Thanks again to the reviewers! I know I should thank you all individually
but it's such a struggle just to get chapters up in decent time, so my
apologies, and my sincere gratitude to each and every one of you!!
One afternoon, while soft clacks issued from Mort's computer upstairs, Marah browsed aimlessly through his many shelves of books, marveling at the extensive collection. She picked up a glossy paperback copy of Everybody Drops the Dime, planning only to open it to the back jacket flap and smile at Mort's photo—but as she pulled out the book, several pieces of paper fluttered to the floor, seemingly having been wedged between the book and the back of the bookcase. Upon closer examination, she saw more papers and pulled them out. Altogether they made a fairly thick stack.
She looked at the sheet on top, and her heart skipped a beat. His divorce papers.
Something felt wrong about the situation, and it wasn't just that she felt she was invading his privacy. She couldn't say exactly what it was that made her want to see them. The packet was thick, not just the copy he should have kept after the papers were filed. She pushed guilt to the back of her mind and glanced quickly upstairs to make sure he was still immersed in his work. Then she began leafing through the papers.
There were three copies, clearly marked: one for him, one for his ex-wife, one for the lawyers. Why should he have all three of them? When she saw the last page her heart turned over, suddenly cold. There was her signature, on the appropriate line, and above it, the space for his signature—and it was completely blank, the white staring blandly up at her.
This must be a mistake. It must be an early draft of the papers, never signed because they were unfinished. Mort must have signed and filed the later draft in a perfectly normal fashion. It made sense...but why would he have kept these papers, then? Distinctly hidden, no less, not just somewhere he might have shoved them absentmindedly. She couldn't stop looking at that line, drawn in clear black, with no signature above it. She followed it with her eyes, traced over it lightly with her finger between its beginning and ending points. This is where your happiness starts and ends, something said inside of her. This is where your happiness ends.
Of course not, she argued back. This is ridiculous and irrational and paranoid.
He's still married. You're living with a married man.
The idea struck her so hard it made her draw in her breath audibly. Then defiance came over her. I don't care, she thought forcefully. I love him. I never cared about rules anyway. His ex-wife's gone, taken off, hasn't she? What do I care what the record says? What do I care what the gossipmongers would say if they knew...
You can never marry him.
That brought her up short. She'd never mentioned the idea even to herself at the level of conscious thought, yet it was true, and she knew all along that it was true: she had believed that eventually, when he was ready, they would marry, maybe even have a family. And the papers she held brought all those dreams crashing down.
"I can't work anymore. You want something to eat?"
She whirled around. Mort stood there, soda can in hand. She hadn't even heard him come down the stairs, she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts. She felt the blood drain from her face, feeling guilty and ashamed and... afraid. She couldn't say why. She had never felt afraid of him before—that was why she had loved him so much, after her last relationship. He made her feel safe, protected but not suffocated, at peace.
He saw her face and looked surprised. Then he saw the telltale papers in her hand and frowned slightly.
"What's that?"
She couldn't think of anything to say. She looked down at them, back up at him, back down at them.
He crossed the room to her to look at them. She watched him approach with mounting panic, then jerked away when he reached out his hand to take them. He stopped dead, looking more concerned than angry.
"Are you okay?"
His look calmed her a little. Without a word she handed them to him. He leafed through, concern slowly changing to confusion, then another expression that she couldn't read. He still did not look up. The silence lengthened and became oppressive, until Marah felt she had to speak, just to make sure she still had the ability.
"You could have told me, you know, if the divorce was never finalized. I would have liked to know before now."
He didn't say anything. He just kept reading, turning pages back and forth mechanically. His eyes didn't look as if they were actually seeing anything.
She found herself getting angry at him.
"Don't you have anything to say?" she said, incredulity and desperation in her voice. She needed an explanation for this. Not even an explanation—just a way to disregard it. If he looked up at her and told her yes, he'd lied, no, he'd never gotten around to filing the papers, or whatever reason he had, it didn't matter... as long as he could tell her he still loved her. That would be enough. But he wasn't doing even that.
He was standing there, his expression and bearing suddenly changed so that it didn't even seem to be the same person standing there. He was lost, somewhere in the space where his name should have been.
One afternoon, while soft clacks issued from Mort's computer upstairs, Marah browsed aimlessly through his many shelves of books, marveling at the extensive collection. She picked up a glossy paperback copy of Everybody Drops the Dime, planning only to open it to the back jacket flap and smile at Mort's photo—but as she pulled out the book, several pieces of paper fluttered to the floor, seemingly having been wedged between the book and the back of the bookcase. Upon closer examination, she saw more papers and pulled them out. Altogether they made a fairly thick stack.
She looked at the sheet on top, and her heart skipped a beat. His divorce papers.
Something felt wrong about the situation, and it wasn't just that she felt she was invading his privacy. She couldn't say exactly what it was that made her want to see them. The packet was thick, not just the copy he should have kept after the papers were filed. She pushed guilt to the back of her mind and glanced quickly upstairs to make sure he was still immersed in his work. Then she began leafing through the papers.
There were three copies, clearly marked: one for him, one for his ex-wife, one for the lawyers. Why should he have all three of them? When she saw the last page her heart turned over, suddenly cold. There was her signature, on the appropriate line, and above it, the space for his signature—and it was completely blank, the white staring blandly up at her.
This must be a mistake. It must be an early draft of the papers, never signed because they were unfinished. Mort must have signed and filed the later draft in a perfectly normal fashion. It made sense...but why would he have kept these papers, then? Distinctly hidden, no less, not just somewhere he might have shoved them absentmindedly. She couldn't stop looking at that line, drawn in clear black, with no signature above it. She followed it with her eyes, traced over it lightly with her finger between its beginning and ending points. This is where your happiness starts and ends, something said inside of her. This is where your happiness ends.
Of course not, she argued back. This is ridiculous and irrational and paranoid.
He's still married. You're living with a married man.
The idea struck her so hard it made her draw in her breath audibly. Then defiance came over her. I don't care, she thought forcefully. I love him. I never cared about rules anyway. His ex-wife's gone, taken off, hasn't she? What do I care what the record says? What do I care what the gossipmongers would say if they knew...
You can never marry him.
That brought her up short. She'd never mentioned the idea even to herself at the level of conscious thought, yet it was true, and she knew all along that it was true: she had believed that eventually, when he was ready, they would marry, maybe even have a family. And the papers she held brought all those dreams crashing down.
"I can't work anymore. You want something to eat?"
She whirled around. Mort stood there, soda can in hand. She hadn't even heard him come down the stairs, she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts. She felt the blood drain from her face, feeling guilty and ashamed and... afraid. She couldn't say why. She had never felt afraid of him before—that was why she had loved him so much, after her last relationship. He made her feel safe, protected but not suffocated, at peace.
He saw her face and looked surprised. Then he saw the telltale papers in her hand and frowned slightly.
"What's that?"
She couldn't think of anything to say. She looked down at them, back up at him, back down at them.
He crossed the room to her to look at them. She watched him approach with mounting panic, then jerked away when he reached out his hand to take them. He stopped dead, looking more concerned than angry.
"Are you okay?"
His look calmed her a little. Without a word she handed them to him. He leafed through, concern slowly changing to confusion, then another expression that she couldn't read. He still did not look up. The silence lengthened and became oppressive, until Marah felt she had to speak, just to make sure she still had the ability.
"You could have told me, you know, if the divorce was never finalized. I would have liked to know before now."
He didn't say anything. He just kept reading, turning pages back and forth mechanically. His eyes didn't look as if they were actually seeing anything.
She found herself getting angry at him.
"Don't you have anything to say?" she said, incredulity and desperation in her voice. She needed an explanation for this. Not even an explanation—just a way to disregard it. If he looked up at her and told her yes, he'd lied, no, he'd never gotten around to filing the papers, or whatever reason he had, it didn't matter... as long as he could tell her he still loved her. That would be enough. But he wasn't doing even that.
He was standing there, his expression and bearing suddenly changed so that it didn't even seem to be the same person standing there. He was lost, somewhere in the space where his name should have been.