12. Sven #2
"You know where that's going?" he asked.
I looked at him.
"Woman named Etta Boone runs a mobile outfit now," he said. "Good operation. She'll use everything we pulled today."
I didn't say anything.
"You know her?" he asked.
"I know who she is."
"That so."
"Yeah."
He looked at me for a long moment. "She ran Boone & Daughter for years. Best operation on the sound. Then somebody spread a rumor and shut her down."
"I heard."
"Health department cleared her, but it was too late. Lost everything."
I nodded.
"She's making it work now," he said. "Mobile catering. Events. It's not the same, but she's good at what she does."
"She always was."
"You sound like you know her pretty well."
"I've heard things."
He nodded slowly. "Well, she needs supply, and I've got bars that could use working. So that's where the haul goes."
"Makes sense."
He walked back toward the shack, then stopped.
"You did all right today," he said. "Better than I expected."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow'll be worse. Your body's going to remind you about today all night."
"I'll be here."
"We'll see."
He locked up the shed and walked back toward his truck.
I drove home as the sun was starting to go down.
The house was still empty.
I sat at the kitchen table for a long time, looking at my hands. The skin was torn and blistered and I could barely bend my fingers. I ran them under cold water. Wrapped them badly. Sat back down.
I found paper in the drawer. A pen that still worked. I pulled the chair up and started writing.
My handwriting was terrible. I couldn't grip the pen right and the letters came out shaky and uneven. But I kept going.
I wrote about the security. About the house and the money and the unglamorous life I thought I'd lifted her out of.
I told you the business came first because we needed the security.
What I meant was that I needed it. I thought if I could give you a house that didn't leak and a car that started every time and enough money that you'd never have to choose between paying a bill and fixing a net, that would be the same as being a good husband.
It wasn't. You already had a life. It wasn't glamorous, but it was yours, and you knew what it was worth.
I took you out of it and I thought I was doing you a favor.
I wrote about the mornings she'd gotten up at four and I'd rolled over and gone back to sleep. About the cruise I'd had somebody else book without asking her, in about four minutes, to places I couldn't even name when she'd asked me where it went.
I had Deshawn book you a Scandinavian cruise and I thought it was generous. I did not book it myself. I never looked at where it went. What it was, was a transaction. I didn't want to take the time off, so I sent you alone, and I told myself it was a gift.
I wrote about the manager I'd offered to hire so she wouldn't have to be up so early. As if the problem was the hour and not that I wanted her to stop.
I offered to hire a manager for Boone & Daughter and I meant it as help. What you heard was that I thought you couldn't do it yourself. I didn't understand that until you walked out.
I wrote about the necklace I didn't choose. The one that came with a receipt that said Per recommendation of S. Astala, selected our Compass Collection pendant in 18k gold with .15ct diamond. Customer approved.
I bought you a necklace at a jeweler someone else recommended. I went in for ten minutes and let them choose it. I thought I'd done something good.
I'd let a stranger choose a necklace for my own wife. I'd handed her a box and thought I'd done something good.
She wouldn't take it.
I wrote about the night at the house. The night before she asked for the divorce. My voice filling the room. Her hand coming up. The way I stopped.
That night at the house, before you asked for the divorce, my voice filled the room and you put your hand up and I stopped. I did that, and I know exactly what it looked like, and you had no way in the world of knowing it wasn't true.
I wrote about the mornings.
I thought the mornings we had were enough. They weren't. You needed me the rest of the day, too, and I gave you a checkbook instead.
I put the pen down.
My hands were shaking. I didn't know if it was from the work or from writing it out.
I read it over once. Then I left it on the table.
I didn't put her name on it. I didn't put it in an envelope.
It wasn't finished. Every time the work taught me something else I'd gotten wrong, I came back and added another line. It kept growing, a little at a time, over the months.
I stood up and walked to the bedroom.
Her ring was still in my pocket. I'd carried it there since the day she set it down on my desk and walked out. Eight years she'd worn it without taking it off. Not once. Not to shower or swim or work the boats.
And then she'd taken it off and left it behind.
I found a chain in the back of the drawer. Silver, thin, long enough. I threaded the ring onto it and fastened it around my neck.
It settled against my chest. The metal was cold.
I tucked it under my shirt where nobody would see it.