The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,28
about dialing in his bicycle, about the shortcomings of his aluminum frame compared to carbon fiber, about track-standing (whatever that is). And Jed fills the gaps with questions about Marlene. He remembers her well, it seems. Maybe he even had a crush on her once upon a time, the way freshmen can fixate on unattainable seniors. “She was planning to go to law school,” he says, which makes me wince a little. There was a time when I was planning to go to law school too.
Rick sits listening, stirring his Grape-Nuts with a contemplative spoon. Not his usual choice. He brought them back from his provisioning trip, along with the new sleeping bag, some gallon jugs of water, and a big box of generic-brand cheese crackers.
When the boys get up to leave, so does Rick. They go out the front as he slips out the back, saying good-bye over his shoulder like he’ll be back in an hour or two. No sense of occasion, my husband. Or maybe he just wants to escape.
As he lopes across the yard toward his shed, I watch him from the kitchen window. There’s a magnetic timer on the refrigerator. I set it for an hour, ruminate a little, then knock it back to forty-five minutes. He’ll be back by the time the clock runs down. He’ll hear the ping and know why. And I won’t have to say a word.
But the clock runs down and Rick doesn’t return. An hour passes, two, and I start to realize this could go on longer than a morning, or even a day. I have laundry to do, but between each step—clothes to the washer, clothes to the dryer, shrinkables to the drying rack (assuming I haven’t already shrunk them)—I pass by the window for a glance at the shed. No movement.
Selfish, that’s what it is.
Leaving me like this. All the work on my shoulders.
And it’s pretty dangerous too.
Try it out, he’s saying. This is what life without me would be like. This is a trial run.
Holly, who isn’t the sort to drop by unannounced, drops by unannounced the first afternoon. She joins me at the window for a few minutes.
“He’s not coming out, is he?”
I shake my head. “I guess not.”
“Well, you can’t wait around for it to happen. You’ve got better things to do. Come on, there’s a birthday to plan, right? The boys are going to need some normalcy if this”—she nods toward the shed—“is gonna keep up. Let’s go shopping.”
“Retail therapy? I’ll pass.”
“It’s not for you, silly. It’s for Eli.”
“Do they have a store that sells new dads?”
She loops her arm through mine and starts edging me out the door. “What he needs isn’t a new dad, Beth. He needs the old one to get fixed. Let’s leave him in his cocoon, and when we come back, maybe Rick’ll come out a butterfly.”
“I’d like to see that.”
On the sidewalk outside, we intercept Deedee with Roy Meakin in tow. Roy of the vintage Rolls, who’s carried a torch for Deedee Smythe for going on thirty years. When he’s around, it usually means Deedee is going to the market and needs a bearer. Or that she’s listed another huge, ornately carved piece of mahogany furniture on Craigslist and wants a man around when the buyer turns up.
I make the introductions. Roy seems delighted by my tall, blond friend. “You’re Eric Ringwald’s wife, aren’t you? I know Eric quite well.”
Roy and Holly talk finance for a minute while I smile at Deedee, waiting for it to stop. She’s not so patient. Pulling me to one side, she says, “You look distracted. What’s wrong?”
“He started up this morning in earnest.”
“Who, Rick? He’s out in the shed?”
I nod. “Since eight o’clock this morning, with no sign of movement.”
“Well, well.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Maybe I’ll drop in on him and wish him luck.”
“Wish who luck?” Roy asks.
“Elizabeth’s husband is channeling the desert fathers. He’s holed up in one of the old outbuildings to wait for a sign from God.”
“The desert fathers,” Roy says. “Are they the ones who climbed up on poles and wouldn’t come down for years? I hope you don’t have to wait that long.”
“I think it’s rather exciting. Who’s even heard of such a thing in this day and age? I can’t imagine you sequestering yourself for a whole month, Roy.”
“Not even for a day,” he replies.
“I’m telling you, Elizabeth, they simply don’t make men like that anymore.”