had left off. I felt instantly that I’d made an awkward, pointless comment. “Taboo,” I added, trying to cover myself.
“Daly here is an RC,” Mr. Jansen said.
“You eat your Saviour every Sunday,” Steve said. “Isn’t that what those crackers are?”
“Beth Ann was Catholic,” Lindy said. He ran his finger in the dirt floor, drawing a cross. He pinched some of the dirt and threw it at the walls of the blind. “She wanted a Catholic funeral, and that’s what she got.”
Steve Rababy and Mr. Jansen averted their eyes, staring vacantly at different walls, as if trying to keep the separate lines of vision from tangling. Lindy looked at each of us, a soft well of tears pooling in his eyes. He rubbed a thick mitten across his face.
“I never converted,” he said, in a very small voice. “At the funeral, it was like a foreign language. They were saying goodbye to my wife, using words I didn’t understand.”
“Get over it,” Steve said. He had stopped working the call, but now he leaned out the window, scraping the wooden tongue over the box.
“That’s a little cold,” I said.
“Well,” Steve said, “we’ve heard all this. We heard it yesterday and the day before and the day before that. We drove up goddam I-75 singing this song.” He aimed a hard stare at Lindy. “It was almost a year ago. It’s just sentimental bullshit at this point. It’s fucking weak.”
“Take it easy, Steve,” Mr. Jansen said. He helped himself to another cup of hot coffee, cooling it with a measure of Scotch. “Everybody has their own time, Lindy most of all.”
“She knew everything about me,” Lindy continued, as if he hadn’t heard Steve. “Everything.” Tears streaked shamelessly down a face that crying contorted and turned ugly, a squalling baby’s face that was not sympathetic in a grown man. “Now no one does.”
“No one ever does,” Steve said. “You know, here’s your goddam marriage. All right? Okay? Let me recap. For thirty-five fucking years I listened to you bitch and moan about Beth Ann. All right? Every afternoon at the bar, starting the day after you came back from your honeymoon. Five o’clock and I could fucking count on it. How she didn’t give it up enough, how she wouldn’t swallow, how she didn’t look young anymore, blah blah blah”—with each “blah,” he swiped a strident cluck from the call—“on and on and on. And now she’s dead and it’s like, mamma mia, she’s some kind of fucking saint.”
“Lucy knows everything about me,” Mr. Jansen offered. It seemed a silly, conciliatory remark, not at all the kind of thing my wife’s father believed.
Steve called him on it. “Yeah, right—I know more about you than she ever will.”
Steve continued to scrape the call, but the wind had blown the horizon blank and there was no sign of a bird.
“And both of you know a fuck of a lot more about me than Sandy does,” he said.”The way I see our marriage is, like, finally, after thirty-nine years, we understand we don’t understand each other. We finally got that cleared up.
“Give me another drink,” he said, beating senselessly on. “She could give a rat’s ass about hunting—sitting out here in this box would seem stupid to her.
“Forget the turkey,” he said. “I have a mind to shoot myself.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
Steve barked a frantic, nearly hysterical call, working the tongue rapidly, like honing a knife against a whetstone.
“You don’t like me, do you? You got a problem with me.”
“Jesus, how’d we end up here?” Mr. Jansen said. “Let’s just everybody shut up for a minute.”
Steve said, “There’s key shit Sandy doesn’t know and never will. Stuff about Katrina, and that whole saga, right?” He sniffed, then spat through the window. “And yeah, every Friday about eleven, twelve o’clock you could always find Lindy’s car parked outside the massage parlor on Warren. Those Oriental girls, they look like teenagers
“Daly here is an RC,” Mr. Jansen said.
“You eat your Saviour every Sunday,” Steve said. “Isn’t that what those crackers are?”
“Beth Ann was Catholic,” Lindy said. He ran his finger in the dirt floor, drawing a cross. He pinched some of the dirt and threw it at the walls of the blind. “She wanted a Catholic funeral, and that’s what she got.”
Steve Rababy and Mr. Jansen averted their eyes, staring vacantly at different walls, as if trying to keep the separate lines of vision from tangling. Lindy looked at each of us, a soft well of tears pooling in his eyes. He rubbed a thick mitten across his face.
“I never converted,” he said, in a very small voice. “At the funeral, it was like a foreign language. They were saying goodbye to my wife, using words I didn’t understand.”
“Get over it,” Steve said. He had stopped working the call, but now he leaned out the window, scraping the wooden tongue over the box.
“That’s a little cold,” I said.
“Well,” Steve said, “we’ve heard all this. We heard it yesterday and the day before and the day before that. We drove up goddam I-75 singing this song.” He aimed a hard stare at Lindy. “It was almost a year ago. It’s just sentimental bullshit at this point. It’s fucking weak.”
“Take it easy, Steve,” Mr. Jansen said. He helped himself to another cup of hot coffee, cooling it with a measure of Scotch. “Everybody has their own time, Lindy most of all.”
“She knew everything about me,” Lindy continued, as if he hadn’t heard Steve. “Everything.” Tears streaked shamelessly down a face that crying contorted and turned ugly, a squalling baby’s face that was not sympathetic in a grown man. “Now no one does.”
“No one ever does,” Steve said. “You know, here’s your goddam marriage. All right? Okay? Let me recap. For thirty-five fucking years I listened to you bitch and moan about Beth Ann. All right? Every afternoon at the bar, starting the day after you came back from your honeymoon. Five o’clock and I could fucking count on it. How she didn’t give it up enough, how she wouldn’t swallow, how she didn’t look young anymore, blah blah blah”—with each “blah,” he swiped a strident cluck from the call—“on and on and on. And now she’s dead and it’s like, mamma mia, she’s some kind of fucking saint.”
“Lucy knows everything about me,” Mr. Jansen offered. It seemed a silly, conciliatory remark, not at all the kind of thing my wife’s father believed.
Steve called him on it. “Yeah, right—I know more about you than she ever will.”
Steve continued to scrape the call, but the wind had blown the horizon blank and there was no sign of a bird.
“And both of you know a fuck of a lot more about me than Sandy does,” he said.”The way I see our marriage is, like, finally, after thirty-nine years, we understand we don’t understand each other. We finally got that cleared up.
“Give me another drink,” he said, beating senselessly on. “She could give a rat’s ass about hunting—sitting out here in this box would seem stupid to her.
“Forget the turkey,” he said. “I have a mind to shoot myself.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
Steve barked a frantic, nearly hysterical call, working the tongue rapidly, like honing a knife against a whetstone.
“You don’t like me, do you? You got a problem with me.”
“Jesus, how’d we end up here?” Mr. Jansen said. “Let’s just everybody shut up for a minute.”
Steve said, “There’s key shit Sandy doesn’t know and never will. Stuff about Katrina, and that whole saga, right?” He sniffed, then spat through the window. “And yeah, every Friday about eleven, twelve o’clock you could always find Lindy’s car parked outside the massage parlor on Warren. Those Oriental girls, they look like teenagers
Similar Books
