The Grievers by Marc Schuster Page B

new word.”
    “I didn’t—”
    “You did, Charley. And you are. You’re losing your shit because you don’t know what crudités are. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
    I squeezed some more toothpaste onto my toothbrush and shoved it back into my mouth before realizing that I’d already finished brushing my teeth.
    “Damn,” I said, spitting into the sink again. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
    “Charley!” Karen said. “For Christ’s sake, would you tell me what’s going on?”
    “It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s Neil. He’s moving.”
    “That isn’t nothing,” Karen said. “He’s your best friend.”
    “I know. I just—”
    “What?”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    Karen laid a hand on my shoulder, and when I pulled away from her, she reached for me again and made me look her in the eye. I tried to look away, but she moved her hand from my shoulder to my neck and pulled me closer.
    “It’s all happening so fast,” I said. “Billy. Neil. Why do things have to change?”
    “You want to work at the bank forever?” Karen asked.
    I smiled—not only because Karen was kind enough to use her favorite euphemism for my job, but also because a small part of me would have been content to walk back and forth on the hot, wet lawn in front of the bank until the end of time if it meant that I could keep the world from changing, keep my friends close by, keep everyone I knew safe and happy.
    “You’re right,” I said. “That would be ridiculous.”
    “I’ve been letting you slide, Charley,” Karen said. “Mainly because of Billy, but at some point it has to stop.”
    “It will,” I said. “When this is all over, I promise.”
    “And what is ‘this’ exactly?” Karen asked.
    I shrugged my shoulders and let out a sigh. When we got into bed and turned out the lights, I could feel the hard and soft contours of Karen’s body against mine. Shoulder blades and elbows. Skull, spine, and ribs. The warm curve of her bottom. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Closing my eyes, I could still see the tops of trees and the river coursing through the valley below as the image of my falling friend fluttered through my mind. Billy’s mouth was moving as if he were trying to speak, as if he were trying to tell me something, and for a moment I felt like I was falling with him.
    Or not quite with him, I realized, still falling.
    But as him—headfirst, eyes wide, earth rising skyward.
    I was Billy Chin falling, and I was free.
    My body jerked. My heart was racing. My hands shook with phantom jitters.
    Just nerves, I told myself as Karen snored softly in the darkness, but when I closed my eyes, all I could see were the tops of trees.

  CHAPTER TEN  
    B y Saturday morning, the clouds had lifted and the sky was clear. Over breakfast, Karen dropped a prolonged hint about the long day of scrubbing we had ahead of us. What was the best way to remove the paste from our dining room walls, my wife wondered aloud as she pulled a box of cereal down from the cabinet over the stove? Soap and water hadn’t done the trick, so maybe it was just a matter of more elbow grease. If we put some serious muscle into it, she mused, pouring cereal for both of us, maybe that would do the trick. Unless I thought we should consider more drastic measures, she said. Chemicals, perhaps. Something caustic, something from the hardware store that would likely cause long-term health problems, but which would, in the short term, fix everything.
    I stood in front of the open refrigerator, pretending to look for the milk and then feigning ignorance about everything Karen had just said.
    “What was that?” I asked, making a show of finally discovering a half-gallon of milk right under my nose despite the fact that Karen was already seated at the kitchen table with her back to me. “I was looking for the milk.”
    “The walls,” Karen said. “I’m tired of living like this. I want to paint, I want to put all the furniture back