Authors: Laura Kasischke
Be Mine
Copyright © 2007 by Laura Kasischke
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Kasischke, Laura, 1961–
Be mine/Laura Kasischke.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Wives—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A6993B4 2007
813'.54—dc22 2006017063
ISBN 978-0-15-101273-2
ISBN 978-0-15-603383-1 (pbk.)
Text set in Garamond MT
Designed by Cathy Riggs
Printed in the United States of America
First Harvest edition 2007
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4
for
B
ILL
You shall yourself pluck out your right eye;
yourself cut off your right hand.
One—C
HARLOTTE
B
RONTË,
Jane Eyre
I stepped out the door this morning to a scarf of blood in the snowy driveway.
Like a bad omen, or a threat, or a gruesome valentine—a tire track, and the flattened fur of a small brown rabbit.
The florist must have run it over, delivering the roses, running late already by nine o'clock in the morning. When she handed me the long white box at the door she never mentioned having killed anything in my driveway. Maybe she never noticed. "It's our busiest day of the year," she said, breathless, "of course."
I was running late myself when I saw it. What could I do? The damage had already been done—utterly crushed, completely beyond hope—and cleaning it up seemed pointless. It was already snowing again. Soon, the evidence would be buried.
But I also felt such a pang of grief, seeing that bit of brown fur in the blood, that I had to steady myself at the door.
Was it one of the baby bunnies I'd startled from their hole in the garden last spring while planting morning-glory seeds?
I'd screamed when they scurried out of the soft dirt, and didn't go near that edge of the flower bed again all spring, into summer.
The mother rabbit abandons them, doesn't she, if she smells a human on them?
It would have been impossible to know if this dead one was one of those, but I felt sick with it. Guilt. My valentine roses had brought this sad end to something that had only been, moments before, making its way back to its little den under the snow. If I were a better woman, I thought, in less of a hurry, I'd get Jon's shovel out of the garage and dig a grave—a proper burial, maybe a cross made of Popsicle sticks, the kind Chad, when he was seven, made for Trixie's grave.
But it was such a bitter cold morning—a harsh wind out of the east, and so cold that the snow, even in that wind, lingered before it fell, as if the air were heavier than the flakes. And I'd lost my gloves again. (Left them in the supermarket cart on Saturday?) Out there with my car keys and no gloves, I thought it would have been impossible to dig a grave, anyway, in the frozen ground. Already, a couple of crows were sitting in the branches of the oak, waiting for me to leave.
V
ALENTINES:
From Jon, the dozen roses, delivered half an hour after he'd left for work, timed to surprise me as I walked out the door, and a little card on which the florist had written for him in her girly cursive, "To my dear wife, the only valentine I'll ever need. I love you, and will always love you, Jon."
And from Chad, the first valentine ever to arrive from him by mail. From college. A strange sad moment at the mailbox as I recognized, slowly, the handwriting on the red envelope with a postmark from California:
Ma, you know I love you. Tell Dad I love him too—too weird to send him a valentine. But I miss you both. Am having a great time here. Love, Chad.
I couldn't help but think, then—predictably, sentimentally—of those crude cutout construction-paper hearts. His crayon scrawl. I still have one of them pinned to the bulletin board above my desk at work, although the pink has begun to yellow and the edges have curled:
I VEOL YU, CHAD.
And the year he licked away half of a heart-shaped lollipop before wrapping it in a tissue and giving it to me.
This year, even Brenda sent me a card (my nest empty now that Chad's off to college, a way of reminding me about it while pretending to try to make me feel better)—a black-and-white photograph of two little girls in fancy hats and
To my sister-in-law with love.
Sue brought me some heart-shaped cookies the twins had made, and one of my students, a charming Korean girl, gave me a little box of chocolates, which I left for the secretaries in the English department. And even some secret admirer (or prankster?) left me a piece of paper, torn from a legal pad, folded into fourths, stuffed into a campus envelope, and put in my mailbox at school—red pen in an unfamiliar hand:
Be Mine.
A
NOTHER
accident on the freeway this morning. I keep telling Jon we need to get out of the suburbs now that Chad's gone, move closer to our jobs, quit this commute. But he just says, "Never."
To him, it's not the suburbs, it's the country, where, as a boy in an apartment in the city, he'd always dreamed of living. To him, it's not ten acres of scrubbrush, it's a farm, the "family farm," and he's never leaving his garage full of gadgets, his shooting range set up out back—target nailed to a pile of sandbags—his bird feeders, his riding mower. It's the little boy's dream left over from the days when he would watch
Lassie
on the black-and-white television in the cramped apartment he shared with two brothers, a sister, and his overworked mother. Someday, he thought then, he'd have an old farmhouse in the country, a .22, a dog.
Well, the dog is dead. And the old farmhouse is surrounded now by subdivisions with names like Willow Creek Estates and Country Meadows—McMansions erected overnight with billboards at the edge of the road proudly stating
STARTING AT
$499,000. (Are we supposed to be impressed by the expense, or seduced by the bargain?) And so much traffic now that hardly a day goes by that the freeway isn't closed down for an hour or two while the debris of some accident is cleared away. Twice in the last year we've been contacted by developers offering to buy our house, knock it down, and build four nicer, newer houses on our property.
And I'd do it, myself, sell it, pack up, move into a condo—
good-bye to all that
—but Jon's not yet done living his boyhood dream.
"I don't think the neighbors in our condo in the city would appreciate hearing me shooting my .22," he says.
He doesn't care that he puts five hundred miles on his Explorer every week, and that the price of gas is going up every day, and that the earth has nearly been drained of its fossil fuels.
No one
seems to care.
We're all driving wildly, blindly, out of our suburbs and into the future without giving it a second thought.
"Fine," I told Jon, "but if they keep building subdivisions, and the traffic gets even worse, I'm going to start staying in a motel in the city on the nights I have to teach."
He shrugged.
Poor, beautiful, blue-eyed Jon. I can still see, in those eyes, the child who never had the tire swing he wanted or the high grass to wade through with a Mason jar for catching crickets—and the true absence he will never get over—a father.
Oh, Jon, I'll live here forever for you if I have to.
But when I passed the flashing lights and the crumpled cars at the side of the road again this morning, I thought,
Jesus Christ.
When I finally got to the college, I found MayBell in hysterics outside my office. She'd lost her verb-tense transparencies, and could she borrow mine?
Well, I'd been planning to use mine, too, but gave them to her anyway. I am, I believe, a whole lot better at winging it than MayBell is. And, indeed, my class went well. Habib read a whole paragraph of
As I Lay Dying
out loud in a southern drawl, and we all laughed so hard that a few of us ended up crying.
After work, Jon and I met in the city for our Valentine's dinner. I thanked him for the roses and told him about the anonymous note, the valentine left in my mailbox at school:
Be Mine.
"Wow," he said. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me as if
seeing
me for the first time in a long time.
His wife. A woman with a secret admirer.
He'd ordered his steak rare, and there was a doily of blood all over his white plate.
"Who do you think it is?" he asked.
Truly, I told him, I had no idea.
There's Robert Z, our department's poet, who complimented me this morning on my clothes (a white blouse and olive suede skirt) with what seemed like true exuberance. ("Wow, Sherry. Very sharp!")
He liked another outfit, too, last week—a black skirt and a crocheted black sweater—and even touched the sweater's sleeve, feeling the texture of the wool.
"I like your style," he said. "Like a classy country-western star."
But, surely, Robert Z is gay. He's never
told
anyone he's gay, but we've all assumed it since he first got hired. Thirty-five, no wife, no kids, no ex-wife, no girlfriend—and those green eyes, the great fashion sense, the gym-hard body. We've all—the women in the department, which is nearly all women—examined the poetry for evidence (two books, university presses,
Gray Thoughts
and
The Distance Between Here and There).
But it's so fragmented, elusive—hard little riddlish poems—if there's any reference to romance, or sexual preference, who could tell?
And whether or not he's gay, "Be Mine" seems unlikely, coming from such a poet. Too literal. Too sentimental. Also, I know his handwriting by now. I see it all the time on his corrected papers lying around the Xerox room. It's less fluid than the smooth and looping handwriting of my secret valentine. Robert's writing is stiff. Barbed wire cursive. To disguise his writing, a man might be able to make his
fluid
script appear
less
so, but how could he make such pained lettering
more
fluid? Impossible. It's not Robert Z.
There are students, of course. Community colleges are full of older, lonelier men. More than a few candidates for crushes, I suppose. One man in his early thirties, Gary Mueler, who's been laid off from his job at the auto parts plant and is back in school trying to "diversify my skills," has seemed particularly and pathetically grateful for extra help on his papers.
(There are seven reasons why the automobile industry should be changed in my opinion. I will now tell you the reasons why I think the auto industry should be changed...)
On occasion he's seemed to laugh so hard at my lame jokes and little asides that I've wondered if there was something "off" about Gary Mueler. Most likely, he's just nervous.
It could be a prank, of course.
A mistake. Wrong mailbox?
"It could be anyone," I said to Jon.
"Well," Jon said, "you can't blame a guy for trying." His gaze lingered on me. And then, "I have to admit, Sherry, it's a bit exciting to think of some poor schmuck wanting to do it with my wife." He reached under the table and tapped the tips of his fingers on my knee.
I cleared my throat and smiled, and said, "For your information, Jon, I think there have been quite a few such schmucks in the past."
He put down his knife and fork. He passed his napkin over his mouth. "Did you ever grant any favors to these schmucks?"
"No," I said. (It was almost entirely true.) "But there's a first time for everything."
"Stop," he said, holding up the hand with the napkin, leaning across the table, whispering, "You're giving me a hard-on." He nodded toward his lap.
It had been so long since we'd been down this road, I'd almost forgotten it was there. When we were first married, we would talk out this fantasy every few nights:
What would I do if a biker pulled up next to me at a stop sign and asked me to meet him in a sleazy motel and give him a blow job?
(We'd move through the details of what I'd do....)
What would Jon do if a woman in a bikini at the beach lost her top and asked him to help her look for it in the dunes?
(He'd follow her—there would be a towel spread out in the beach grass, naturally.)
We'd point people out in restaurants—him, with the tattoo? Her, in the halter? In a hot tub? In the back of a car? And then we'd spin out the scenarios, and then we'd go home and make love all afternoon or all night.