary, double,” Jen announced. “Katy-bug, great to see you, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this dump.” She lifted a tube of hand sanitizer from her purse, wiped a dollop onto her palm, and slid it across.
“Pretty sure I’ve had these germs my entire life,” Kate said, declining.
“Yeah? Well, the world doesn’t come and go with the county fair. There might be somebody in this very room who has traveled to exotic places like—Topeka!”
The waitress arrived with Jen’s drink. “Just the double bloody, or do you gals want to eat?” She nudged a ballpoint pen from her hair bun and wetted the tip with her tongue.
Kate sniffed the air. “Do I smell lasagna?”
“Two orders of lasagna, then?” the waitress said as she scribbled.
“None for me,” Jen said. “Bret always got the lasagna here. Gave him gas for a week. No offense. I’ll have a chef’s salad. Low-cal ranch.”
“Not like you to keep it light,” Kate said. “What diet is it this time?”
“It’s called—I met someone at the university mixer?” Jen said, nibbling on a dill spear.
“Ooh—fresh tidbits. Is he younger or older?”
“Younger. But only by a couple of years—okay, three and a half.”
Kate made a figure-eight with her straw like a fairy godmother’s wand. “If you drop a size, you can fit into your old clothes, and voila, you’ll save money.”
“It’s not just the diet. This is a lifestyle change, like a boxer who wants to break into a lower rank.” Jen punched the air. “Time for my big comeback.”
“It’s been, what, three months?”
“You mean since loser-boy-Bret ran off to Wichita with that stripper?”
“I thought you said she danced in the ballet?”
“Tomato-tomahto,” Jen said, levitating above the Bloody Mary. “I’m so into Frank. We were destined to meet. It was kismet.”
“That’s what you said about B. R. E. T. Word for word.”
“Hey. I was stupid back then. Bret is a borderline control freak.”
Kate sat forward. “How so?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Throw dirt on his grave,” Kate said, glancing about nervously. “It’s a woman’s birthright.”
“Well, for one, he never let me drive. Anywhere.”
“Didn’t he own one of those fancy sports cars?”
“Two, actually, a Jag and a Porsche. But I wasn’t allowed to so much as touch the gear stick—let alone drive one.”
“You sure it wasn’t all those gouges in your sedan?”
“No, wiseass. Driving was part of his routine. Monday bowling, Wednesday poker, Thursday golf—taking the car out for a spin on Saturdays. If and when we took a vacation, it always centered around one of his tiresome habits.” Jen dusted her drink with ground pepper.
“I recall you going to the Lyric Opera in Kansas City once, a couple of years back.”
“Because he was boinking the dance instructor.”
Kate’s eyebrows seesawed. “I thought you broke up because he cheated with a waitress.”
“Sucker me—never caught on. He’d been seeing them both for years.” Jen put a finger gun beside her temple and fired. “They’re all fucking cheaters, Kate. Don’t trust a one of them.”
As Kate cut into the lasagna, she considered the prospect of Ray—her Ray—involved with another woman. It was too absurd to imagine. She shook her head to clear the etch-a-sketch. “Since when did you become so jaded?” she said.
“Not jaded, baby, ed-u-cated. There’s no husband number three—until I get a handle on me,” Jen said and bit her lip. “Look, this is how I see it. A man is like a cube, six sides outside and six on the inside. All the physical stuff is outside—hunky, ambitious, blah-blah-blah, a you-pick-em-name for those six sides. But a cube, like most men, is hollow. So on the inside, those same attributes might be wimpy, lazy, and so forth.”
“Deep. Twelve sides, but opposites, like a mirror.”
“Right, and number thirteen is the entire outside of the cube—the whole of the man. How someone appears to a third person, so to speak.” Jen made air quotes. “And the fourteenth side is the inside of the cube, the metaphysical, a slice of magic. I want all fourteen sides in a soul mate—not my fault, I haven’t found him. I’ve sure been looking.”
“I’m lunching with Deepak Chopra, though I can’t say I’m surprised, given your new job at the university. All those big ideas.” Kate reached across the table for her friend. “I miss our talks. Why’d you move to stupid Lawrence?”
“The better question is, why didn’t I move there five years ago when I first had the chance? The KU Library is the best in the Midwest,” Jen said, wilting with pride. “Dammit, I miss you too. It’s just—Chris and I went through that messy divorce, and when you retired, I ran out of reasons to stay.” She released Kate’s hand. “Let’s not spend our entire lunch on my double-wide life. How goes your retirement—now that Ray’s joined the club?”
“You know, Ray. Yesterday, he rearranged my pots and pans and shadow-boarded each one,” Kate said, issuing a fractured chuckle. He was always a restless sort, but it’s worse than ever now. I don’t dare leave the house for fear of what he might try to improve.”
Jen stabbed at her salad. “You know, if you’d have shot him the first year you were married, you’d already be out of prison, and our lunch conversation might concern itself with important issues for a change.”
“Sure,” said Kate, a dimple forming on her cheek, “like the terms of my parole.”
“I didn’t mean it in the literal sense.”
“You and Ray never saw eye to eye.”
“My point exactly. He never makes eye contact—won’t sit still for a normal conversation. And all that toxic productivity. Doesn’t it ever bother you?”
“Absolutely. He has faults, but he’s my husband. You didn’t know him back when we were first dating. Those broad shoulders, driving around in an orange Camaro with fat black stripes on the hood. Like a tiger on the prowl.” Kate clawed at the air.
“A tiger, huh? Didn’t you also say he came unhinged when his favorite rock guitarist came out as bisexual?”
“Not just any guitarist,” Kate said, frowning, “the leader of his favorite band ever, The Who. Ray threw out every one of their albums. It was a somber day.”
Jen’s laughter faded, noticing Kate didn’t join in. “Oh, shit,” said Jen, “I apologize. I’m so cruel. Hell—he’s your husband, for cripes sake. What’s wrong with me?” She wiped the table with her napkin. “I’ll give Ray kudos. Despite all his faults, at least he never cheated on you.”
“Fidelity is a central tenet of our marriage. I’ll put up with a lot, but never adultery.”
“Well—if I struck a nerve, good. You’re alive. Stay alive, sweetie, and with any luck, your openness will someday rub off on the miserable creature you married. He can’t hide in the 1950s forever. I mean, why so uptight?” Jen said, signaling for the check. “Sex-schmex. It’s no different than when I was young. Hell—Becky Reedhoun tried to feel me up at a tenth-grade sleepover.
“No way.”
“Oh yeah. At first, I didn’t know what to think. But I wasn’t offended. I just sort of pushed her away. Nobody’s fault. She wanted to explore, I guess. Show me a red-blooded woman who’s never been attracted to some—I don’t know—fashion model in a magazine, and I’ll show you a study in repression.”
Kate felt a glow in her cheeks. “What’s this got to do with Ray?”
“Uh—just about everything.” Jen sighed. “Better to associate with like-minded souls, people who accept one another, converge over ideas, socialize, and share themselves. Ray’s always been so—restive.”
“Wound up tighter than a ten-day clock. That’s what his mother said.”
The drive home from the restaurant went by in a blur as Kate struggled to untangle her thoughts. Jen’s unfiltered guile was laughable at times. This time, her blunt observations struck too close to the mark. Their relentless candor had exposed an area of scar tissue. It demanded examination—the empty years with Ray, his emotionless neglect. Those seeds of loneliness, rooted in disappointment, had thickened over time, their fruit ripening into resentment.
The garage door was open when Kate pulled into the drive. Ray’s royal blue golf bag sat nestled against the bumper of his car as though waiting for a cocktail. Kate heard the familiar whoosh and grunt sound coming from the backyard. Ray was driving range balls into a rug slung over a clothesline. She stood in the rear door and watched his pear-shaped body load tee after tee, swinging with such unvaried precision. With each follow-through, the apricot sun balanced atop his crewcut like a galactic range ball.
Perhaps he hadn’t seen Kate or had chosen not to acknowledge her; it was hard for her to tell these days. As she stepped inside, a buzz went off in her purse. She dug around for her phone. No message. The noise sounded again. It came from Ray’s phone on the kitchen table. Kate glanced at the screen—a text from Bobby Rigardi, Ray’s long-time friend. ‘We’re on for Saturday. Can’t wait for you to meet Brandy and Ruby.’
Kate glared into the dim blue glow and reread the text, then trained her eyes on Ray as he hit his last ball, picked up the mess, and traipsed toward the garage. She grabbed the “my wife is hotter than my coffee” mug she’d bought Ray on their last anniversary—jettisoning the phone onto the counter—and began scrubbing it with a dishrag. They hadn’t kissed in more than four months. Could this be true? The question dangled inside Kate’s head; the romance paralleled their sex life, both airy phantoms of their former selves.
Ray crowded into the doorway. “Kind of late in the day for coffee,” he said, wiping his driver with a towel.
“Yep, kind of late,” Kate said, and she stomped away into the bathroom. Ten minutes passed, and there was a knock at the door, followed by Ray’s flat voice on the other side.
“I gotta meet Bobby at the trading post to load up on birdshot. We’ll grab a bite somewhere—back in a couple of hours,” he said.
“Good. Go,” Kate replied, knowing he hadn’t waited for permission.
Silence engulfed Kate’s car the entire twenty-two-mile stretch to Wamego. She wasn’t sure she’d find Ray, but intuition said she’d surprise him if she did. On this, she’d bet her last egg. Never once had she checked on his whereabouts, the liar, the cheat, the sonofabitch. He had no reason to veil his deceit. As she waited at a traffic light, Kate’s GPS bing-bonged— the Baldwin Brothers Trading Post was two miles out. She was keen to recall Ray’s euphoria upon discovering the firearms outlet had opened a satellite store in Wamego last month.
A deserted Circle K on the opposite corner hovered at the lip of the prairie like a way station for westbound gypsies. Across the street, a half-lit sign flashed alive—Wam_g_ Mot_r Lodge—the shabbiest of the three motels in town and, true to form, the adjacent lot was empty save a pair of eighteen-wheelers, a dented sedan, and—Ray’s pickup.
The signal turned green. A horn honked. Paralyzed by outrage, Kate’s foot released the brake pedal, and she coasted into the gas station. An hour’s surveillance passed while Kate pondered the faint glimmer of Venus on the eastern horizon. She ventured into the convenience store for a soda. On the way out, she spotted a couple locked in an embrace under the pale orange glow of the motel lamppost closest to Ray’s truck. The young woman threw her head back, and beddable curls of honey-gold hair shook free of her cowgirl hat as it tumbled off.
A horse will always find its way back to the barn—with or without a sober cowboy. Kate first heard the adage from her grandfather but never experienced it firsthand until she woke up alone in her driveway, the front seat tilted back, one arm draped over her face to block the blue haze of the mercury lamp. The raw emotion was there with her in the car. This was no gathering storm; it had already arrived. She’d given Ray thirty-plus years of her life, and in exchange, got what? A rogue indiscretion. A one-off, as he was sure to insist. What a bitter pill she’d have to swallow if she stayed. To conceal the indignation and hurt, suffering through this irreparable breach of unity, all the while.
The decision plagued her heart, a sadness that rose to the surface and boiled off as anger. This made it easier—sadness is real. And from the ruins of rage, a verdict was returned. Kate exited the car and walked toward her house, trying to ignore the vinca vine along the sidewalk, the azaleas in hand-painted flowerpots on the stoop, the ivy up the half-brick front, the very earth in which her hands had toiled.
When she and Ray failed to conceive in the first decade of their marriage, life settled in, and foolish notions of middle-aged pregnancies surrendered to more pragmatic discussions: mortgage refinance, backyard gazebos, a kitchen remodel, pension plans, a new bass boat. Forty came and went, and as Kate became more familiar with Ray’s ticks, she found herself privately relieved at their inability to produce offspring. Ray was never entirely on board with the idea, so a child might only have worsened this already horrible day.
Rather than brood, Kate carried suitcases from the basement to the second-floor bedroom and started to pack. She’d spend a few nights in a hotel, decompress with a bottle of wine, have a long conversation with a friend or two, enough time to clear her head, and then return to gather what mattered. As she rolled her luggage into the kitchen, Ray wandered through the side door, and their confused eyes met.
“Don’t utter a word,” Kate said, fisting her pockets. She leaned back on the counter. “My heart is made up.”
Ray laid his cap on the sink and edged closer. “I don’t understand. Haven’t I paid enough attention lately? You should have said so. I told you you should take up quilting or a step class. You used to love that shit. It was your social outlet.”
Kate wheeled the suitcases between them. “Correct, as usual, Ray. I’ll try to be more like you. You seem to have plenty of social outlets.”
A knurl formed on Ray’s browline, the one he got when life didn’t go his way. “What in the hell could you possibly—?”
“It means I know all about Brandy. Or is—Ruby—your new bed buddy?” Kate said, tapping her forehead. “Holy shit, Casanova—it’s probably both.”
“How the hell do you—?”
“You’re cell phone buzzed. I saw the text from Bobby.”
The veins in Ray’s neck swelled, and he rooted his phone from his back pocket and pecked away like a mad rooster. Then he shoved the screen showing a pair of German Shorthaired Pointers at Kate. “There, you ignorant cow. Meet Brandy and Ruby.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” She swept his phone away. “Hunting—as your alibi?”
“I never mentioned a hunt. I went out there to meet Bobby Rigardi’s new dogs, Brandy and Ruby. He bought them for quail season.” Ray started pacing the floor. “Jesus, Kate—I can’t believe you’d call me out on this. You with your college degree—you’re mindless as a turtle.”
Kate snatched Ray’s phone — ‘Say hello to the new girls, Brandy and Ruby’—read the caption.
“You owe me an apology,” said Ray.
“But—?”
“But what? You snooped, saw my text, and got jealous. Come on. Say you’re sorry, and all is forgiven,” Ray said, moving a suitcase away.
“Dogs aren’t what I saw.”
“Jealous little kitten,” Ray chanted as he inched closer.
“Ray. Stop!” Kate shouted. “Who was that woman you were with at the motel in Wamego tonight? I saw your truck. Say what you want about Brandy and Ruby being Bobby’s dogs, but I saw you kiss her outside a motel—for chrissakes, Ray!”
Ray threw his hands in the air. “You made this up. You never go to Wamego.”
“The Motor Lodge, across from the Circle K. I saw the two of you next to your truck. How long has this gone on?”
Old lady Dent took the last drag of her cigarette, the umbra of smoke surrounding the woman with an otherworldly glow as Kate pulled into the store’s back lot.
“Happy holidays,” Kate called, climbing from her car. She rushed forward and scooped the woman up by the elbow. “Let’s go inside. See what’s new.”
“Yes—the tarantulas have started to mate,” Mrs. Dent noted.
With Kate working extra hours to cover the rent on her new apartment, her relationship with Mother Dent was on the mend. The initial shock of the woman’s antics had worn off, and Kate was more accustomed to her eccentricities. Mrs. Dent hurried into the store to the terrariums and tapped the glass, urging the massive spiders into an aggressive posture. Kate stood silent at her side. The peevish woman failed to provoke the drowsy arachnids, and her bony arms sagged at her side.
“See—even they like you,” Kate said.
“The females don’t always kill their mates?” she whispered through a sickly smile. “If the sex isn’t good, they have another go, then she ends it. The male instinct is its ultimate torment. Nature always finds a way to even the score.”
Kate weighed the comment, knowing she hadn’t shared the details of her breakup with anyone at work—that she could remember. The store bell jingled, and Kate stepped out front. A deliveryman stood in the entryway, holding a square box in one hand and a long, narrow one in the other.
“Urgent package for Mrs. Ray Crider,” he announced.
Kate signed the tablet. “Robin’s Floral this time,” she said to herself. The kid laid the packages on the counter and left, and Kate opened the larger box, unsurprised to find a trio of long-stem roses inside. The door chimed again, and Jen burst through.
“What on earth?” Kate said, hugging her friend.
“I took an E-day. First one this year,” Jen said. “Besides, I don’t need a formal invitation to visit my hometown, do I?” She handed Kate a potted plant covered with sharp spikes. “For your new apartment. It’s a barrel cactus. To replace the old prick you just got rid of.”
Jen noticed the roses in the long box. “Ooohhh—a secret admirer? Already?”
“They’re from Ray. Along with the chocolates.”
“No shit.” Jen plopped her purse onto the counter. “What’s the card say?”
“I’ll change Friday night poker to Thursday if you come home,” Kate said, reading the message. “Twenty-three days straight. It must be costing him a bundle. Good—the miser. He didn’t spend this much money on our last dozen anniversaries combined.”
“You not about to—”
“Reconcile? No way. I haven’t answered his phone calls either. I will, soon enough. But not yet, anyway. There’s no harm in letting him bleed a little,” Kate said. She glimpsed Mrs. Dent standing partway out of sight in the corner, peering through the parakeet cages, and the two shared a smile.
“So, what happens with all these gifts?” Jen asked.
“I’ll drop the flowers with Rasheeda at the retirement home. As for the candy? I might eat one, then toss the rest. Who needs the sugar?”
“Excellent. Looks like it’s paid off.”
Kate patted her stomach. “Think so? I’m down twenty pounds.”
“Skinny as a new bride,” Jen said, shouldering her purse. “I have errands to run. But how about lunch at Lonnie’s after? It’s been three weeks.”
“Sure. I’m finished at one,” said Kate. “Let me go home and change, and I’ll meet you there. My treat.”
That afternoon, Kate gathered all the empty floral and candy boxes from her apartment and tossed them into her car. She drove across town to what was soon to be Ray’s house—once he paid Kate for her half—and stacked the cartons in a great pile on the front porch. She jotted off a note but, after a while, crumpled the page, unable to boil Jen’s empty box metaphor into a concept he might comprehend. Such exquisite nuance would be lost on someone as shallow as a birdbath. Ray could never admit how much self-reflection he needed, being a hunter, a man of conquest. To him, anything less is a path to extinction. So, in its way, this little display became Kate’s final bon voyage. She’d found a snug bungalow a few blocks from downtown and a short walk from work, with a window for her barrel cactus and potted azaleas.
D. B. Gardner’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Sagebrush Review, New Limestone Review, Windmill: The Hofstra Journal of Art & Literature, Wordrunner eChapbooks, Black Fox Literary Magazine, South 85, and elsewhere. Nominations for literary awards include the Grist ProForma Prize, the Letter Review Fiction Prize, and the Leapfrog Global Prize for short-story collections.