married. She'd even left her holding a lease, and Jeanette had ended up with a most unpleasant subletter. I did not want Valerie to leave me for even a couple of weeks. Can you imagine that? I didn't even want the short sort of break that most spouses secretly thirst for on occasion. I'm ashamed to say that I begged her to stay, to blow off the trip and forever sever her friendship with Jeanette. I was a jealous lover. I didn't want an ounce of Valerie's love or energy to go to anybody else. But, in the end, I saw her off with my warm wishes and blessings. It was before dawn when they drove away. I stood in the third-floor window and waved. I looked at my desk. I'd been up all night. I was taking two summer classes and I was going to stay behind and work on my honors thesis. The two weeks, I assured myself, would go by quickly. But what if I had convinced her to stay there with me? My life would be so different now.
If I think of myself then, I am hard to imagine. Her, I can see her. Me? I am faded. Someone else. How was I different then? I can't say. I just know that I was different.
Today, my memories of Valerie are contained in a large plastic tote that resides in my attic. Therein lie my photographs, my letters, and a few of her personal articles. I saved a pair of underwear, cotton panties festooned with butterflies, that I had slid from her hips that first afternoon in her apartment. I saved a sketchbook she had kept for an art history class, full of small pencil drawings and cryptic notes taken during visits to the art museums of Toledo and Chicago and Detroit. I saved a stick of lip gloss and her sunglasses and an unused circle of birth control pills, her backups. They are there in my attic, though it has been years since I've allowed myself that self-indulgent gesture of what I call memory sifting. Didn't Jesus say something to the effect of "Let the dead bury the dead?" I don't recall the context in which he says that, but I think of that quote often, when I am tempted to find those sacred underpants, press them to my face, and spend a day weeping.
And now, in my office, behind the closed door, I'm alone with this e-mail, from a Valerie, age thirty-four, from the same city where my wife was last seen. I chalk it up to eerie coincidence and file the response on my hard drive.
8. Zeke Pappas considers and weighs, weighs and considers.
N ORMALLY, EACH DAY at four o'clock, when Lara leaves the office, I retreat to my own office, close the door, make myself a large gin and tonic at the small wet bar I had added some years ago (with some gift funds from H. M. Logan, mind you, not federal money), and call my friend Mack Fences.
Mack, a book salesman who covers the Midwest for a major publishing company, and I have been good friends since my brief stint working in the Madison bookstore, the Pilgrim's Pages, which is owned by his partner, Joseph Simms. Mack, who often worked in the store, too, was impressed one evening by my literary taste and took me out for a martini at Paul's Club, where our bartender, a young man named Jim Meehan, instantly made us feel welcome. He was one of those rare bartenders who seem able to suspend time, so that you do not notice how much of the afternoon you are drinking away. One drink turned into several, and soon we were dining on big medium-rare steaks and mammoth plates of calamari and mushroom caps at one of Madison's better restaurants, Mack's Smith & Gallatin company credit card on the table and a bottle of white wine between us. (Mack always drinks white wine, no matter what the menu recommends. A chilled bottle of white Vendage, to Mack, is the ideal blend of comfort and elegance.)
Although he is more than two decades my senior, Mack is probably the one individual I know whom I could designate as a best friend. In truth, if I am honest about things—and I usually am—I would say he is sort of a father figure to me. He understands my work, for one thing, and he believes in my
If I think of myself then, I am hard to imagine. Her, I can see her. Me? I am faded. Someone else. How was I different then? I can't say. I just know that I was different.
Today, my memories of Valerie are contained in a large plastic tote that resides in my attic. Therein lie my photographs, my letters, and a few of her personal articles. I saved a pair of underwear, cotton panties festooned with butterflies, that I had slid from her hips that first afternoon in her apartment. I saved a sketchbook she had kept for an art history class, full of small pencil drawings and cryptic notes taken during visits to the art museums of Toledo and Chicago and Detroit. I saved a stick of lip gloss and her sunglasses and an unused circle of birth control pills, her backups. They are there in my attic, though it has been years since I've allowed myself that self-indulgent gesture of what I call memory sifting. Didn't Jesus say something to the effect of "Let the dead bury the dead?" I don't recall the context in which he says that, but I think of that quote often, when I am tempted to find those sacred underpants, press them to my face, and spend a day weeping.
And now, in my office, behind the closed door, I'm alone with this e-mail, from a Valerie, age thirty-four, from the same city where my wife was last seen. I chalk it up to eerie coincidence and file the response on my hard drive.
8. Zeke Pappas considers and weighs, weighs and considers.
N ORMALLY, EACH DAY at four o'clock, when Lara leaves the office, I retreat to my own office, close the door, make myself a large gin and tonic at the small wet bar I had added some years ago (with some gift funds from H. M. Logan, mind you, not federal money), and call my friend Mack Fences.
Mack, a book salesman who covers the Midwest for a major publishing company, and I have been good friends since my brief stint working in the Madison bookstore, the Pilgrim's Pages, which is owned by his partner, Joseph Simms. Mack, who often worked in the store, too, was impressed one evening by my literary taste and took me out for a martini at Paul's Club, where our bartender, a young man named Jim Meehan, instantly made us feel welcome. He was one of those rare bartenders who seem able to suspend time, so that you do not notice how much of the afternoon you are drinking away. One drink turned into several, and soon we were dining on big medium-rare steaks and mammoth plates of calamari and mushroom caps at one of Madison's better restaurants, Mack's Smith & Gallatin company credit card on the table and a bottle of white wine between us. (Mack always drinks white wine, no matter what the menu recommends. A chilled bottle of white Vendage, to Mack, is the ideal blend of comfort and elegance.)
Although he is more than two decades my senior, Mack is probably the one individual I know whom I could designate as a best friend. In truth, if I am honest about things—and I usually am—I would say he is sort of a father figure to me. He understands my work, for one thing, and he believes in my
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