comes.
The thought came to her then, like something held underwater that had finally slipped free and surfaced. The only reason you’re thinking it could be him, Marcie told herself, is because people have made you believe you don’t deserve him, don’t deserve a little happiness. There’s no reason to think such a thing. But just as quickly her mind grasped for one.
Marcie thought of the one-night honeymoon in Gatlinburg back in April. She and Carl had stayed in a hotel room so close to a stream that they could hear the water rushing past. The next morning they’d eaten at a pancake house and then walked around the town, looking in the shops, Marcie holding Carl’s hand. Foolish, maybe, for a woman of almost sixty, but Carl hadn’t seemed to mind. Marcie told him she wanted to buy him something, and when they came to a shop called Country Gents, she led him into its log-cabin interior. You pick, she told Carl, and he gazed into glass cases holding all manner of belt buckles and pocketknives andcuff links, but it was a tray of cigarette lighters where he lingered. He asked the clerk to see several, opening and closing their hinged lids, flicking the thumbwheel to summon the flame, finally settling on one whose metal bore the image of a cloisonné tiger.
A t the grocery store, Marcie took out her list and an ink pen, moving down the rows. Monday afternoon was a good time to shop, most of the women she knew coming later in the week. Her shopping cart filled, Marcie came to the front. Only one line was open and it was Barbara Hardison’s, a woman Marcie’s age and the biggest gossip in Sylva.
“How are your girls?” Barbara asked as she scanned a can of beans and placed it on the conveyor belt. Done slowly, Marcie knew, giving Barbara more time.
“Fine,” Marcie said, though she’d spoken to neither in over a month.
“Must be hard to have them living so far away, not hardly see them or your grandkids. I’d not know what to do if I didn’t see mine at least once a week.”
“We talk every Saturday, so I keep up with them,” Marcie lied.
Barbara scanned more cans and bottles, all the while talking about how she believed the person responsible for the fires was one of the Mexicans working at the poultry plant.
“No one who grew up around here would do such a thing,” Barbara said.
Marcie nodded, barely listening as Barbara prattled on. Instead, her mind replayed what the psychology teacher had said. She thought about how there were days when Carl spoke no more than a handful of words to her, to anyone, as far as she knew, and how he’d sit alone on the porch until bedtime while she watched TV, and how, though he’d smoked his after-supper cigarette, she’d look out the front window and sometimes see a flicker of light rise out of his cupped hand, held before his face like a guiding candle.
The cart was almost empty when Barbara pressed a bottle of hair dye against the scanner.
“Must be worrisome sometimes to have a husband strong and strapping as Carl,” Barbara said, loud enough so the bag boy heard. “My boy Ethan sees him over at Burrell’s after work sometimes. Ethan says that girl who works the bar tries to flirt with Carl something awful. Of course Ethan says Carl never flirts back, just sits there by himself and drinks his one beer and leaves soon as his bottle’s empty.” Barbara finally set the hair dye on the conveyor. “Never pays that girl the least bit of mind,” she added, and paused. “At least when Ethan’s been in there.”
Barbara rang up the total and placed Marcie’s check in the register.
“You have a good afternoon,” Barbara said.
On the way back home, Marcie remembered how after the wood had been cut and stacked she’d hired Carl to do other jobs—repairing the sagging porch, then building a small garage—things Arthur would have done if still alive. She’d peek out the window and watch him, admiring the way he worked with such a fixed
The thought came to her then, like something held underwater that had finally slipped free and surfaced. The only reason you’re thinking it could be him, Marcie told herself, is because people have made you believe you don’t deserve him, don’t deserve a little happiness. There’s no reason to think such a thing. But just as quickly her mind grasped for one.
Marcie thought of the one-night honeymoon in Gatlinburg back in April. She and Carl had stayed in a hotel room so close to a stream that they could hear the water rushing past. The next morning they’d eaten at a pancake house and then walked around the town, looking in the shops, Marcie holding Carl’s hand. Foolish, maybe, for a woman of almost sixty, but Carl hadn’t seemed to mind. Marcie told him she wanted to buy him something, and when they came to a shop called Country Gents, she led him into its log-cabin interior. You pick, she told Carl, and he gazed into glass cases holding all manner of belt buckles and pocketknives andcuff links, but it was a tray of cigarette lighters where he lingered. He asked the clerk to see several, opening and closing their hinged lids, flicking the thumbwheel to summon the flame, finally settling on one whose metal bore the image of a cloisonné tiger.
A t the grocery store, Marcie took out her list and an ink pen, moving down the rows. Monday afternoon was a good time to shop, most of the women she knew coming later in the week. Her shopping cart filled, Marcie came to the front. Only one line was open and it was Barbara Hardison’s, a woman Marcie’s age and the biggest gossip in Sylva.
“How are your girls?” Barbara asked as she scanned a can of beans and placed it on the conveyor belt. Done slowly, Marcie knew, giving Barbara more time.
“Fine,” Marcie said, though she’d spoken to neither in over a month.
“Must be hard to have them living so far away, not hardly see them or your grandkids. I’d not know what to do if I didn’t see mine at least once a week.”
“We talk every Saturday, so I keep up with them,” Marcie lied.
Barbara scanned more cans and bottles, all the while talking about how she believed the person responsible for the fires was one of the Mexicans working at the poultry plant.
“No one who grew up around here would do such a thing,” Barbara said.
Marcie nodded, barely listening as Barbara prattled on. Instead, her mind replayed what the psychology teacher had said. She thought about how there were days when Carl spoke no more than a handful of words to her, to anyone, as far as she knew, and how he’d sit alone on the porch until bedtime while she watched TV, and how, though he’d smoked his after-supper cigarette, she’d look out the front window and sometimes see a flicker of light rise out of his cupped hand, held before his face like a guiding candle.
The cart was almost empty when Barbara pressed a bottle of hair dye against the scanner.
“Must be worrisome sometimes to have a husband strong and strapping as Carl,” Barbara said, loud enough so the bag boy heard. “My boy Ethan sees him over at Burrell’s after work sometimes. Ethan says that girl who works the bar tries to flirt with Carl something awful. Of course Ethan says Carl never flirts back, just sits there by himself and drinks his one beer and leaves soon as his bottle’s empty.” Barbara finally set the hair dye on the conveyor. “Never pays that girl the least bit of mind,” she added, and paused. “At least when Ethan’s been in there.”
Barbara rang up the total and placed Marcie’s check in the register.
“You have a good afternoon,” Barbara said.
On the way back home, Marcie remembered how after the wood had been cut and stacked she’d hired Carl to do other jobs—repairing the sagging porch, then building a small garage—things Arthur would have done if still alive. She’d peek out the window and watch him, admiring the way he worked with such a fixed
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