The Atomic Weight of Love (37 page)

For more than a year, I’d had such a singular, driving purpose to my life—to care for Alden. Now that was gone. I no longer had a
reason
. I imagined it must be like losing one’s lifelong faith in God; there was nothing but a wide swath of desolate desert before me. Too, I think that Alden’s drama had delayed any real knowledge of the finality of Clay’s absence. Every supposition I’d made about how my life would be, its definitional boundaries, had been obliterated.

Some days, I found myself sitting on the couch for hours, lost in thought, immobile. Repeatedly, I’d tell myself to stand up—
STAND UP!
—but still I sat. My to-do lists lost their power to motivate. I thought about hiking, losing myself with movement and sweat in the summer woods, but still I sat. I left the radio turned off and the television inert, a hollow, cold eye. The refrigerator hummed, the kitchen clock ticked—at one point I considered silencing them, too, but the mountainous task of rising from the couch was too overwhelming in anything other than concept—so still, I sat.

Clay must have heard of Alden’s death, because he sent me Emily Dickinson, the page with “Hope is the thing with feathers” dog-eared. I read the poem, immediately dismissed as pabulum Miss Dickinson’s little bird, and put the book aside to gather dust. I would not open the door to hope, no matter how exquisite her feathers, how promising and sweet her song. I was done with hope.

GABRIEL SALAZAR SAT IN
his high-backed black leather chair in the offices of Salazar, Salazar and Dabney off of Old Pecos Trail in Santa Fe. A glass wall looked out on a stand of white-barked aspen trees and a piñon-dotted gully. The other office walls bore several bland western landscapes meant to be innocuous but offending by their very fungibility. I hadn’t known of the existence of Gabriel Salazar the probate lawyer. I had no last will and testament of my own. I’d always assumed that when I died, anything I had would just go to Alden—but Alden had met with this man and created what the lawyer was calling an “estate plan.”

“Mrs. Whetstone, your husband directed that all assets fund a trust. He appointed the bank in Los Alamos to administer the trust and disburse funds to you in accordance with the terms of the trust.” Salazar paused to be sure I was following.

So this was what Alden had meant when from his hospital bed he’d told me everything had been taken care of, that everything was “set.” “What are the ‘terms of the trust’?” I asked.

He turned pages in his file, running an index finger along the margin, “It’s here, in Article VI, Section 4.” He read silently and then looked up. “You are to be provided with a monthly allotment of $450. In addition, once a year you’ll receive $2,000. Otherwise,” he read again before continuing, “you would need to apply to the trustee, the bank, with a documented request for any extra funds. For example,” he looked into a corner of his office for inspiration, “let’s say you needed a new roof. You would make a written request for funds, including estimates to prove the necessary costs.”

I was stunned. Alden’s version of caretaking had put me in shackles. I took a deep breath, imagined my anger rising like water in the gully outside the lawyer’s window, pictured brown, churning water full of sharp sticks, roiling, rotted tree trunks; I saw the water reach Gabriel Salazar’s window and pummel the glass until it broke, dirty, cold water rushing over his tasteful carpeting, obliterating the carefully worded provisions of Alden’s trust.

“You’re saying I’m to have an allowance.”

“The trust will disburse funds.”

“An allowance. And a pathetically small one at that,” I said.

The lawyer nervously adjusted the knot of his tie. “I can understand that this might come as a bit of a shock to you, but please don’t kill the messenger. I’m only effectuating your husband’s wishes.”

“Understood, Mr. Salazar.” I stood. “I’d like a copy of that file before I go.”

“I really wish you’d stay a few more moments, let me explain.”

“What else is there to explain? Maybe there’s a provision indicating that if I go over budget I’m to be sent to bed without supper? Oh,
I
know,” I said, following his gaze to the hallway where a secretary passed, “if I’m very very very
very
good, I can get a year-end bonus, maybe a box of candy or a new doll.”

“Your husband just wanted for you to be safe, for you to be provided for.”

Now I was lit. “You’re wrong, Mr. Salazar. If Alden had wanted to provide for me, to care for me, he could have left what is
our
money—not just his money,
our
money—to me to do with as I see fit. He could have remembered that he married me largely for my intellect, my abilities, and he could have chosen to acknowledge those abilities. He could have treated me with respect, but that’s not what he chose to do.” I walked to Salazar’s doorway and paused while he half stood as a good-bye gesture. “I’ll wait in the lobby for my copy,” I said and walked away trying to project more assurance than I felt. I’d so few skills when it came to confrontation, but I had a vocabulary and a brain, and I was determined to learn to stand up for myself.

THAT NIGHT, I REMOVED
my engagement and wedding rings. I tied them together with a length of gray satin ribbon from my sewing basket, and I buried them at the bottom of my jewelry box.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I talked with Emma, Bob, and June, and they all recommended the same law firm in Albuquerque. In the meantime, the Lab notified me of the existence of a life insurance policy—the proceeds of which had escaped the hungry jaws of Alden’s trust plan. All I had to do was fill out forms and present a certified copy of his death certificate and—
voilà!
—I received a check for $100,000. It was more than enough to pay my limited expenses and fund a lawsuit to break the trust. I would take my jesses from Alden’s tightly clenched fists at long last. If it took every penny of the $100,000, I would do it.

“GOOD.
GOOD FOR YOU,
Meridian,” Emma said when, several months later, I finished updating her on the legal proceedings—my attorney had beaten back the bank’s motion to dismiss my lawsuit, and so my case could continue. Emma and I were hunting for a parking place in Santa Fe, headed for lunch at the Pink Adobe. I was eagerly anticipating green-chile chicken enchiladas and a cup of dark coffee. It was early December 1972, and the air was heavy with the divine scent of piñon smoke feathering gently from chimneys. Most of the snow from two days earlier had melted, but a few inches coated the round-shouldered tops of adobe walls. Broken, dry staves of hollyhocks rattled in a cold breeze.

I watched a hippie couple wrapped in bold-patterned blankets. They held a toddler by the arms and kept him suspended between them, bouncing him and whooping each time they raised him high. The boy’s giggles were infectious, and I grinned, blowing warm air into my gloves in an attempt to thaw my aching fingertips.

At the same time, I ignored the quick, responsive pain in my chest. It had been nearly a year and a half since I’d felt Clay’s touch.

We found a corner table away from the tourists, their numerous shopping bags and their gaudy, post–ski hill attire. I didn’t think I’d ever before seen so much down-filled nylon in one place, and I wondered how many geese it took to plump so many tourists.

“It’s good to see you smiling again.” Emma’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, and she cleaned the condensation from her eyeglasses with the hem of her purple turtleneck.

I unrolled my silverware from the cloth napkin. “It feels good to smile again.”

“So, do you think you’re coming out of it?”

The waitress poured coffee and took our orders. I held the mug in my cold hands, blew on the surface before sipping.

“Coming out of grief?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I do. But more out of the flatness, the lethargy. I think the grief continues—on some level or another, in one way or another, forever. And it continues despite my anger,” I paused. “But yes, yes, Emma, I am pulling out of my tailspin.”

We sat quietly for several minutes, both of us people watching.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do with yourself?”

I waited while the waitress put our plates before us. Emma was having a stuffed sopaipilla filled with shredded beef. I could almost hear Clay’s commentary on the rampant carnivores. Emma lifted a forkful of her entrée.

“For a while,” I said, “I thought I might travel.” I pictured Alden’s penurious savings spent on a trip to Niagara Falls, complete with a symbolic, rebellious ride on the
Maid of the Mist
, my face covered in a cold spray. “But then I realized I don’t have a strong desire to travel—not the way I used to.”

“More school then?”

“No, not that either. At least not now, at this point.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to move.”

“I’m not going to move,” I smiled at her.

She looked at her plate when she next spoke, avoiding my gaze. “Have you heard from Clay?”

“A book of poems. Gifts on my birthday.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” I fought to keep my voice even.

“What have you told him?”

“Nothing. Emma, if I respond, we’ll start up again, and that’s just wrong.” I paused. “I know that sounds odd, probably makes little sense, because I still love him, will always love him. It’s just that . . . well, I don’t really know how to articulate it. I don’t believe it would be a good thing—not anymore. He needs to live his life, and I need to find my way alone. It’s one of the few things I know these days—that I need to make my way on my own.”

I was pretending a greater ease with all of this than I actually felt. I fought a daily, sometimes hourly temptation to call or write to Clay, to pack a bag and fly to California. I could only hope that over time what felt like the insistent pull of an addiction would subside and let me relax into some level of forgetting.

“Bravo, Meridian. That’s what I say—that, and that it is a privilege to watch you bloom. Especially,” Emma winked, “in the middle of winter.”

Later that afternoon we stopped by Payne’s Greenhouse to walk through a giant room packed with plank tables full of poinsettias—pink, traditional red, creamy, candy-striped blooms. The air smelled of living, growing things; it was warm, humid, and I felt slightly drowsy, languid. What I hadn’t said to Emma and had barely admitted to myself was how much I knew I would miss a man’s touch, being held and comforted. Sex.

I walked outside to stand in the parking lot. An arrowhead of noisy ducks passed overhead. I counted them, was glad when I came up with an uneven number—it meant that they would accommodate the loner duck, like me.

Emma met me at the car with a flamingo-pink hibiscus. “For the exotic Meridian Whetstone, to commemorate her new life.” She surprised me with a kiss on the cheek, and then held the door while I climbed in and set the beautiful plant on the floor next to my feet.

I hope I can keep it alive
, was what I thought.

ONE AFTERNOON AFTER THE
New Year, I returned home from a brisk winter walk and found a plain white envelope nestled within the curve of the handle on my front door. The lettering, which read
MRS. WHETSTONE
, was exaggerated, the letters drawn with great flourish.

I fixed Jasper his supper, lit a fire, and sat cross-legged on the couch before opening the envelope to read:

January 14, 1973

Dear Mrs. Whetstone,

My parents suggested that I contact you about a senior research paper I’m beginning this spring. I plan to write about birds, and my parents say you are the person to talk to. Would you be willing to help me? I’d be forever grateful.

Sincerely,

Marvella Bennett (555-7710)

I watched the fire eat into a thick hunk of cedar. Flaming drops of sap fell from the log, hissing beneath the grate. Jasper stared me down until I patted the couch, giving him permission to join me—something I only dared do since Alden’s death. He curled his rear next to my thigh, kicked a couple of times to inch me ever so slightly out of what he’d determined was his spot on the cushion.

“Comfortable?” I asked, pulling gently on his ears. “What do you think?” I held up the note, but he merely sniffed a few times and then buried his nose in his front paws.

I’d seen the ghostly Marvella from time to time—walking to school, picking wildflowers in Mesa Meadow. The Bennetts lived at the end of the cul-de-sac. Over the years, I’d seen Marvella’s name in the
Monitor
, with references to her running the hurdles, winning at the regional level of the science fair competition. She’d grown tall, with an intensity to her expression that was remarkable.

“Of course I’ll help her,” I told Jasper, whose ribcage swelled with a deep, easy breath.

“TELL ME PRECISELY
WHAT
you’ve determined will be the premise of your paper,” I said, sounding more like a schoolmarm than I intended. Marvella sat on the front edge of Alden’s reading chair, her palms pressing on the outside of her thighs. She wore blue jeans—the straight-legged Levis I favored, not the hip-huggers I saw on most high school girls. Her legs were coltishly long; I could imagine her effortlessly stepping over hurdles as she rounded the track. She’d removed her down jacket to reveal a dark green crewneck sweater softened by age, and over her long straight pale-white hair she wore a cotton scarf patterned with spring flowers and a navy-blue border of curlicues. She possessed a serene, really rather extraordinary beauty.

I liked her. Immensely. Immediately. And that was before she answered my question.

“I want to study bird behavior and weather. How birds’ behavior changes—if at all—just prior to certain weather events.”

“Perfect!” I said, not quite believing the warm surge of joy I felt in the presence of this half-formed girl.

“I put out feeders, at home, and when it’s about to rain or snow, the birds feed voraciously. They just go crazy. The sparrows, especially.” She’d removed her hands from her thighs and they fluttered in the air around her. “Clouds of them, on the ground, on the feeders and in the bushes. I can’t imagine where they all come from!”