Authors: Kenneth Calhoun
Biggs wondered if Morales had heard his ragged sobs, the primal groan. If he had, he would probably be under the assumption that Biggs had found Carolyn, or all that remained of her. But the outpouring Biggs had finally felt, as if the membrane holding back a flood of anguish had finally given way, didn’t require evidence that Carolyn was gone. He suddenly felt it.
Morales didn’t ask what Biggs had found, or not found. Instead, he said, “You’ve told us so much about her, you know, the dreams of her. But I got to admit that I wasn’t sure she was real.” He nodded at a framed picture—the wedding picture of Biggs holding Carolyn over the water as he stood in the lake. “Hey, now I kind of feel like I’m standing in one of your dreams.”
“This place is everywhere she should be but isn’t,” Biggs said, looking around.
“She moved,” Morales said, chewing thoughtfully. “She’s got a new place inside you now. Must be even more crowded than here. Dude, I had closets bigger than this place. I bet you paid a fortune for it too, right? City suckers.”
Biggs knew his face was blackened with dust from his hands. It didn’t matter, he thought, if he wore that blackness forever.
Morales agreed that it was a good idea to stay the night. Biggs said he would sleep in the studio so Morales could keep watch in the main room, after his three-hour shift on the sofa. “Maybe I’ll read some of these books,” Morales said.
Biggs dragged the mattress into the studio, just as he and Carolyn had done a few years ago. He pulled her black, light-proof curtains over the door and window and found himself in
total darkness. The scent of her was still there, in the blankets, on the pillow. Faintly, faintly there. He waited to feel her sniffing at his cheek.
“Is it me?” he would ask.
He fell asleep and dreamed about something else entirely.
I offer my gratitude and appreciation to the many people who were helpful in producing this book. I thank my parents for making books part of my childhood, and my brother and sister for a lifetime of support. Thanks to the many friends and fellow writers who read and commented on these pages, notably Laurel Goldman and her Chapel Hill workshop, Steven Gamboa, Ryan Griffith, Mona Awad, David Baeumler, Matt Salesses, and the late John Harrelson.
Thanks also to the Millay Colony for the Arts and the Writers’ Room of Boston for providing much needed space and time.
I am forever indebted to journal editors who published my stories over the years. I’d especially like to recognize Whitney Pastorek, Andrew Tonkovich, Hal Jaffe, M. T. Anderson, David Milofsky, Adam and Jennifer Pieroni, Libby Hodges, Jeff Parker, Cheston Knapp, Nathaniel Rich, and Christopher Cox.
My talented editors, Zachary Wagman and Parisa Ebrahimi, have my deepest respect and appreciation for their smart and soulful suggestions. And I owe the world and more to my agent, Claudia Ballard, who is a remarkably gifted shaper of story and a fearless believer that hard work will be rewarded.
Above all, I dedicate this book in infinite gratitude to Anya Belkina and Sophie Calhoun, who endured my excessive sleep requirements and inspired the plots of my most hopeful dreams.