Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [91]
I brushed my teeth. I found a clip, shoved it over a large clump of hair, and did something I hadn’t been able to do in a long time. I opened my bedroom door and walked out in my nightgown. The blinds sliced the sun as it came into the den. From my bedroom door the room was awash in sun sliced into layers by the blinds. Those teeny particles floated by like they were on currents.
No Carl on the sofa. No evidence of Carl ever having been on the sofa.
I padded into the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed, the thermostat clicked on, the digital clocks on the microwave and oven blinked hello. All was well.
Still no Carl.
I looked around for Krups coffee maker. It was easier to find than my husband. It was exactly where it was supposed to be, in its appliance garage. We humans were bizarre. We bought things. Things we enjoyed. Things we needed. Then we decided that we didn’t want to see the things, nor did we want other people to see the things. So we bought things to hide the things. I started the Krups, and heard my cell phone ring. I haven’t heard it or seen it in a month. The “Celebrate” song, which I’d programmed in the last week of school, looped and relooped. If there's a surefire way to hate a song, download it as a ringtone. Naturally, the phone was exactly where it was supposed to be, in the electronics devices fueling station on top of the desk. The nifty little leather valet was home to my cell phone, Carl's Blackberry, two iPod Nanos, and their assorted chargers. Complete with a surge protector, thank you very much.
Missed call.
I just found Carl.
He and his father were on hole #3 at the club. I hated that one. A too-wide water hazard hole that held far too many of my cute pink Breast Cancer Awareness golf balls.
He didn’t say hello because, of course, there are no secrets with cell phones. He used his “I’m upset with you, but I don’t want my father to know” voice. The one that's too singsongy and too modulated.
Since I was alone, I could use any voice I chose. I chose perky.
“Good morning. I called to tell you I put your gift in the original box. It's in the safe.” The generic nature of this led me to believe he didn’t want his father and/or the other twosome of the foursome to know about the watch. Curious.
“Thanks,” I lilted.
“Anything else? ”
Was he kidding? But I ramped up the perk factor and answered, “No.”
“I’ll call you when I’m on the way home. Good-bye.”
I’m not given an opportunity to say good-bye. But I said it anyway. For practice.
Then I realized I didn’t ask if he’d changed the safe combination. I didn’t call him back. It used to be the day of each of our birthdays. 070204.
Doesn’t matter. In five months, there would be another Thornton. With a new birthday. We’ll need a new combination anyway.
Golf was definitely a game invented by men, for men. It requires a gaggle of equipment, it is considered a legitimate place to conduct business all over the known universe, and it takes an extremely long time to play. Eighteen holes. Most people are usually ready to quit at hole #14. But an extra four holes is an extra hour.
I was one of those rare wives, the kind many married male golfers would sacrifice a new Ping driver to have. I encouraged my husband to play golf. I even endured lessons to learn how to play myself. But when I started to detect relief and not disappointment when I’d turn down his offers to play, I didn’t push the