extensions.
All in all, he felt surprisingly few obligations toward other human beings. His friends were so busy with their jobs and children, they wouldn’t have much time to mourn, and Nate had so many consolations between his women and his wealth, he would never suffer for long. Only Sarah had the capacity for extended grief. Sarah, with her memories, her poetry, her inconsistent philosophies. He could not leave her in limbo. Eventually he would have to go to her, to explain everything and give her the power to decide what should happen next in their lives.
At the store he withdrew two hundred dollars from the ATM. He guessed that Sarah wouldn’t notice; she never balanced her checkbook and maintained only an approximate notion of what the totals should be. Their funds were always sufficient, and when the bank sent its monthly statements she simply glanced at the balance and threw the sheets onto his pile of papers to be filed. Widowhood would probably change her habits, but that would take months, and by then they would have spoken. In the meantime, the money machine would serve as his accomplice.
He was going to need more supplies. Two pairs of underwear were insufficient to start a new life, and the general store offered meager groceries—canned fruit, Wonder Bread, milk cartons with overdue expiration dates. He needed warm clothes, medicines, and hardware. He needed, alas, a Wal-Mart. Sarah almost never visited the one on the outskirts of town. If he went there in the early morning, he could probably avoid anyone he knew.
David planned his shopping for the following Tuesday, and prepared by growing a seven-day beard. When the time came, he wore a baseball cap, his knapsack, and black sunglasses that darkened the sunrise to a midnight glow. He pedaled along side roads as much as possible, averting his face whenever a vehicle passed. The mountains were grueling and his legs were weak; he had to push his bike up some of the hills, so that the forty-minute car ride to Jackson took nearly three hours. It was almost nine o’clock when he arrived at the supercenter, an hour behind schedule, but when he scanned the parking lot for familiar cars, he recognized none.
Inside the door, he angled his face away from the security cameras. Removing his sunglasses, he hurried through the aisles, indiscriminately grabbing fishing line and hooks, underwear and socks, a sweatshirt, blue jeans, a spatula, tape. Each minute was an excruciating exercise in paranoia. He cringed at every possible encounter, maintaining an aisle between himself and all other shoppers, but it was a needless precaution. The strangers remained isolated in their own concerns, more attentive to prices than to people.
The only person who looked him in the eye was the checkout girl, who smiled and asked, “Credit or debit?” He had automatically run his card through the machine—the Exxon Visa that Sarah rarely used. Now he would have to sign his name on a piece of dated paper, the first tangible proof of his life after death.
“I’m sorry. Can I pay with cash instead?”
“Sure. Just press cancel.”
Outside, next to the riding mowers, he emptied his plastic bags into his knapsack, and was surprised at how few of his provisions fit inside. Glancing around, he kicked off his shoes, pulled his new blue jeans over his shorts, and tied the sweatshirt around his waist. He stuffed fishing line into his pockets and tied tube socks around his handlebars, looking like some kind of bike-riding homeless man. But no one stopped, no one stared. Silly, to have imagined himself as a magnet of attention. He could probably ride through town as unnoticed as every other ghost.
Only at the parking lot exit, when a blue Accord pulled up on his left, did he feel his stomach clench. There was Margaret, the ubiquitous woman, concentrating on the red light. Slowly, very slowly, avoiding sudden movements, he turned his handles to the right and coasted into the gas station
All in all, he felt surprisingly few obligations toward other human beings. His friends were so busy with their jobs and children, they wouldn’t have much time to mourn, and Nate had so many consolations between his women and his wealth, he would never suffer for long. Only Sarah had the capacity for extended grief. Sarah, with her memories, her poetry, her inconsistent philosophies. He could not leave her in limbo. Eventually he would have to go to her, to explain everything and give her the power to decide what should happen next in their lives.
At the store he withdrew two hundred dollars from the ATM. He guessed that Sarah wouldn’t notice; she never balanced her checkbook and maintained only an approximate notion of what the totals should be. Their funds were always sufficient, and when the bank sent its monthly statements she simply glanced at the balance and threw the sheets onto his pile of papers to be filed. Widowhood would probably change her habits, but that would take months, and by then they would have spoken. In the meantime, the money machine would serve as his accomplice.
He was going to need more supplies. Two pairs of underwear were insufficient to start a new life, and the general store offered meager groceries—canned fruit, Wonder Bread, milk cartons with overdue expiration dates. He needed warm clothes, medicines, and hardware. He needed, alas, a Wal-Mart. Sarah almost never visited the one on the outskirts of town. If he went there in the early morning, he could probably avoid anyone he knew.
David planned his shopping for the following Tuesday, and prepared by growing a seven-day beard. When the time came, he wore a baseball cap, his knapsack, and black sunglasses that darkened the sunrise to a midnight glow. He pedaled along side roads as much as possible, averting his face whenever a vehicle passed. The mountains were grueling and his legs were weak; he had to push his bike up some of the hills, so that the forty-minute car ride to Jackson took nearly three hours. It was almost nine o’clock when he arrived at the supercenter, an hour behind schedule, but when he scanned the parking lot for familiar cars, he recognized none.
Inside the door, he angled his face away from the security cameras. Removing his sunglasses, he hurried through the aisles, indiscriminately grabbing fishing line and hooks, underwear and socks, a sweatshirt, blue jeans, a spatula, tape. Each minute was an excruciating exercise in paranoia. He cringed at every possible encounter, maintaining an aisle between himself and all other shoppers, but it was a needless precaution. The strangers remained isolated in their own concerns, more attentive to prices than to people.
The only person who looked him in the eye was the checkout girl, who smiled and asked, “Credit or debit?” He had automatically run his card through the machine—the Exxon Visa that Sarah rarely used. Now he would have to sign his name on a piece of dated paper, the first tangible proof of his life after death.
“I’m sorry. Can I pay with cash instead?”
“Sure. Just press cancel.”
Outside, next to the riding mowers, he emptied his plastic bags into his knapsack, and was surprised at how few of his provisions fit inside. Glancing around, he kicked off his shoes, pulled his new blue jeans over his shorts, and tied the sweatshirt around his waist. He stuffed fishing line into his pockets and tied tube socks around his handlebars, looking like some kind of bike-riding homeless man. But no one stopped, no one stared. Silly, to have imagined himself as a magnet of attention. He could probably ride through town as unnoticed as every other ghost.
Only at the parking lot exit, when a blue Accord pulled up on his left, did he feel his stomach clench. There was Margaret, the ubiquitous woman, concentrating on the red light. Slowly, very slowly, avoiding sudden movements, he turned his handles to the right and coasted into the gas station
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