Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [93]
I shook my fist at him. “That’s why you didn’t yell at me.”
He ruffled my hair and gave a halfhearted laugh. “I figured I may as well leave it to the expert.”
And I did get a tongue lashing when I got home.
“Albenia Louise Harper, I’m surprised at you,” she scolded. “No, I take that back, I’m not surprised at all. You were full of the dickens when you were a child, and it’s only getting worse as you get older.” As she inspected the now purple-and-green bruise under my right eye, she continued to scold me. I countered with the fact that my impetuousness was obviously genetic (Let’s not forget that incident in Bakersfield four years ago, I reminded her. That was different, she said, that little punk was trying to take my purse. I’d have caught him, too, if I’d been wearing my sneakers). Gabe sat on the sofa drinking a grape soda, enjoying every minute of Dove’s lecture. She only stopped when Sam walked in. After an uncomfortable silence, Gabe went into the bedroom. Sam stared after him, his face angry.
“Let it go,” I told Sam. “He’ll get over it.”
“Who cares?” Sam said. “As soon as I’ve saved enough money, I’m gone.”
Dove gathered up her study books. “Honeybun, you’d best get some sleep now. You have a big day tomorrow. You, too, Sam.”
During the night something woke me. Not a sound exactly, more of a feeling that things weren’t right. I turned over and touched Gabe’s side of the bed. The quilt was thrown back, the sheets empty and cool. Over at the window there was a movement, and in the pale light filtering through our sheer curtains, I could see Gabe watching the shadowy front lawn. Navy sweatpants rode low on his hips, and he hugged his bare chest as though he were cold. I could see his body rock back and forth slightly in a self-comforting way that reminded me of a child. I wanted to go to him, hold him, and murmur words that would make the hurt of losing Aaron disappear. But I didn’t. I knew at this particular moment this was a road he needed to walk alone.
For weeks after Jack’s death, I rode my horse over miles of cow trails, ranting and railing against God, my head lifted up and shouting at the pale gray sky. Agitated blue jays flitted from tree to tree, screaming back at my violent words. My anger and blasphemy was so venomous, I expected to be struck down, a lightning bolt straight from the God I’d trusted since I was a child. And I wanted to be struck, to feel an electrified physical sensation of such mind-numbing proportions it would blot out the pain eating my insides like the maggots I pictured devouring my husband’s body.
God’s only answer was a piercing silence.
Eventually, when my torrent of words had been expelled, in the forgiving quiet, healing began. A still, small voice, like the gentlest wind, reminded me that death was as much a part of life as love. That with death, life doesn’t end, love doesn’t end. I started letting Jack go that day, and though there were still times when I longed to hear his laugh, moments when it seemed the sound of his voice would be the only thing that would ease the hurt deep in my chest, I was able to turn back to life and appreciate again the wet delicate nose of a newborn calf, the sweet, hopeful taste of an early strawberry, the solid feel of another man’s chest.
I watched my husband’s broad shoulders slump in the dim light, and my heart swelled with grief for him. I could not share this lonely journey with him or make it any less difficult. All I could do was stand at the end of the rugged, rock-strewn path and wait.
11
“DON’T FORGET TO come down and look at some pictures,” Gabe said the next morning. “It’s probably a waste of time, but you never know.”
I stuck a slice of sourdough bread in the toaster. “Before I do anything I need to rent a car.”
He turned his head away from his glass of orange juice to look at me. His face held his autocratic-ruler expression. “I told you to get your truck back from Sam.”
“He has to get to work.”
“His problem.”
I turned my back to him and concentrated on my toasting bread. This morning there was no