Chapter 37
Through the bedroom window, across the fallow fields, the sun is rising orange into the morning mist.
He comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, hair all over the place, beads of water dripping down his neck, tiny droplets in his chest hair.
"You gave me a pink toothbrush," he says.
I'm making the bed, one-handed.
"Only because you're manly enough to pull it off."
"Thanks."
He starts helping with the comforter on his side.
"You're welcome," I say. Then I add, "I'll hang onto it for you," without thinking.
He stands up straight, one hand on the towel, looking over at me, processing.
I bite my bottom lip, hold my breath.
By profession he reads into what people say. I have to remember that.
He starts arranging the decorative pillows, and I release the breath. Martha trained him well.
I cock my head to the side. "Is that towel secured well enough to withstand this kind of activity?"
He winks at me. "Would you mind if it wasn't?"
We really need to control ourselves.
"So the surgery," I say. "Any thoughts?"
He walks over to the chair and grabs his T-shirt then turns to me, putting it on.
"That's not a decision anyone can make for you, Vic," he says.
"I wasn't asking you to make a decision for me, Walt." I hate it when he does this. "I was asking you what you thought."
He steps closer and pulls me to him, carefully, more on the left side, and half hugs me.
"I know," he says into my hair then he reaches back for his boxers.
He nods towards the sling and the splint. "Being bound up in that for three months will probably cause you more problems than it'll solve."
"Ya think?"
"But with surgery there's always risk."
"Yup."
"When do you have to decide?" he asks, dropping the towel.
I can't help watching. When he catches me, he grins.
"Sorry," I say.
"I really don't mind. Really. At all."
I love him.
"Within the week, they said. I have to check with the insurance to see if they'll cover it."
"They'll cover it," he says. "For a law enforcement officer they'll cover it. But check anyway."
We go downstairs, and I make coffee, one-armed, so it takes a while. He sits at the wooden table I've only ever sat at maybe five times since I've lived here, and he puts on his boots.
"You going home before you go in?" I ask.
"I don't think so," he says. "Have to track down Mendenhall. What was her first name?"
"Sherry," I say. "She's a stalker, huh?"
"Apparently," he says. "Or the other guy is."
"The star?"
"Yeah," he says. "The star."
He's quiet for a minute, and I can feel his eyes on me. I stare at the percolating coffee, mostly to avoid acknowledging that he's about to say something.
"So, uh, Vic," he says.
He's resting an elbow on the table, and he has the back of the fingers of the same hand up against his lips. It's one of the many poses that says he's about to come out with something weighty.
"It's natural to have those dreams."
He wipes the same hand across his chin, puts the hand flat on the table, and turns to me, blue eyes intense.
"I know," I say.
I look out the window, and Rufus is out there in his yard, sniffing around the poles of the clothesline. When he finds just the right scent, he lifts his leg.
"You never seem messed up by it," I say. "You've always seemed fine afterwards."
"That's probably not a good thing. It used to bother me a lot."
I walk over to the table, sit down across from him.
"What changed?"
"Martha died," he says. "I felt like the world had done me wrong."
"How are you doing with that?" I ask.
It's the first time I've asked him since everything went down back in August. At first it was because we weren't spending any time together anymore. Since this started, though, it's because I'm afraid of the answer.
"I really am better," he says. "But it'll always be there."
"Of course."
He closes his eyes.
"Do you feel guilty for this? With me?"
His eyes snap open, and he shakes his head. "No, I don't. Like you said, she would want me to be happy."
It's weird how that has stayed with him. I remember a lot about that night, but the details that have lingered on in me are so different. That night was the first time I told him how I felt, though he didn't notice, and he wouldn't remember it if I told him now. And it was the night I realized I'd rather be standing outside a bar with him at four o'clock in the morning, dealing with a drunk clown, than lying in a warm bed with my husband.
"I have to ask you for a favor, Walt," I say.
He gives me that far away, closed lip smile.
"Anything," he says.
"I need a little time."
He doesn't know what I mean, turns his head like that might clear it up.
"I mean, I'm carrying around too much now. I need to work through it."
"The shooting," he says.
"Yeah. The shooting. The divorce. Us."
"Us?"
"Yeah. It's a lot all at once. It's overwhelming, and I want to do this right. I'm kind of at the tipping point now."
He stands up, puts his hand on his hip, squints towards the light coming in the kitchen window.
"What are you saying?" he says.
"I'm just saying I know myself. I know I push things down and don't deal with them. I know what that does to relationships."
"We can do this together," he says, but he still doesn't look at me.
I walk over to the other side of the table and take his hand. I look up at him until he finally looks down. His eyes are bloodshot.
"I know we can. I just need to get my head on straight first."
He looks at his watch then back at me.
"Can we do this later? I have to get in to the office."
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah."
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek.
"Lucien's expecting me tonight, but I can bring you groceries if you want."
"That's okay. I'll give Maggie a list for whenever she gets to the store. I'm good for now."
"All right," he says, putting on his coat.
He looks down at me and nods with something resembling a smile, and then he goes.