Marissa leans a little closer, uses her confidential voice, though she’s pretty sure even his good ear doesn’t work so well these days. And he probably isn’t paying attention. Around them people are eating dinner. Chairs are being slid in and out at tables. Low voices like pillows buffer an occasional impatient “what?” and the frustrated response, “I. SAID. THIS. IS….” The loud and demanding voices from a table in the corner go unnoticed; she’s used to this, the background noise of her visit. Some of the faces look familiar, a few nod in her direction. Marissa always tunes them out; she can’t take her eyes off Bob. His beautiful silver hair, the smoothness of his closely shaved cheeks. She lays her manicured hand over his, large and veined. They still look strong she thinks, and peers into his face to see if she’s gotten his attention.
“Elaine’s still going on about those damn five pounds of hers. She looks great, I tell her and besides, who can tell if you lost five or four or six pounds, it’s all just for your head at that point. But she won’t hear it. She thinks it’s those five pounds that will make her young again and I said, maybe just cut back on the cheese, but I know she doesn’t listen.”
The afternoon light outside is sneaking under the shades; the warmth progresses from her hip to her arm to her neck. She wants to be sure to tell her husband everything before she forgets. Angling the index card so that her husband can’t see, Marissa imagines what he’d say if he saw her relying on notes for their conversation. A fleeting memory of the way he’d get annoyed when she’d pop into the middle of his sentences with something she wanted to tell him, “But I won’t think of it if I wait!” Prodded by a slow melancholic anxiety, she glances down and keeps going. Lately she worries they’ve run out of things to talk about, and the thought of sitting beside him in silence is too much.
Her tiny, precise print is easy to see. Waning light rests on the card tucked under the table’s edge: #2- Don & Angie- apartment deposit. She knows Bob will love this bit of gossip. Don has been a thorn in his side, even if he hasn’t said anything about it lately, ever since Bob gave him a job at the plant, right before management retired him. It’s kind of a blessing Don doesn’t come by anymore; Bob doesn’t need the agitation.
“So, I saw Angie yesterday at the Stop and Shop and as soon as she sees me, she puts on her sad face. You know her, the littlest encouragement and she’s off to the races. ‘Hey Angie, why so glum’ I say, and she starts telling me how she and Don had to give up the money they’d been putting by for a deposit on the new apartment they were after. Her mom needs to get that big ocelot tattoo removed. Seems her new boyfriend isn’t a fan of the wildlife. Angie tried to say she couldn’t help her out, but you know Lucille, she just dogs Angie until she can’t say no. Don nearly had a canary when he found out because, of course, she didn’t tell him till after she’d got it from their account.”
She sees a bit of a smile at the corner of Bob’s mouth, she’s pretty sure. Leaning forward to see his face more clearly, to look straight on at him, at the reality of him, she tugs a bit at his sweater, straightens the collar, and even after all this time, she still feels sad when he makes no protest. Blinking a bit, quickly, she peers into his round brown eyes, runs her hand gently along his jaw. She draws a breath, fortifies herself, goes on.
“And then, who do I see at church this Sunday but Shelly. Father Frank was asking after you. He did that animal blessing again. If I’d remembered I would have stayed home. But Shelly? That surprised me. There she is with that little pocket-book dog of hers. ‘Oh, he’s got the most awful rash,’ she says, like how you’d say herpes or tried for murder. Then goes on to tell me how the vet told her to stop using scented fabric softener on those little outfits she dresses up the dog with. Poor thing. The dog, I mean.” And she gives a little laugh.
Whether from habit or wistfulness, Marissa waits for Bob’s response. A nod, a grunt, a wink.
Anything.
*****
Photography Credit: DH
Deidre Jaye Byrne’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Bellevue Literary Review, Avalon Review, CafeLit, and other publications, both print and online. She lives in the Hudson Valley as a recovering Long Islander.
