10. Gage
GAGE
Three cartons for one dresser, and Bonnie isn’t here to tell the delivery men which room.
I carry them upstairs myself. They aren’t heavy enough to justify how hard I put the last one down. The corner hits the wall. I rub at the mark with my thumb and make it worse.
She chose this dresser in February, when her stomach had only just begun to round.
We were lying in bed with her phone between us.
Solid wood, quiet drawers, a changing top that comes off later.
She spent an hour worrying about catching a sleeve on the handles while she held the baby.
The delivery estimate seemed ridiculous then.
Now it is May, and the cartons are here without her.
I bought the one she wanted. I had the room painted. I’ve moved half the summer around her August second due date. Yesterday I put Tawny on another horse.
I am hurt, and being hurt makes me angrier than the argument did. I thought changing the horse would count. I thought she would see me trying and stay long enough for us to get through the rest.
Bonnie still got into Beryl’s truck. She looked relieved when the door closed. I have been trying since yesterday not to remember that part.
I call Beryl before opening the first box. It takes three tries to get her.
“Is she still asleep?”
“We’re on the road.”
I straighten. “Where?”
“She’s safe, Gage.”
“I didn’t ask whether she’s safe. I asked where you’re taking my wife.”
“Bonnie knows where she’s going.”
I put a hand flat on the carton. “Put her on.”
“She doesn’t want to talk.”
Yesterday she asked for time, and I gave her the whole afternoon. I didn’t follow the trailer. I didn’t go to Beryl’s house, forty-six minutes away, though I could have been there before dinner.
“Is she leaving Texas?”
“She asked me not to give you the route.”
“And you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“She’s due in August.”
“We know.”
I hear the click of a turn signal. I try to picture the roads out of Beryl’s place. North? West? Cleo, in Colorado. Bonnie has friends all over the circuit. I’ve driven most of those roads with her asleep beside me.
“Tell her the dresser came.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“And Mercy’s off the tour. Tawny’s using the gray.”
“Bonnie knows that. You told her yesterday.”
“Then what else does she want?”
Beryl is silent long enough that I look at the screen to see whether she’s ended the call.
“She told you that too,” she says. “I’m driving. Let us get where we’re going.”
She hangs up.
I open the first box, pull out the instruction sheet, and throw it onto the floor. Then I pick it up, because I’ll need it if I want the thing assembled before Bonnie sees a photograph.
Downstairs, the housekeeper asks whether Bonnie wants the bed changed. I tell her to leave it. Bonnie’s pillow is still the way she slept on it. There’s no reason to strip the whole room because she has gone away for a few days.
Outside, Mercy’s stall is empty. Bonnie left clean shavings. Her old brush bucket is gone, the one I keep telling her to replace because its handle cuts into her palm.
I put my boot against the door. She took the bucket. Of all the things in this barn, she took something I could have replaced for twenty dollars.
I wish she had left it. I could tell myself she would be back for it. An empty stall ought not to feel like an answer from my wife, but I stand there resenting a bucket because it has gone with her.
The side door opens.
“There you are.”
Tawny carries two takeout bags. She wears a soft blue shirt, her hair loose over her shoulders. For the first time this morning, somebody looks pleased to see me.
“Dewey said you missed the call.” She lifts the bags. “I guessed you hadn’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then I’ll eat yours too.”
I almost smile. She sees it and comes closer.
“How are you doing?”
I could give her the same answer I’ve given the housekeeper and the manager. Fine. Working. Busy.
“Beryl’s driving her somewhere and won’t tell me where.”
Tawny’s face changes. “With the baby so close?”
“She won’t even put her on the phone.”
“That’s cruel.”
I take my hat off and rub the band mark on my forehead. It is a relief to hear Tawny call it cruel. Beryl spoke as though I had no right to be upset. Here is somebody who thinks Bonnie has hurt me. I want to keep talking to her.
“I told Bonnie we’d change the horse. I’ve done it.”
“I know. I’ll make the gray work.”
Relief comes so fast I almost thank her twice. I named the problem, and Tawny agreed to the change. She has not asked why it took me so long or what it means that I made the decision yesterday. For a few minutes I can feel as though I have done something right.
I take the bags from her. “Come into the office.”
She follows me, closing the door against the flies. She knows where the napkins are. I noticed that last week and thought she was efficient. Today I am grateful not to be asked another question about a cupboard.
She hands me the chicken sandwich without checking which one I want.
“You remembered.”
“You don’t like their sauce.”
Bonnie knows that too. I push the thought away before it spoils the first easy minute I’ve had all day.
Tawny sits across from me and opens her iced tea. Her nail catches beneath the tab. I take the cup, fix the lid, and give it back. She smiles at me over the straw.
“She’ll call,” she says.
“I’m her husband. She shouldn’t need a day to decide whether she can speak to me.”
“She knows you’ll wait.”
I look up.
Tawny shrugs. “You always do what she needs in the end. Maybe she thinks going farther away will make it happen faster.”
“I’ve done what she asked.”
“About Mercy. She wanted the rest canceled too.”
I unwrap the sandwich. Grease runs onto the paper.
“It wasn’t as though I chose you because of?—”
I stop. Tawny waits, her face open, and I am suddenly conscious of how that sentence could end.
Because you’re beautiful. Because you look at me as if you are glad I walked into a room.
I did not choose her only for those things.
That is the defense I reach for, though she has not asked me to defend myself.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“You understand what we’re trying to build.”
“I do.”
She doesn’t look away. I take a bite before I have to say anything else.
Dewey calls. I put him on speaker, and we get through the work. The horse swap is settled. Bonnie’s trainer credit is restored. The photographs are already out. Denver still needs a decision.
“The paired appearance stays,” I tell him.
Tawny puts down her tea. Relief lights her face.
“And the summer launch dinner?” Dewey asks. “I had Bonnie down as your guest before we linked it to the collection.”
I turn the pen on my desk. I asked her about that dinner months ago. She wanted the room with the terrace because she could go outside if it got hot.
“Put Tawny beside me,” I say. “It’s her collection too.”
“I can do that,” Tawny says quietly.
After the call, she comes around the desk to look at the schedule. Her hand rests on the back of my chair. I know she’s there without looking. I like not having to ask someone to stay.
I also know I would move the chair if Bonnie walked in. The thought comes clearly enough that I cannot mistake it. I leave the chair where it is.
“You don’t need to go through every evening alone,” she says.
“I’m married.”
“I know.” Her hand squeezes my shoulder. “I’m offering you dinner.”
I let her keep her hand there while I check the next date.
She leaves with the empty bags. At the door she turns back.
“Call me tonight if it’s bad.”
I nod.
Upstairs, I assemble the dresser. One drawer catches, and I take it apart until it closes properly. I ought to feel pleased. Instead I keep seeing Beryl’s truck and Bonnie not looking at me while she fastened her seat belt.
I photograph the finished dresser.
It’s done. Mercy’s off the tour. Come home so we can sort this out properly.
I send it before I decide whether properly will start another argument.
By nine there is no answer. I have eaten half a second sandwich and left the rest in the fridge. Tawny’s name is above Bonnie’s in my recent calls. I look at it, put the phone down, and pick it up again.
She answers on the first ring.
“I thought you might call,” she says.
I sit in the rocking chair Bonnie chose and tell Tawny about my day. When she laughs at something I say, I keep talking. Upstairs in the empty house, I want to hear that sound again.