He was still her living, breathing husband until that evening, when he came home late for the third time in a week, having never, not once, called to explain or apologize. He stepped in from the garage carrying his ridiculous book bag, a small canvas satchel with cloth straps that made him look like he had a foot stuck in high school. He sang out, “Wow, that smells good,” as if he had not arrived two hours late for the baked cod or the talk they had agreed to have—the one about stopping the birth control pills.
Seated at the kitchen island, she did not turn to look at him. And when he—already warned—made the mistake of caressing her shoulder, sliding his too warm, too glib hand across the tense muscles there, that’s when he stopped being flesh and blood. Transformed into salt-rock, he stood rigid, his hand pulled back as if pricked. His raised eyebrows were alabaster, pale as the mineral blocks she had seen at her uncle’s feedlot. His clothes too. And that ridiculous bag where she had found the condoms.
Now it was all salt. The condoms in their cellophane wrappers. The phone with its mysterious number called over and over. The bag. His lifted brow.
Their terrier, frightened by this silent intruder, growled. The little dog advanced, snapping at the straps of the brittle bag, breaking it off so that it shattered. And somehow the mess didn’t bother her. She didn’t mind sweeping up. Who knew, maybe she could keep the bits in a garage bin. Maybe, once crushed, she could keep the whole of him there and salt her driveway for the next five winters, or even ten.
Tim Bascom is the author of the novel Squatters Rites (New Day Press), and he has published short stories in Profane, Natural Bridge, Lalitamba, and an anthology from Main Street Rag. He is author of two memoirs as well: Running to the Fire (University of Iowa Press) and Chameleon Days (Houghton Mifflin), which won the Bakeless Literary Prize. Bascom, who received his MFA from the University of Iowa, is Director of Creative Writing at Waldorf University,
Okay: we are in Weehawken, atop our apartment building. The roof has no rim. It is a stupid idea to sleep here but we do it sometimes during Summers. We can see the Pathmark from up here, the yellow corner of that flickering sign peeking out just above the overpass. Wondering: what's that guy who gives people cheap rides in his van from the Pathmark parking lot doing now? He's a Cuban dude, short with a cheerful belly, who works inside houses during the day, pressing tiles into floors or painting and the like—at least, that's what we put together from what's piled up in the back of his van, the dust on his jeans and t-shirt. None of us own cars and the Pathmark is a good mile away. And this guy just sits in the lot, scratching his mustache, end of his heavy day, waiting for schmucks like us. We carry too many bags, having been swayed by copious Pathmark PERKS items (oh, we reap the rewards, all right) and he walks up, almost always, asking if we need help, maybe a ride. We went with him once, all sore-shouldered but thankful for the lift. There were paint rollers and mortar mix and epoxies, and a lot of dust
