An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [115]
It feels bad. Not very good at all. The sight of them together took my breath away, and so I had to stop the van a block away from where they were standing, just to get it back (my breath, that is). My mother and Anne Marie were standing next to my mother's car and saying goodbye, that was clear: they hugged several times in the minute I sat there, watching them. Anne Marie grabbed my mother's hand with both of hers, held it, and said something and then something else; then they both doubled over, laughing. When they were done laughing, they hugged again and held it. I counted to ten, and still they hugged. It was snowing heavily now, and the air was so thick with the stuff that the streetlights had kicked on, even though it was barely three o'clock. The street hadn't yet been plowed, and the snow was perfect in the way of unplowed snow. It was the kind of snow that made you wish you had a sled, an old one with metal runners, and it was also the kind of snow that made you forget that you were the kind of person who wouldn't ever take care of the runners and they would rust and soon the sled would be useless, which is another way of saying that it was the sort of snow that tricked you into thinking things were better than they actually were. Because just then, my mother and Anne Marie broke their clinch, and my mother noticed my van, idling just down the block. I waved to her through the windshield. She shook her head, said something to Anne Marie, and then hopped into her car and drove off in the other direction. Anne Marie turned around, saw my van, and walked toward me. I got out of my van and walked toward her. I was still wearing the clothes Peter Le Clair had given me a day earlier; Anne Marie was wearing one of those fleece vests that are really soft but somehow also water resistant, the sort of vest that's so comfortable it makes your torso sleepy and your arms jealous of your torso, and wide awake and angry because of it, which is by way of explaining that once Anne Marie was in range, she hit me, the way I'd hit Thomas a few hours earlier. She had gloves on, plus she had zero experience as a fighter, so the punch didn't have much force behind it and barely hurt, but still I fell to the ground, because that's surely where I belonged.
"It is better to be wounded than to wound," I told her.
"The hell it is," she said. "Get up."
I did as I was told. I had been in Peter's clothes for almost a day now, and in my own clothes for even longer: I smelled of woodsmoke and bar smoke and beer and human sweat and fear and the several layers of wet clothes that kept the smells close by.
"My father said you kissed a woman in New Hampshire," Anne Marie said, her voice even. Maybe she'd been practicing in the mirror, too. "Is that true?"
I admitted that it was and then told her the whole story. I didn't leave anything out, not one significant detail, not even the groping. And then I went further back and told her everything else I hadn't told her about my past, all the things she knew by now, although not from me. I'd left too many things out for too long. Anne Marie's facial expression didn't change once during the telling. She didn't frown, twitch, or grimace, even when I said that I loved her and that my kissing that woman was the first time it had ever happened and that it would never happen again. At the end of my story, I said, "That's it," and she nodded. That was all. It was the greatest feat of strength and control I'd ever witnessed, to listen to the story ― the story of how I'd lied to her for ten years ― and then do nothing but nod in response. If listening stoically to the story of how you'd been betrayed by your husband had been an Olympic event, Anne