mike stand in one hand, tilting it toward his mouth.
“The Fall Men’s Retreat is coming up in November. We’ve already had a record number of men sign up. If you haven’t made a decision yet, let me share three reasons why you should today . . .”
This is how I first laid eyes on my husband, standing on stage in front of a crowd. He’d seemed so handsome to me, so beautiful, a perfect, symmetrical man gone from marble to flesh. And he had a voice that sounded like the one in my head, a deep and friendly voice, always reassuring. It was Rick’s voice that had drawn me into the BSU meeting, hearing him speak between the songs as I passed the open door. With the lights dimmed, it felt like he was speaking directly to me. I loved the idea of him right away, and came to love the reality soon after.
Now, under the harsh light, his untucked, slim T-shirt clings to his shoulders, proving he still works out. He looks his age under the lights too, making the shirt and the whiskered blue jeans and the white-walled Keds a study in trying too hard. I feel for him, on display, the oldest man on stage apart from the senior pastor, delivering a sales pitch for a church retreat when he’s been told he ought to have a big voice in the church. It also pains me because his anxiety is apparent, the fear of aging and death, the fear of losing something he didn’t make better use of when it belonged to him.
The moment he’s finished, the floodlight switches off. The other side of the stage springs into action, one more upbeat praise song before we settle in. I watch the darkness where Rick’s shape disappeared, looking for the edges of the man I’m trying to love. Too far to make him out, I give up trying. Next to me, Holly starts clapping her hands. I slip into the aisle and make my way to the exit.
“You bailed on me,” Holly says. She sounds understanding over the cell phone.
“I had to. The noise was killing me. I have a headache coming on.”
“Where are you?”
I laugh. “Sitting in the parking lot.”
“I’ll come out.”
“Don’t bother. I think I’m going to head home. The boys can catch a ride with Rick.”
“I’ll tell them if I see them.”
“That would be great.”
The van shudders awake and rolls unhappily through the parking lot, out through the exit where an orange-vested traffic cop is sipping coffee straight from the thermos. At least, I assume that’s what he’s drinking.
A few years ago I never could have made it out of the church without running into a dozen or more friends and acquaintances wanting to talk. Now I can simply vanish and no one knows I’m gone. It’s not such a bad feeling, to be honest.
ACTIVIST + POET.
See, if the last part was meant to be taken seriously, it would have come first. I turn the card over in my hand. Nice and thick. The letters are indented into the paper the way old typewriters used to do it, only the font seems a bit fancy for a Remington or an IBM Selectric. Interesting. I punch the phone number in, resting my thumb on top of the Send button.
This is a bad idea.
Chas doesn’t even remember me. “Beth? Ahhh . . .”
“The lady who stopped the other day, when you were on the median. The one with the teenage son? That’s me.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I remember. Did you have a change of plans?”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I got my dates mixed up. You know what? Forget about this—”
“No, wait. It’s perfect. There’re a bunch of us here at my place. Biggest turnout in a long time. There’s a big demo coming up in, like, two weeks. Everybody’s amped. If you want to meet the Rent-a-Mob, this is your chance. Worst thing that could happen is you get some paint on your clothes and get your horizons expanded.”
That chafes a bit, his assumption that my horizons need un-narrowing. Thank you, Jesus fish.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“None of us do, Beth. You’ll feel right at home.”
“That’s truer than you realize,” I say. “Fine. How do I find you?”
I write the directions down, then double-check them at the computer in the kitchen. It’s past two and the house is empty. Rick and the boys haven’t come home or called. He probably sensed the need for damage