17
But everything felt so much lonelier without her. Without so much as her voice over the telephone. Without her text messages lighting up his cell phone. Without her hand in his. Without her breath on his neck. They still hadn’t even had that many dates—they’d only reconnected, what, less than three months ago—but he found himself sustained by the promise of their next meeting, and now, that promise seemed in jeopardy.
He drank more than he ought to have. Drank almost by himself, though he thought of Blueberry as a friend, so there was that comfort. And the comfort of stepping out into the night on his back porch and lighting a joint and inhaling deeply. He didn’t smoke marijuana often, thought of it as something of an especially decadent dessert. Now each star winked at him hello. The coyotes off in the night, carousing, calling to him.
One night he played the sound of an injured rabbit on his cell phone, played it out into the night, just to see what predator might visit him. And within less than five seconds, an owl swooped out of the complete darkness and came so close to his hands he could count each yellow talon, so close he might have reached out to steal a feather. He felt very alive just then, his body trembling. The owl might have landed in his arms, or on top of his head. Might just as well have flown off with his phone glowing bright as it winged up into the low-lying clouds heavy with snow.
He returned to the warmth of his house. The dog asleep on the wood floor. He knelt slowly and then lay down on the floor beside Blueberry. Swept his fingers through the animal’s fur. Rubbed at his skull, scratched behind the ears. Itched below his expectant jaw. Then just petted that sleek black coat. They stayed that way some nights for hours, until he fell asleep, and the dog relocated. Leaving him there on the floor, half-drunk and a little stoned. The house was too big, didn’t he know. Too much for one old man getting only older. An empty room wanted a soul like a shelf wants a book. And this house of his was mostly empty.
One morning, after he made a pot of coffee and well before he could even consider a drop of alcohol, he wrote her a letter. He had to start over many times, throwing each misbegotten and defeated draft into the woodstove to blossom into flame. He was self-conscious of his words. His spelling. His handwriting. Lord, it looked just like a boy’s.
How was he supposed to write down all that he felt? Where does a person even begin? All the way back to their first dates, over forty years ago. To their very first date. A county fair. Kissing beneath fireworks. Kisses that tasted of ice cream, dissolving away against his tongue, against his teeth, like the fluff of cotton candy. Holding hands after wiping the sweat off his palms on his blue jeans. Her head on his shoulder. Her hip pressed into his on the Ferris wheel. Or later? Their honeymoon? Making love during that lightning storm. Trying to make a baby. The excitement of that. Where would he start?
Or how he felt now? Like the luckiest man in the world. Like he held the winning lottery ticket. All he had to do was not go and lose it. Not burn it. Not drop it and watch it blow away, into the river. I haven’t done enough to earn your trust, he wrote. I know that I only have so much time, and I don’t want to waste any of what is left. I want us to be together, Vivian.
Only somehow the letter never assembled itself together right. The words did not cohere. Did not equal either what he thought and certainly not what he felt.
Most days, just around noon, he did begin drinking. Drinking slow. Down to the cellar, touching those beautiful bottles. Carrying one or two upstairs. Building a fire in the woodstove. Little breaks to walk down the driveway to his mailbox. Nothing ever there but bills and coupons for things he had no need for. He pitied the mailperson who had to deliver such useless paper. No love letters or draft notices. No postcards from Venice or birthday cards from a great-aunt, a Hallmark card and a two-dollar bill. Just days of worthless flyers and sales pitches. He could have filled a whole room in his house with all those mailers. Neat stacks of insultingly glossy paper.
He wasn’t hungry much, but sometimes the loneliness drove him into town just the same, and inevitably, into the arms of a tavern. There was a reassurance in that, certain promises and expectations between tavern and patron. There would be music and alcohol. Someone to talk to, if only politely; he wouldn’t be alone there. There would be televisions glowing, and usually neon lights, which is not nothing. Better than sitting alone in the dark. There might be food. Certainly, there were ways to gamble. Clever games by which to part a patron from their money. Dice. Scratch-off tickets. Electronic machines. One night, at his lowest, he lost a thousand dollars in a bar he could now never return to, for shame. Driving home that night, he actually considered aiming the truck off the side of a bridge, right down through the ice of a frozen lake. If it were a cold-enough night, and the ice re-formed, no one would even notice he was gone. Not for many months anyway. Not until spring.
The dog helped. Blueberry needed him, after all, for food and water, and seemed to relieve himself only on proper walks. Walks with him. Which was at once an inconvenience and a blessing. Four or five times a day, he had to leave the house and trail behind the dog like its shadow. Other tasks, too, kept him from quitting. Feeding the birds. Standing under a white pine, with birdseed in his hands, waiting for a chickadee to land on his fingers. It happened one day. A chickadee alighted on his palm. It was the lightest thing he had ever held. He began crying. It was Christmas Eve.
He drove out into the country beneath a clear December sky more decorous and fragile than any crystal chandelier. He drove without any direction, Blueberry sitting in the passenger seat staring at the road ahead. At a crossroads with three empty corners, he pulled into the parking lot of a small old Lutheran church. In the cemetery beyond the church, the gravestones shone under the moonlight. Under the starlight. The snow was unbroken for as far as he could see. He thought of the souls lying there, under this purity, in that repose to which there was no end.
He walked into the church and sat in the back, the Christmas service already underway. One young girl turned to take in his entrance, and she smiled in a sad sort of way that broke his old heart. He winked at her, and she quickly turned back to face the pastor.
Charlie did not believe in god, but that night he prayed. He prayed to be a better man. Prayed for strength. And when the other parishioners stood to sing the Christmas hymns, or to join together in prayer, he stood too. When the brass offering plate passed his way, all lined with burgundy velvet, he dropped two thousand dollars’ cash and felt good about it, like he had evened some scales, however preposterous that thought might be. Later, driving home, he felt lighter. He could imagine certain challenges now, but could also see their solutions, could imagine trying harder.
After he crawled into bed he reached for his phone and typed: Merry Christmas, Viv. Hope you’re having a wonderful holiday. I miss you.
When he set the phone on the bedside table, he exhaled, turned on his side, and felt the starlight on his face. The moon was already high in the pellucid sky, and he waited for it to say good night or Merry Christmas. Waited, too, for the impossible chime of his doorbell to ring and for her to walk into his arms. Or the telephone to ring. A text to ding, like a happy little bell. He waited until two o’clock in the morning, heart pounding. Sure that something would happen. Some sign of her. Of her longing. But nothing did. Nothing happened. And so, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.