He grabbed the remote off the table and pointed it at the TV, silencing it. “Listen, why don’t I get out of here so you can have some quiet?”
“No way. I’m not kicking you out of your own house.”
Waving a paw in dismissal, he said, “I’ve got errands to run anyway.”
Of course he was just saying that to be nice. As tempted as I was to pretend to be clueless to my friend’s need for downtime, my conscience wouldn’t let me. “What errands?”
His gaze roved around the room, finally settling on a balled-up napkin sitting on the windowsill. “Uh . . . toilet paper.”
“Toilet paper—that’s the best you can do?”
He shrugged.
“How about a compromise? You stay, but maybe keep the noise down to a dull roar?”
“Deal.” He pulled at the gray patch in his goatee. “Listen, why don’t you go crash in my room? My bed is a heck of a lot more comfortable than that block of cement I’ve got you sleeping on. Besides, it’s like a cave in there.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but then surrendered. A dark room and soft bed sounded pretty good. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“If you don’t mind a little mess, it’s all yours.”
Helping myself to Larry’s bedroom, I shut the door. The smell of kitty litter was immediate and pervasive. It emanated from an open bag leaning against the wall by the closet. In the divorce, Tina had traded her claim to their small house in exchange for custody of their three cats and the Lincoln. Larry said he missed having pets but decided, with his long work hours, it wouldn’t be right to replace them. I guess maybe the smell still reminded him of them. To me, it just plain stunk, but I figured after a few minutes, my nose would stop registering it. At least I hoped so.
Larry’s bed was nothing but a couple of mattresses piled atop a metal frame, but under the circumstances, it looked fit for a king. Stepping around an empty bowl lying on the carpet beside an unused paintbrush and a bent spoon, I pulled off my T-shirt, then crawled into bed.
The sheets were a soft flannel and looked clean enough. So was the brown comforter, although a bit threadbare. Finding no pillow, I leaned over the edge of the bed and peered down. Sure enough, I spotted one lodged between the mattress and wall. After yanking it free, I folded it in half to double it and slid it under my head. I pulled the cover up around my waist and lay there on my side staring at the empty computer desk. It was the only clean area in the room.
When I closed my eyes, I tried to imagine what Kyra might be doing right then. Would they have her in a group therapy session where she’d ramble on about what a horrible husband she’d been saddled with?
I thought of Benji and the chance, however slim, that he might be medically discharged from the Navy. My cell phone beeped and I knew without pulling it out of my pocket that it would be another message from Danielle, asking why I hadn’t answered her last one and maybe asking if I was really sick or just trying to avoid her. The answer, of course, was a little of both. Restless, I turned from my back to right side, then left, then back again, and finally sat up. A soft tap came from the closed door.
“Yeah?” I called.
“I’m running down to Quick Way,” Larry said through the closed door. “You want anything?”
“Just a noose if they’ve got one.”
There was silence, followed by the sound of the knob turning. The door opened and he stuck his head in. A white splotch of what appeared to be toothpaste clung to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not laying there naked, are you?”
I made a face. “What? No.”
“Good. I don’t want to have to burn my sheets. Get ready. You’re going with me.”
“I’m trying to take a nap, remember?”
“Sorry, you lost the privilege of being alone when you mentioned hanging yourself.”
“I was joking.”
“Get your shoes on.”
I yanked the pillow from behind me and chucked it at the door. He ducked just in time. It thumped against the doorjamb and hit the floor. “Get out and let me sleep.”
He eyed the room like a cop. “Not a chance. You’re coming with me if I have to drag you.”
I wanted to either bawl or brawl but didn’t have the fortitude for either. “Come on, man, give me a break.”
His expression hardened. “I’m counting to three, then coming over there and yanking your skinny butt out of bed.”
I gave him a dull stare.
He held up a finger. “One.”
I didn’t react.
“Two.”
I could tell by his face, he wasn’t playing. Since he was built like a grizzly, I didn’t stand a chance. “Thr—”
With a groan, I yanked the blanket off and swung my feet over the side of the mattress. “Would it matter if I swore on my father’s grave that I was only kidding about the noose?”
“It might if you actually liked the man. Get your shoes on.”
* * *
My father was more obsessed with baseball than any American. Most of the memories I had of him centered around the game. He couldn’t play to save his life, but that didn’t stop him from expecting great things from me.
The last memory I had of him was the day he taught me to hold a bat. I was five and kept spacing my hands too far apart.
“Not like that,” he’d said. Or at least that’s how I remember it.
My mother kept my hair sheared in a tight buzzcut back then and the summer sun baked my scalp. I wanted to go inside to escape the heat but was too afraid of my father to ask. I had, after all, seen his temper directed at my mother and didn’t want it aimed at me. And so I tried again.
He took the bat from my hands. “Why can’t you get this? It’s so easy.”
I felt my breathing come fast and my eyes try to fill with tears, but I knew better than to cry. Dad said tears belonged only to women and the weak. I was neither, so I swallowed them down and watched his flash of anger disappear.
“Let’s forget about baseball a minute and play a different game,” he said.
Relieved, I smiled.
“Make two fists like I’m doing.”
I did.
“Good. Now keep them there.”
He took his own fist and gently tapped mine with it. “One potato.” Then he tapped my other fist. “Two potato.”
I watched him, confused. This was a baby game. When he got to “seven potato more,” he kept his fist on mine. I tried to move my hand away, but my father grabbed my wrist keeping it in place. “Now, look at our hands.”
I studied his big fist resting on top of my own small one.
“That’s the way you hold the bat.”
And that is the way I still, to this day, hold a bat. After getting an ultimatum from Larry that I could either take a trip to the ER or the batting cage, I reluctantly chose the latter. It was there that I gripped the aluminum shaft and raised my elbow behind me.
“You ready?” Larry held the knob on the red metal box that controlled the pitching machine.
I slid the heel of my right sneaker around in the dirt and lifted my elbow. “Ready,” I said.
He turned the knob on the box. The tire operating the pitching machine turned, followed by a loud shoop indicating a baseball was flying at me. I kept my eye on the white orbit until it flew within range, then swung hard. I heard the ping, felt the force of impact as the vibration moved down the bat to my hands, and finally heard the sound of the ball jangling the metal fence.
Larry watched it roll to the corner of the cage. “Good one.”
Resuming the position, I waited for the next one. I hit baseball after baseball, until my muscles ached and I stood drenched in sweat. I glanced at the barrel of balls the pitching machine fed from. It was still three-fourths of the way full. I’d planned to empty it but was already on the verge of complete exhaustion.
“Enough,” I said through heavy breaths. A ball shot at me so fast, I didn’t have time to do more than raise my l
eg just in time to protect the jewels. It nailed me in the side of my right thigh. I howled and grabbed my leg.
Larry grimaced at me. “Turned it the wrong way. Sorry about that.” He yanked the knob in the other direction then turned his attention back to me. “You all right?”
Even though my leg throbbed with pain, I waved it off as if it were nothing. Trying not to grimace, I limped over to where Larry stood and looked down at the knob he’d just adjusted. It was clearly labeled with big black letters. How could he have confused curve with off?
“You almost made it so I couldn’t have more children.”
He laid a hand on my back and smirked. “The last thing the world needs is another one of you anyway.”
Picking the bat off the ground, I said, “Your comedic aptitude is second only to your abilities as a pitch machine operator.” I held the bat out to him. “Here, your turn.”
He took it from me and leaned it over his shoulder like a hobo with his bindle. “Nah, I’m not in the mood. This was just for you.”
Good old Larry. I gave him a tired smile, then followed him out of the batting cage. The sun still played hide-and-seek behind a stream of clouds. We sat side by side next to our water bottles that had been waiting for us on the wood bench outside the fence. He handed me mine and watched as I took a long, cool swig.
“Still cold?” he asked.
“The water, or me?”
“Both.”
“The water’s lukewarm and I guess I’m about the same.”
“Still want that noose?”
“I told you I was joking.” I lifted up my T-shirt and wiped the sweat from my face with it. “Maybe I kind of did, but I feel better. Thanks.”
“Good,” he said.
We sat silent a few minutes listening to the pings of aluminum bats whacking balls in surrounding cages, along with the occasional grunt and expletive.
“So, were you picturing her face on it?” Larry asked.
I turned to face him. “Whose face on what?”
“Kyra’s on the ball when you were hitting it,” he said. “When I found out about Tina and her dirtbag lover, I used to come here and smash the heck out of those balls picturing their faces on them.”
I couldn’t believe my friend was actually admitting to an un-Christian thought. “Why would I do that? She hasn’t done anything like that.”
He took a gulp of his water. “She must have done something.”
I thought of Kyra’s mood swings and her ongoing accusations and rejection, but I couldn’t conjure an ounce of anger. “No, I wasn’t picturing her face.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “Come on, man, you can be honest. I’m not going to judge you.”
My phone rang from my pocket. “I wasn’t picturing her face,” I repeated. “I was picturing mine.”
As Larry considered my answer, I pulled the phone out, glanced at the number and put it to my ear. On the other end, Dr. Hershing told me I could pick up my wife tomorrow morning.
“What if I’m not ready?” I asked with Larry’s eyes glued to me.
“My asking if you wanted was really just a formality, Eric. If you prefer, I can try again to contact her sister.”
When I said that wouldn’t be necessary, he filled me in on her progress and lack of.
When I hung up, Larry gave me a funny look. “Who died?”
Seven
She was the bridge between heaven and earth. That’s how I’d felt about Kyra, but something happened to turn our marital utopia into a living hell. I knew how it had started—with her growing disappointment in me and our lives. But until I woke up in Danielle’s bed, I hadn’t known how it would end. Until that moment, reconciliation was at least a possibility.
It was the irreversibility of my actions I thought of as I unlocked the door to what used to be my dream home. I wasn’t exactly sure why I’d come by here. Maybe I just wanted to see my house one more time before she banned me for good.
It hadn’t seemed fair that I’d been the one who had to move out when we separated. Wasn’t it my money that had built the thing to begin with? Besides, it was Kyra, not I, who had wanted the split. She should have been the one to go.
As I unlocked the door, the house key had never felt so cold and foreign in my hand. Memories of toting my wife over the threshold of our honeymoon suite flashed through my mind.
“You don’t have to carry me,” she said through laughter. “You’re going to give yourself a hernia.”
“If I’m going to strain something this week,” I dipped her down to slide the room key into its slot, “it’s not going to be there.”
Her ivory skin turned pink. Although I’d tried everything to get her to make love to me during our short courtship, she hadn’t given in. Glancing down at the platinum symbol of forever wrapped around her finger, I was thankful she lived the faith she professed. So few—myself included—really did.
I almost dropped her as I turned the doorknob. This made her laugh even harder. I used my hip to push the door open. Holding tight around my shoulders, her giggles rang in my ears.
“Did you just snort?” I asked her. It was the first time I’d ever heard her do what I would, over time, grow quite used to.
Bobbing along in my arms, she stopped laughing and her expression turned severe. “There are a few things you need to know about your wife, Mr. Yoshida.”
I gave a hurried glance around our hotel room. One king-size bed with four fluffy pillows and thick white comforter, a desk, one chair, two floor lamps, one TV with remote, and a balcony overlooking a halfway-decent view of the Atlantic—patio furniture included. Perfect.
I set her down on the bed. Although she didn’t weigh much, my arms still ached with the reprieve. “What’s that, Mrs. Yoshida?”
She batted her lashes at me, melting my heart for the hundredth time that day. “I don’t snort, fart, or use the bathroom, except to brush my teeth and powder my nose. Understood?”
I raised my eyebrows, faking surprise. “Wow. Ever?”
She turned her head to indicate the conversation was over.
“Understood.” I kissed her forehead, pausing to take in her vanilla-almond scent.
With a sudden fire in her eyes, she grabbed my face and kissed me with more passion than she’d ever shown me. Than maybe anybody had ever shown anyone. I couldn’t stand not having her a moment longer. I spun her around and wasted no time unfastening the hooks on her wedding gown.
She jerked around and grabbed my hands. “Not so fast. I want this to be perfect.” She glanced around the room. “I need my suitcase.”
I started to object, but her pleading eyes were no match for my protests. “Please, Samurai, the candles are in there.”
I loved that we already had pet names for one another. It made it all feel so right. I pulled her to me. “We don’t need the candles. You, my little chili pepper, are hot enough to warm us both.”
She pulled away. Even then, Kyra could be so stubborn. Until the scene was perfectly set, love would have to wait.
Shutting the front door behind me, I grinned at the bittersweet memory. Oh, but that wait had been so worth it. I could almost taste her cherry lip gloss, feel her breath on my neck and imagine her silky hair between my fingertips. I hadn’t known when I’d given her the nickname that she’d live up to it.
An undercurrent of longing pulled at me with such unexpected force I felt as though my guts were being yanked right out. Ushering the memory from my mind and my feet forward, I made my way to the dining room.
Ghosts of holidays past lingered around the table as well as the countless meals Kyra and I shared there over the years. If I had known the last time we sat there together would be the last time, what would I have done differently?
On the oval mahogany table rested a picture of me hugging a younger Benji. It was winter and we both wore toboggan caps and the thick, itchy sweaters Kyra’s mother had made for us the Christmas before she died. In the photograph, a snowman, who h
ad lost one of its pebble eyes, leaned beside us. Benji had an arm wrapped around its misshapen shoulder, wearing a smile more blinding than the snow.
It was the first and only snowman we’d ever made together. Kyra had taken over that job in winters that followed. Although I was glad my salary could afford her staying home, I still found myself jealous about all I had to miss that she was able to enjoy. Especially the snowmen.
I traced Benji’s sweet photographed face, regret eating at my insides like battery acid. The picture was displayed inside a simple black frame and rested in front of Kyra’s spot at the table. Her chair was still pulled out and a glass of water, half-empty, stood beside it. This was where she had been sitting when Benji had called from Great Lakes; I was sure of it. Maybe she’d been looking at the picture, thinking about how, despite her protests, I had bought our son a bucket of army men for his seventh birthday.
I left the dining room and headed for our bedroom.
As I walked down the hall, my fingertips dragged along the shelves holding our family photos. I paused in front of our wedding portrait. In her flowing white gown, Kyra stood before me, her arms draped over my tuxedo-clad shoulders. Bride and groom stared into each other’s eyes as all the hope in the world passed between us in the form of a smile.
My hands trembled as I fought the urge to slam my fist into it—shattering the lie of that promise of a happily ever after. Why did she still display it while kicking me out of her life? She was never one to worry about keeping up appearances. It made no sense, but then neither did she most of the time. That was the one thing that hadn’t changed over the years—I knew when I’d said “I do” that when it came to understanding her, I didn’t, and never would.
Standing before our closed bedroom door, I leaned my forehead against the painted wood. How was I going to face her today? She’d take one look at me and know what I’d done. Maybe I should just sit her down and tell her the whole truth. Maybe if she understood why I’d done it . . .
Yeah, right after she puts a lawyer on retainer.
I opened the bedroom door and the smell of flowers hit me. A powdering of deodorizer blanketed the beige carpet. The vacuum cleaner stood plugged in and ready to suck it up. I walked to my closet and opened the door. Half my suits and shirts still hung there, but not for long. She’d be throwing my stuff out the windows soon enough. I closed the door and turned around.