2001-02 Charles River Review: This Corner of the Universe

Henry let out an audible yawn and slumped into the mesh back of his Aeron chair. He was alone in the chat room with Wanda and Fred, his favorite and least favorite members of the group respectively, and Fred had just started one of his long-winded rants. Thankfully the subject wasn't little Jenny or little Cole. Fred could be unbearable when he rambled on about his children. Unlike Fred, Wanda was interesting, bright, and hilarious, this last quality being the one Henry found most irresistible. He couldn't help wondering what Wanda looked like. His imagination certainly had a vivid image.

What had started as an occasional gathering of video game enthusiasts had become a group of eight regulars who talked often about anything and everything. Henry's cyber adventures had undergone a more radical transformation in the last two months. An Instant Messenger window popped onto his screen. It was a question from Wanda: If they were to do it while still in the chat room with Fred would that make them virtual exhibitionists? Henry smiled. When had the cyber sex started? When had his and Wanda's frank conversations about sex turned into sexual talk? He watched Fred's words continue in a steady stream as a short burst was added to the IM box. Wanda was wearing fishnet stockings. He felt the familiar twinge in his loins.

Henry reached for the keyboard but instinctively straightened at the familiar sound of the cellar door opening at the top of the stairs. His desk was just to the right of the bottom of the stairs, causing him to tilt his head back and to the left as he waited for his wife's voice.

"Sweetheart, did you get the trash out? They've been coming early lately."

"Not yet; I'll get to it," said Henry. He let his head roll all the way back now, casting his gaze on the ceiling. The next sound would not be the cellar door closing.

"Well, we missed last week's pickup. If you're so intent on saving the universe, hon, you might want to start with this corner. The space debris is piling up."

The saving the universe joke was becoming as original as pull my finger. His wife had started it long ago with Henry's first video game purchase. The joke had found new life when Henry bought a new X-box, the latest subversive plot by Microsoft to conquer the world, this time via a video game console.

"I think I can handle the garbage, Linda," sighed Henry toward the ceiling. Now he waited for the click of the cellar door. Instead a murmur drifted down the stairs evaporating as it reached him. "What?" he said.

"I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, I'll be up soon." Henry returned his attention to the computer screen. Wanda was waiting for a reply, and Fred was disingenuously disputing his wife's claim that little Cole looked more like his father every day. He began to type, interrupting Fred with an excuse about the time and the garbage before exiting the chat room. He then signed off with Wanda, citing the fact that it was only Tuesday, it was already late, and if they got started talking, they might be up all night. He didn't mention the unexpected cold shower from upstairs. He tapped a pad on the floor with his foot, powering off the entire system, and rose slowly to his feet, grimacing as he stretched. "Jesus, feel like I'm pushing 60, not 40."

Henry turned toward the stairs ready to make his way out of man-town. He'd heard his wife's euphemism for the cellar so often that it had become his own. He clutched the banister and stopped, his eyes burrowing into the cellar door above. He turned again and shuffled to the other side of the room, enjoying the heat on his soles as they slid along the thick carpet. With the panache of a gunslinger he scooped up the remote, collapsed into the plush black leather sofa and launched the 42-inch television to life. Winding up to speed, his thumb soon had the images moving too fast for the human eye to capture.

The following Saturday, Henry stepped inside from the chill autumn morning smelling of fresh dirt and wet leaves. The sudden furnace of the kitchen caused his glasses to fog up. Skokie's proximity to Lake Michigan gave the fall days extra bite but certainly not enough to justify Linda's attempt to burn up all the heating oil in Illinois. He peeled the wire rims from around his balding head, stomping his feet on the mat. "You're up early," he said.

"No, I'm up at my usual time," said Linda, efficiently turning the page of the Tribune, "you're up early. A Saturday no less, not returning to form are we?"

She sat at the faded oak table, her head propped up by the collar of her thick, cream-colored Irish sweater, contrasting nicely with the short chestnut hair curling around her face. Her hair had used to cascade down her shoulders like a fountain, but after the courting ritual ended, so went the bells and whistles with it.

Linda reached for her generous blue coffee mug, the one covered with hearts and Daddy's Little Girl, a daily tribute to the nihilist that came with her dowry. Her gaze fell to Henry's mid-section, the soft lines forming around her dark brown eyes indicated that a smirk lay hidden behind her mug.

"Returning to form?" asked Henry as he looked down and scowled at the source of his wife's amusement. His gray University of Illinois sweatshirt was pristine except for the swath of dirt covering his stomach. He still retained the brick-house build of his rugby days, but a steady diet of meat and potatoes had seen the addition of a front porch. He swept at the dirt only to smudge it and make it worse.

"You used to beat the worms to work, now you're lucky to catch the late train in the morning. Speaking of which, does Starfleet condone yard work?"

Henry grunted and kicked off his dirty Nike high tops, then padded his way across the dingy white linoleum and retrieved a plain green mug from the cabinet beside the sink. He pulled the pot from the ancient Mr. Coffee and filled his cup over the sink.

"You tackling Everest today?" Henry asked.

"It's cold in this house," said Linda without looking up.

Henry snorted and shook his head. "You know, I hope we both arrive in hell at the same time. I want to see Satan's face when you ask to see the thermostat."

Linda rolled her eyes with a sigh and continued to read the paper. Henry had often thought his wife would make a good Muslim. She was so perpetually wrapped in clothing that he wouldn't be surprised to see her come down in a veil one morning. Once he'd made the mistake of coaxing Linda into a silk teddy. He'd felt like a necrophiliac, rushing to screw his own wife before full rigor mortis set in.

To be fair, Linda had always been conservative, but that didn't mean she lacked passion. Erotic underwear and talking dirty made her self-conscious, but that hardly prevented many a wild night. In fact it made those nights all the more surprising and exciting. When did his wife start growing all these layers?

Henry's mind drifted to a vague image of Linda in a maroon tank top, hair raining down around her face and over her shoulders as she went around throwing open windows. When was that? Was it even real? Was it in this house? Was it before the house? No. He was kidding himself. He was trying to derail his train of thought before it ended in the same place all his trains of thought ended. The tank tops stopped the same day everything else stopped; the day their world stood still.

"It's been awhile since we've seen a film," said Linda. She looked over at Henry. "What do you think?"

"Tonight?" His chat room was always full on Saturdays, usually between 9 and 9:30.

"We don't have to." Linda turned the page of the paper. "It was just an idea."

"No, no, we can go to a movie," said Henry. His foot swept the tiny brown leaves on the floor before the sink into a pile. "What time?"

"We don't have to go if you're not up for it."

"Linda. I want to go to a movie. What time?"

"What do you want to see?"

"I don't know. Pick something out. But no chick flicks!"

Stepping from the theater that evening, Henry buttoned his black wool coat and pulled the collar up and around his neck. The temperature had dropped ten degrees in the two hours they had spent watching the film. Linda was standing on the edge of the curb watching the occasional traffic drive by. Her red wool coat was open, but she made no motion to close it, instead casually placing her hands in her pockets.

"Do you want to wait inside while I get the car?" asked Henry.

"Actually, I thought we might grab a drink." Linda turned and looked at him, her luminous dark eyes overpowering even the diamond stud hanging in the delicate cleft of her throat.

Henry looked at his watch. It was 8:55. "Ah, sure."

"We don't have to," replied Linda.

"I just thought you'd be tired," said Henry. "It's past your bedtime."

"We can go home, that's fine." Linda looked down at the sidewalk and began buttoning her coat. "You're probably right, it's late."

Henry looked at his watch again. "No, we don't have to go home, it's not that late. Would you rather we grab a cup of tea or something? You hate bars, hon."

"Maybe I was hoping to get you liquored up," said Linda. He stared at Linda as her mischievous brown eyes peeked at him and returned to the road.

"What?" she said.

"What do you mean, what?" Henry gave her a playful nudge. "Say it. Let's have sex."

"Stop it," she said, burrowing her chin into the lapels of her coat, the soft lines around her eyes revealing her false indignation, giving her away.

"What about 'boinking'? 'Doing it'?" said Henry as he wrapped his arm around Linda's back and dug his fingers into her side, forcing her to flinch into him. "Can you even say 'let's make whoopee'?"

She buried her head into his shoulder. "Leave me alone."

"Say 'blow job'!"

"Dream on!" said Linda, digging her hands into his sides.

"Let's get that drink," he laughed.

They sought the warmest corner of the warmest pub they could find. Dimly lit, the bar with walls and booths of crude stained wood gave the impression of a deep cave. Linda went to order drinks at the bar while Henry pilfered one of the small glass candles from a neighboring table. Linda loved candles, and he loved his wife's soft features by candlelight. She approached the table with a glass of red wine and a pint of Guinness, settling onto the hard bench next to him. They both watched the streams of white foam migrating to the top of the ebony liquid.

"So, did you at least enjoy the first half of the movie?" she asked.

"Hey, I told you no chick flicks," said Henry. Taking a long drink of his stout, he looked at the lines around her eyes. Linda's eyes had always been his undoing; he had lost himself in their dark mystery many moons ago. The lines around them acted as the snake's rattle, warning of an imminent strike from her often-wicked tongue. This snake's venom had grown more poisonous with age.

"Amelie is not a chick flick. You think anything with subtitles is a chick flick."

"Bullshit. La Femme Nikita is one of my favorite movies," he replied.

"Okay, anything with subtitles in full sentences." She took a sip of wine and used the tip of her tongue to play with the corner of her smirk. "Actually, subtitles are a great help when you can't hear because of the old man snoring next to you."

"Oh, go to hell, it was a chick flick and you know it," said Henry. He could feel Linda looking at him as his face flushed. He watched the dance of the candle in its glass prison. A smirk of his own languidly curled the corners of his mouth. "If I'm not mistaken, there's only one person at this table who's still in his 30s."

Linda's face brightened. "You're running on fumes, mister, better enjoy these last few months."

"Tough to do when living with a jealous old bitch who will always be older than me. Tell me, I can take it. How bad is it to be pushing 50?"

"Fuck you," laughed Linda.

Henry opened his eyes and peered over at the digital clock. It was 2:05, two-and-a-half hours since they had returned from the bar. Fall asleep now, and that's at least six hours of sleep. He rolled over again, onto his other side. The slight scent of stale sweat mixed with fresh sheets.

It had been a nice night. The conversation had been predictable yet pleasant. The kids in her classes were still little bastards and the official category of Amelie remained undecided. But the stouts went down smooth, and the lovemaking was tender, like being wrapped in a favorite warm blanket on a chilly night. He was surprised at how pale Linda's skin was. It hadn't been that long ago. She'd put on some weight; it was hard to tell when someone dressed like King Tut after the funeral.

He rolled back over. 2:07. He wondered what the chances were that Wanda was still online. Sliding gently from the bed, he retrieved his sweatshirt from the pile of clothes in the closet and crept silently downstairs.

Arriving home from work on Monday night, Henry paused at the front door before entering the house. He balanced the brown leather satchel on his thigh and threw open the flap while juggling the two other bags he was carrying. Careful not to drop the brown paper bag containing the sandwiches, he tucked the plastic Wal-Mart bag, containing Halo, into his satchel and closed the flap. Linda probably wouldn't say anything about his growing video game catalogue, but why chance a useless conversation that could easily be avoided.

The sweetness of potpourri and incense assaulted him as he stepped inside, followed by the stale odor of a house hermetically sealed from the elements that no amount of potpourri could ever quite conquer. Placing his satchel on the worn gray carpet of the stairs, which they planned to replace with hardwood someday, Henry followed the sounds of "Oprah" into the den on his left.

The den had become a room within a room. Henry liked to suggest it was the beginning of a black hole, his wife and all the furniture being drawn in closer and closer to the coffee table until it all collapsed in on itself; a hole of pitch from which not even light or television movies could escape.

The current orbit of mismatched furniture sat three feet from the surrounding walls of faded blue wallpaper. A maroon armchair and an off-white, floral patterned couch, both of which were to be reupholstered to match someday, curved around the cherrywood coffee table. His wife sat in the armchair, facing the front hall, huddling over the latest scholarly efforts from the little bastards.

A couple of the candles along the mantel on the wall facing the couch were lit. Eight years and counting, the mantel still waited patiently for its first lit log. Bookshelves, flanking both sides of the fireplace, were filled with tomes of a different age: Joyce, Yeats, and Wilde languished beside Tolstoy and Chekhov and a disintegrating edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. A 27-inch television sat on a square white table. Henry often fantasized about dragging the college version of his wife--who, in a still-legendary outburst, had berated his roommates about the mind-numbing vice that was TV--into this room just to watch herself scream.

"Hey, hon," said Henry.

"Hey," said Linda. She looked up with a faint smile. "How was your day?"

"The usual. Do you want your sandwich now?" "You can put it in the fridge," replied Linda, returning her attention to the papers in her lap. "I'll heat it up later."

"Do you need a refill?" Henry nodded towards the half empty wine glass on the floor. Linda paused, then shook her head no. Henry glanced about the room once more. "You know, we ought to get you some cats." The comment used to register a laugh and a vicious return volley. Now it didn't even rate a middle finger.

Henry made his way past the stairs through the short hallway to the kitchen. He lifted his gaze from the floor to the kitchen window with a sigh. Strands of green leaves, brown leaves, and somewhere-in-between leaves dangled from the plant hanging above the sink. He put the sandwiches on the counter and stooped down. Sweeping the tiny brown leaves together in a small pile, he pressed his hands together capturing as many as he could and deposited them in the sink along with the discarded plant flesh already there.

"You really ought to start watering this thing, Wanda!" What it really needed was to be replanted. The roots needed new room to grow. Better yet, just toss the thing out. An unintelligible reply came from the den.

"What?" asked Henry. He was back in the doorway of the den drying his hands with the green-and-blue dishtowel.

"What did you call me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You said something about the plant, and then you said a name," said Linda. "It didn't sound like mine."

"I said you really ought to water this plant, Linda," said Henry, tilting his head to the side and raising his eyebrows. "Hey, while I'm thinking of it, do you know where we put our golf clubs?"

Linda pulled her head back in a bemused smile. "Are we going to give that another go?"

"God, no!" laughed Henry. "Some experiments you learn to trust the initial results. A friend at work and his wife are contemplating torturing themselves, so I offered to sell him ours. I have a clear conscience though, I warned him!"

"Oh," said Linda. "I think they're upstairs in one of the bedrooms." Her red felt pen resumed its massacre as Henry headed upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, two closed doors faced each other at the end of an abbreviated hall. Henry opened the door to the right. The chill of the unfinished room and its menacing angular shadows gave him the fleeting impression of a graveyard at night, as if the ghost of Christmas future would suddenly appear to lead him to some cryptic tombstone. He flipped the faceless switch, exposing the room to the stark blinding bulb dangling from the ceiling. The light created new shadows, revealing skeletal walls of rough wood, some stuffed with insulation, other sections stripped of this pink flesh laying bare the slats underneath. Henry scanned the room, breathing in the mildew and dust.

The dilapidated green couch from his old apartment anchored the room, around which other articles of disuse collected. Stacks of copier and green-bar computer paper and textbooks covered one side of the couch, two white rectangular boxes the other side. A lace garment and a cashmere sweater peeked out of a tear in the bottom box. A stack of cardboard boxes huddled next to the couch, crowned with two yellow Nine West shoeboxes. An unused Sunbeam blender in its original packaging sat as if on display. Henry scanned the room twice more, furtively hoping the golf clubs would suddenly materialize. A finger of gentle dread tickled the back of his neck as he turned off the light and closed the door. Reluctantly, he turned to the other bedroom.

The smell of dust was stronger there as it was finished and warmer. The shaded light proved softer but the room was no less cluttered. That was the problem with buying a house too big; you naturally collected junk to fill it. Henry's gaze gravitated with trepidation to the far corner of the room where the seedy water stains on the ceiling had moved to the wall, the Winnie the Pooh wall paper beginning to pucker and peel. Directly below, the oversized controls of an infant play center spanned the top of a crib, imprisoning two stuffed polar bears with an embroidered blanket of bright yellow. Why the hell didn't they just throw that shit out? A lump dropped from his chest into the pit of his stomach. Because everything freezes, you become afraid to touch anything. Henry pulled his eyes away and resumed his search.

A blue ten-speed bike rested against a round table of white Formica in the center of the room. The matching chairs held more cardboard boxes and the remnants of an obsolete Nintendo game set. A pair of roller blades lay beneath the table. Henry spotted his targets leaning against the wall by the window. Reaching for the golf bags, he suppressed a nervous laugh--another untouched Sunbeam blender, two to three years younger than its brethren, lay at his feet. As Henry fled the room, a sense of relief sent him bounding down the stairs.

Henry carefully leaned the two golf bags against the banister and stuck his head back into the den, "Hey, honey, don't forget you need to take me to the doctor on Friday." Linda looked up at him. "What's that face for?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I guess I'm not used to driving with you in the car."

"Well, you know how I get when they need to take blood."

Linda smiled faintly and nodded her head. "Gods and Monsters is on IFC tonight, if you're interested. I hardly remember it, and you always wanted to see it."

"Sounds good," said Henry. "What time?"

"Nine o'clock."

"Cool." The chat room was usually slow on Monday nights. He might actually be off the computer by then. He jerked his head towards the droning set. "I'll leave you to the man-bashing."

"What?" said Linda. She looked up, as if noticing the television for the first time. "Oh, Oprah. I wasn't listening."

"Then why do you have it on?"

"I don't know," said Linda. "The house gets too quiet."

The following morning, Henry stumbled down the stairs with his electric razor, striving to stay awake long enough to avoid removing an eyebrow. Wanda had kept him up well past midnight. He needed coffee. Much to his dismay, Linda stood at the bottom of the stairs with a large travel mug full of it.

"Better hurry or you'll miss your train," she said.

"I already missed it," said Henry. "I'm driving into the city today." His wife's eyes closed and her face stiffened as if she was receiving a tetanus shot.

"We're driving into the city," she said. "I told you a thousand times that I was taking the day off to watch Mona's kids."

"Shit," breathed Henry. He was tired. He was planning a leisurely sit in traffic listening to the radio, not a long ride of terse conversation with an angry wife. The duration of Linda's drive to Park Ridge had just tripled with the additional detour in and out of Chicago.

"Well, don't miss the train home, Henry," said Linda. "We're having dinner with Janice and Tom tonight, which I'm sure is also news to you. Perhaps I should start taping notes to your space suit."

"Great. I've been dying to find out how the shingles came out on Tom's shed," said Henry. He pulled the razor from his face long enough to drink some coffee.

"You agreed to this two weeks ago," said Linda. "I'm not going alone armed with some embarrassing excuse for your absence."

"I was young and foolish back then," grumbled Henry. "Why the hell do you want to go? Janice is no more interesting than her husband."

"We're not all as liberated as you are, dear," replied Linda. "Some of us are burdened with friends."

Henry was about to defend himself by listing his friends in the chat room but thought better of it. Linda folded her arms, a silent command for him to get a move on. He handed her the coffee and began rummaging in the closet beneath the stairs for his coat.

"Did you watch the movie last night?" asked Linda.

Henry again held off his initial reply; another admitted memory loss and he was going to have early Alzheimer's. "Of course not, I wasn't sitting in the room with you was I?"

"I thought you might have decided to watch it downstairs, by yourself," said Linda. She looked down and began examining the tops of her brown leather loafers.

"I'm sorry," sighed Henry, "the movie slipped my mind. I wouldn't have watched it by myself, Linda." The day had barely begun and it was already long. Not to mention a dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Cadaver. "You know it wouldn't kill your sister to bring the kids here for once."

"If we lived closer, perhaps I wouldn't have to drive there," replied Linda. "Those two houses in Mona's neighborhood are still for sale, you know."

Henry sighed audibly. "We've been through this, Linda. We need to do a lot of work to this house if we're going to sell it for anything near what it's worth." He pulled on his coat and closed the closet door. "Besides, I think a 20-minute drive is close enough to the Davis family conglomerate."

"How could I forget," said Linda, handing him back the coffee, "you hate my family."

"I don't hate your family. I just don't want to live with them."

"Yeah, I don't think you want to live with any of them," said Linda, turning towards the front door as she spoke.

"And you don't like acknowledging when I make a valid point about your family," said Henry. "Mona could drop the kids here."

Linda turned and faced him again. "Little Brian is walking now. This house is hazardous for adults, never mind a 15-month-old."

"So," said Henry with a shrug, "we'll baby-proof it."

The words left Henry's mouth like a just-missed train pulling from the station. He heard them coming out of his mouth but was powerless to stop them. He watched his wife's face close even as his chest constricted. His face burned with indignation. Would the wound ever heal? How long would they have to skirt the danger zone until the pain went away? Henry wondered if all marriages were like his: a once-vibrant thing that slowly calcified over time as it collected things not to be said, areas not to go, and subjects not to be broached. How could anything survive the weight of it? Yet it went deeper than the marriage. He was stung by his own words. Linda was collateral damage; something to add guilt to the mix. Baby-proof it. Asshole. It appeared he would get to listen to the radio after all.

The following night, Henry rested his butt against the counter top next to the refrigerator. He hoped his relaxed pose would give him patience with the hulking black-and-steel Emerson microwave, taking its time to resurrect a plate of leftover Chinese food. He had made a point of claiming the remnants of their dinner with Janice and Tom so he got something out of the ordeal. His fingers drummed on the counter as Linda entered the kitchen with an empty wine glass. Linda's head instinctively turned right, looking for signs of life, as she entered the room. Her expression became more alert when she actually found the cellar door open. She finally lifted her head to find Henry's eyes patiently waiting to greet hers.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," said Henry, "just heating up some of the leftover Chinese."

"Oh," said Linda. "Any chance you could take out the recyclables while you're waiting?"

"I'll get to them."

"That's what you said last week, hon," said Linda. "Now it's overflowing."

"Hey, that's not my fault."

"What does that mean?" said Linda.

"I occasionally have some milk in my cereal," said Henry. "I don't drink wine, Wanda." The microwave demanded Henry's immediate attention with its urgent beeps. He opened the oven's door and tested the food's temperature before closing the door and restarting the microwave with two quick jabs at the minute-plus key. Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, pulling his head to the left. The wine glass in Linda's hand was trembling so slightly he had to concentrate to be sure it was moving at all.

"Are you . . . " Linda directed her gaze out the kitchen window. "Are you having an affair?"

"Wha . . . What the hell are you talking about?"

"Jesus, Henry, at least show me some respect."

"What's gotten into you?" he said, his voice rising briefly as he stiffened under his wife's glare. "When would I have time for an affair? When's the last time I even came home late from the office? I'm always home!"

"Who's Wanda?"

"What?"

"You just called me Wanda," said Linda, the outline of her jaw becoming hard. "Who the fuck is Wanda?"

"S . . . She's nobody. Someone I talk to online occasionally. Shit, Linda, calm down."

"DON'T TELL . . . " Linda brought the back of her left hand to her mouth, her brown eyes brimming with tears. "Don't tell me to calm down." Her left hand clamped onto her temples, covering her eyes. The wine glass continued to tremble. "Is that what you do, Henry? Talk dirty with some woman on the computer? Aren't I the asshole? I just thought you'd given up sex."

"What are you talking about, we had sex two weeks ago!"

"Great, maybe I'll see an eclipse this year, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Henry.

"Making love with my husband shouldn't be a New Year's Resolution," said Linda, her voice trailing off to a whisper, her eyes smoldering.

"Christ, Linda, I met her in a chat room. There's other people in the chat room, too, men and women. It's not about sex . . . we're . . . just talking."

Linda's gaze went up and then out the kitchen window again. "What do you . . . what do you talk about?" Her voice was flat.

"I don't know . . . stuff, nothing, bullshit," said Henry, the muscles in his throat finally starting to loosen. "You know, hon, bullshit. Work sucks, my boss sucks, how are the Bears gonna do, seen any movies lately. Idle chitchat, that's all. It's nothing."

Linda's eyes squeezed shut, pushing out reluctant tears. She breathed in a terrible sob. "So I need a fucking computer to talk to my husband!" Her hand instantly moved to cover her nose and mouth.

"Linda, it doesn't mean anything. It's just talk," said Henry, his voice evaporating. She stumbled slightly, making a throwing motion with the wine glass but didn't let go. She opened her eyes, and Henry's blood went cold. He'd seen this expression on his wife's face only once before, long ago. At the time Henry had literally prayed he would never see it again. The wine glass exploded.

Henry blinked rapidly as his limbs began to thaw. Linda stood staring at the floor, her body visibly shaking. He turned his attention to the source of the explosion. Blood pulsed through the fingers of Linda's clenched fist.

"Oh my God," said Henry. "Sweetheart, come over to the sink." Linda didn't even acknowledge him. He stepped forward and wrapped his arm around her; a shudder starting in her body continued through his. He guided her forward, firmly pulling her arm out over the sink. The muscles in her forearm and fist were tensed, grinding whatever glass may be trapped there deeper.

"Linda, Jesus, let go!" He went to pry her fingers open but stopped. "Baby, you're scaring me." He went to move around her and stopped again. He reached out his hands then pulled them back. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to her cheek. She was cold and clammy.

"Please, Linda," Henry whispered. "Please, baby. Let go."

A light clinking noise made him open his eyes to the shards of glass and blood mingling with the small dead leaves in the sink. Henry breathed in long and audibly as he turned on the faucet. A myriad of cuts played along Linda's fingers; a deep rouge canal ran across her palm, exposing specks of white that could only be bone.

"Don't touch me," said Linda. Her voice was faint, as if coming from a tunnel.

"Shhh," said Henry, pulling a clean towel from the drawer. "We have to get you to the hospital."

Upon returning from the hospital, Linda had slipped silently upstairs, and Henry made his way downstairs, here, to his cocoon. That's what this was, wasn't it, a safe bunker to keep the world out? Now he was wondering if an abrupt exchange about insurance coverage would be the last conversation he would ever have with his wife. His hands groped in the darkness until they found a glass and the familiar square bottle of Jack Daniels. No ice. Good, he wanted it to sting. Haltingly, he made his way back and fell into his computer chair, still waiting for the blood to return to his face.

He swallowed a sizable gulp of the fiery liquid, attempting to break up the heaviness constricting his chest. What the hell was a failed marriage anyway? The term implied that something possible had been wasted. What if two people just weren't meant to be together forever? Wasn't it possible to say "hey, they had nine good years and then moved on?" No. Relationships have always been a goal-orientated business. Relationships that don't end in marriage just didn't work out, and a marriage that dies before one of its combatants gets the big nasty red rubber stamp. Him? Oh, he's divorced. Henry rolled another mouthful of whiskey around on his tongue, making his eyes water. Reflexively, his foot jabbed forward springing the computer to life.

That was the flaw, though, wasn't it? Marriages were supposed to turn into families. What if it wasn't a choice? What if you had been a family, if only for a few short months? What if the happiest chapter of your life had dissolved into a fucking footnote? Were you supposed to try again regardless of the crippling pain? Regardless that chances were great that the pain would be repeated? Henry squeezed his eyes shut. Wasn't that what the doctor told them? Hadn't they agreed it wasn't worth trying?

Henry's limbs were heavy as he used the mouse to launch the internet browser that opened to the CNN website, his home page. An uninvited advertising box for a digital camera appeared featuring a smiling woman taking the photo of an even happier baby. Henry felt the skin around his eyes constrict as he closed the image with a sharp jab of his finger on the mouse. Perhaps he should remove the cable television and the Internet from downstairs, plugging the holes in his cocoon so nothing could touch him. As he moved the mouse, it was drawn to the icon for Instant Messenger, triggering a Pavlovian twinge in his loins. Henry kicked violently at the power, blowing out the screen like a candle.

It took Henry a week to finish making the necessary arrangements. He burst through the front door carrying a large pizza and a load of anxious excitement. He kicked the door closed with his foot and bobbed his head into the den. "Don't get up!" he said. "I have a couple of surprises."

Linda sat on the chair with her legs wrapped in a navy blue afghan. Her heavily bandaged hand held open a paperback copy of Lonesome Dove, a slowly arching eyebrow the only expression on her face.

Henry held the large pie aloft. "Pizza for dinner. Oh, um, that's not one of the surprises." He nodded at the half full wine glass on the floor. "Need to be topped off? Please try not to speak, just shake or nod your head." Linda's expression didn't change as she slowly shook her head. Henry managed a smile as he dangled a plastic blue Best Buy bag in front of his wife, compelling her to take it. She pulled Gods and Monsters from the bag and held it so that only her dark brown eyes could be seen, scanning the back of the DVD case. "You don't have to speak, but you do have to watch that with me." He turned to leave the room.

"This television doesn't have a DVD player," said Linda.

Henry's head snapped around as if she had let out a blood-curdling scream. It had been a while since he'd heard her voice. She had not turned on the TV once in her five-day-old communication strike, effectively turning up the volume on her silence.

"I'm going to bring the one up from downstairs." Henry paused briefly, feeling like a man contemplating a second step onto a frozen lake. "I didn't realize you got your tongue back from the shop. It sounds good." Linda continued to study the DVD case, but the soft lines around her eyes triggered a grateful smile of his own.

"What's the other surprise?" asked Linda.

Henry looked at the floor with a smile. "A new lawn ornament."

"A lawn ornament? What the hell for?"

"I decided to take your advice," said Henry, laughing lightly at her angry, puzzled expression. "I decided to start with this corner of the universe." He turned and walked out of the room.

Henry stopped in the hallway at the sound of Linda's shuffling feet, the afghan still wrapped tightly around her legs. He steadied himself on the banister as the front door swung wide with a thud. He watched as her body slumped like a soft sigh against the doorframe and the afghan fell to the floor, indicating she'd spotted the fluorescent For Sale sign that he'd driven deep in the front lawn.