Chapter 14
With Joyce gone for the day, Mitch took his dish of pot roast into the living room to watch some news and see what was going on in the world. A slice of bread slathered in butter, which Joyce had also baked, balanced on the edge of the wide dish.
The news wouldn’t be anything good. Never was. But he figured an adult ought to know something about current events. Especially someone who was an author. It might even provide him with a little inspiration.
He hated the news, though. It was all the-world-is-ending-and-here’s-why. Not only that, most coverage was biased. Slanted one way or the other. It was all about whatever the powers that be wanted broadcast, and whatever the men with money thought the rest of them should think.
He sat on the couch and forked up a hunk of potato, coated with the brown gravy that always accompanied Joyce’s pot roast. It was one of his favorite things that she made. Which was probably why she made it at least once a month. Somehow, it didn’t even need salt.
He pressed a few buttons on the remote and brought up a channel. Two TV-perfect news anchors sat behind a desk and spilled the latest events.
A new war had broken out in the Middle East, lawless gangs were taking over a major city, homelessness was on the rise, drugs were a problem, and the current president was embroiled in yet another scandal. Same old-same old.
He was so tired of it. So tired of all of it. The noise. The mental pollution. That’s what it was. Excess nonsense that took up space in his brain and clouded the thoughts that should be focused on his new book.
He’d read through about half of the last book and taken copious notes. It felt good. Definitely a step in the right direction. He had to make some progress on this new book soon or things would get uncomfortable with his publisher. He was sure Lucinda was tired of going to bat for him, although that was her job as his agent.
How many times had she used the dead wife excuse, he wondered. Was it still working? How many years of understanding did it buy you when your wife breathed her last in your arms? There should be a chart somewhere.
He glared at the news anchors. What did they know about real life? They both had on enough makeup for Halloween.
He ate a chunk of tender beef, then picked up the remote and tapped the button for the guide. There had to be something else on. He found an old Humphrey Bogart movie, Dead Reckoning. Mitch had always liked that one, but then, Bogart was in a class by himself. He and Arlington had often discussed Bogart’s acting. How he embodied the characters he played with so much depth. How there was no one else like him and probably never would be.
Mitch glanced toward his office where Arlington’s letter remained, unopened. He shook his head, sat back and watched the movie while he ate. He paused it to get a second helping. When he’d finished that, he paused the movie again, and took his dish and glass of water into the kitchen.
He rinsed both, put them in the dishwasher along with his fork, then looked to see what Joyce had left for, as she called it, pudding.
He found a custard pie in the fridge. Another one of his favorite things. He squinted at it suspiciously. Was she about to ask for a raise?
He cut a piece, varnished it with whipped cream from the can, grabbed a new fork, then went back out to watch the rest of the movie. He thought about coffee but couldn’t be bothered. The pie was good. It was always good.
Some hours later, he woke up to a different movie playing. His empty plate was on the coffee table. His neck was stiff from the way he’d bent over onto the arm of the sofa. Not intended for sleeping on.
He righted himself and massaged the muscles that had tightened up. This happened too often these days, but Jeanie wasn’t here to wake him up and make him go to bed. He never slept well in their bed anymore anyway.
He turned the television off, got up, and walked out onto the back deck to stare at the water. He ran his hands through his hair, scratching his scalp.
As much as he disliked the general sunniness of this place, night was a different story. He took his usual seat and admired the way the moonlight danced over the water. It was mesmerizing. All of that black liquid, moving in such a way that focusing on one spot was almost impossible.
You could sink under that water and never be seen again. There was something to that. Something dark and menacing. And yet, tantalizing.
He inhaled the night air, tasting the salt on his tongue. For a few minutes as he sat there, he could almost pretend Jeanie was just asleep in the bedroom, and he was having another bout of insomnia. That soon she’d come out to get him, kiss him on the head, then wrap her arms around him and tell him that she slept better with him beside her.
But that wasn’t going to happen, and he knew it. That was never going to happen again. The knowledge didn’t make the abyss inside him any bigger, but it didn’t make it any smaller, either. Nothing changed the size and depth of the cavity hollowing him out. It just remained this gaping hole that swallowed any shred of happiness that entered his life.
He’d been happy once, but those memories just seemed like a cruel form of punishment now.
He stared at the water as the moon rose higher. He sighed deeply. Finally got up. Went back inside.
He got his dessert plate and put it in the sink, then drifted into the bedroom. It was as empty as he knew it would be. Jeanie’s side of the bed smooth and untouched. The pillow plumped. Like it was waiting for her.
He stripped down and took a short, hot shower, then put on pajama pants and a T-shirt. He turned the lights off before crawling into bed. He lay there in the dark, his mind full and empty at the same time.
Full of memories and thoughts he didn’t want to have. Empty of the ideas he so desperately needed for his book.
“Why did you have to leave me?” he whispered into the dark.
It never answered. For that, he was grateful.
He wondered if Jeanie knew how miserable he was. Probably not. She’d probably gone on to some happier place where she could paint and hum and dance and do all the things that gave her pleasure.
He doubted he ever crossed her mind.
Surprisingly, he was all right with that. If she knew how unhappy he was, she’d be unhappy, too, and she’d suffered enough in her last days.
She deserved happiness. And peace.
He deserved…he wasn’t sure what he deserved.
He’d settle for a decent new idea.
His lids slid closed, an image of Jeanie in a meadow of wildflowers appearing in his head. She had an easel before her with a fresh canvas on it, a palette of bright paints in one hand, a brush in the other and she was smiling.
The breeze made her dress lift and sway. It teased her hair. She smiled, then laughed at something. Maybe at him.
He smiled, too. A tear slipped down his temple, and he sniffed. This was ridiculous. Lying here, moping, feeling sorry for himself. It accomplished nothing.
Jeanie was never coming back, and he was an idiot for dwelling on fantasies that only made him miserable.
He got up, pulled on a sweatshirt, stuck his feet into his slippers, and went to his office. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well read.