The Road to Grace (The Walk) (20 page)

She looked like she didn’t like the question. “When he’s around,” she said.

“For the record, your spaghetti is fantastic. Emeril couldn’t have made it better himself.”

She smiled at this. “You think?”

“Bam!” I said.

She laughed. “You really do know who Emeril is. I thought you were pretending.”

“I haven’t always lived in a cave,” I said. “I even know who Paula Deen is.”

“Now I’m really impressed.” She looked down at my empty plate. “Would you like more pasta?”

“I would, but I usually try to stop after my third helping.”

“Okay.” She looked at me. “Do you mind if I ask you something about your wife?”

“No.”

“If you don’t want to talk about her, I understand.”

“It’s okay.”

“How did you lose her?”

“We lived in a suburb with a horse trail. She was riding one day and the horse got spooked and threw her. She broke her back.”

Her expression showed her distress. “I’m so sorry. Was she killed instantly?”

“No. She got an infection. She died a month later.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. She looked down for a moment. “I’ve wondered if it’s better to watch a loved one die over time, or to just lose them—never saying what you would have liked to say.”

“Watching her die wasn’t easy. But we said everything we needed to say. I guess if I had to do it again, I would choose to have that extra time together. But she was the one in pain, so I guess I’m selfish.”

“I don’t think that’s selfish. I think it’s beautiful.” She looked down at her plate. “I think I would choose the time too.”

The conversation stopped, swallowed into a cloud of
sadness. After a moment Analise said, “That kind of killed the mood. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it’s good to talk about it sometimes. I carry a lot of emotions and I never have a chance to let them out. Sometimes I think I’m going to explode.”

“How long was it after she passed away that you decided to walk?”

“Two days after her funeral. While I was taking care of her, I lost my business and our home was foreclosed on. The day after her funeral the bank gave me notice that they were taking my home.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, it was. I had nothing holding me there anymore so I just packed up and started to walk.”

“I know I asked you before, but really, why Key West?”

“It was the farthest place on the map.”

She let my words settle. Then she said softly, “I understand better than you know.” She forced a smile. “So before you started your walk, what did you do?”

“I owned an advertising agency.”

“That’s the business you lost?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

She suddenly smiled. “Did you wear your hair that long when you were a businessman?”

“No, believe it or not, I used to look respectable. Short hair, clean-shaven, Armani suits, and Brooks Brothers button-downs, heavy on the starch. You kind of let things go when you’re on the road.”

“It works, though. I think it’s rather rugged-looking. You look like one of those guys on the covers of the paperback romances we sell at the store.”

“You’re saying I look like Fabio?”

She cocked her head with a wide grin. “Maybe a little. You’re not Italian. And you’re not as buff.”

“I’m not as buff as Fabio?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re in good shape, but just not …”

“I know. Fabio buff.”

She smiled wryly. “Sorry.”

“So I’m not Fabio,” I said. “But I can do two things he can’t.”

She leaned forward. “Do tell.”

“First, I can use words with more than one syllable. And second,” I said, pausing for dramatic impact, “I do dishes.”

She gasped. “Wow. That is hot. I think you just edged out Fabio.”

“I thought so,” I said.

“Really? You do dishes?”

“Yes, I do. Come on,” I said, standing. “Let’s get them done.”

She stood. “You really don’t have to help.”

“Oh, good, because for a second there I thought you had a gun to my head and were
making
me do the dishes. Since you don’t, I’ll just go read or something while the exhausted, full-time working mother of two children who made the incredible dinner and invited me to stay in her home cleans up after me. Yes, I’ll feel really good about that.”

Analise laughed. “All right, you made your point. You wash, I’ll dry and put away.”

We carried our dishes to the kitchen, then, as she filled the sink with hot water, I cleared the rest of the table.

“What do you want to do with this?” I said, carrying in the half-full bowl of pasta.

“We’ll just put Saran over it and put it in the fridge. The wrap’s in that drawer right there, third down.”

I squatted down to the drawer. “Did you want to make a plate for your husband first?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What?”

“I thought maybe you would want to …” As I looked at her, I suddenly understood. I stood up, setting the bowl aside. “There is no husband …”

She didn’t answer at first. Then she said, “Of course I have a husband. There’s a picture of us in your room.”

“It’s an old picture.”

She didn’t say anything.

“What happened to him?”

She just stood there, looking at me anxiously. Neither of us spoke for what felt like minutes. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I …” She took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “I couldn’t really invite some strange man into my home.”

“The picture in my room …”

“That was taken three weeks before he was killed. Three years ago.”

“How was he killed?”

“Working. He was in a combine accident. He went to work one day and never came back.”

Suddenly everything made sense. Her interest in McKale. Our discussion about losing a loved one suddenly or over time. Her son’s behavior.

“How is your son dealing with it?”

“He’s very angry. I think he blames me sometimes. I know it’s not rational, but he’s a kid.”

“How are you taking it?”

She shook her head. “Not well. You know what it’s like.
I can see why you would want to walk away. It’s been hard living here in this little town.”

“Why don’t you move?”

“I have no place to go. My friends are all here or in Tabor, and my siblings are all in the same financial boat that I’m in. My parents can’t help. They lost their farm a few years ago and are now living on welfare in Omaha. I would be too if it wasn’t for Matt’s parents. We didn’t have any life insurance. Matt said it was just a waste of money, since his parents have so much money and if anything happened, they’d take care of us.”

“And they do?”

“Yes. But it comes at a price. They won’t let me leave.”

“How can they stop you?”

“How can they not? If I leave, they’ll cut me off.”

“They told you that?”

“Directly,” she said.

“Could you sell your house?”

She shook her head. “Not in this market. Believe me, there’s not a lot of people moving into Sidney. Besides, my in-laws own the house. We borrowed the money from them.” She sighed. “I’m stuck. I have no skills, so I’d be working full-time just to survive in some dingy apartment while someone else raised my kids.”

“I don’t mean to be crass, but you could remarry.”

“Not in Sidney. The men are either married, twice my age, or there’s a clear reason why they’re not married. I’d just be trading one problem for another.”

“So you’re stuck.”

She nodded. “My in-laws want me to be stuck. A friend told me that my mother-in-law told her mother that they didn’t want me to remarry. They thought it would be too
confusing for the kids and she was afraid I might take their grandchildren away. But I think there might be even more to it than that. My in-laws were really broken by Matt’s death. My father-in-law, Hank, was driving the combine when Matt was killed. I think he blames himself.

“What makes it even more complex is Hank’s own father died young and his mother never remarried. From things he’s said, I think he believes that remarrying would be dishonoring Matt. So, they financially force me into doing what they want.”

“That’s not right,” I said.

“No, it’s passive-aggressive. It’s how Hank and Nancy get their way and still sing in the choir every Sunday with a clear conscience.” She sighed. “I’m sorry to unload this on you. It’s just so good to have someone I can talk to. There’s no one here I could say that to without it getting back to them. I’m sorry that I lied to you.”

“No, you’re in a tough spot. I understand.”

We both stood there a moment in silence. Finally, Analise looked around the kitchen and untied her apron. “It’s late. I’ll finish the dishes in the morning. I take the kids to school early then go to work, so if you decide to sleep in, just help yourself to breakfast. There’s fruit and yogurt in the fridge and cereal in the cupboard.”

“All right,” I said. “Thank you.”

She gazed at me for a moment, then smiled sadly. “Good night, Alan. It was nice visiting with you.”

“Good night, Analise. Thank you for everything.”

She laid her apron on the table, then with a last, furtive glance at me, went upstairs to her bedroom. I walked to my room and went to bed.

I don’t know what time it was when I woke. I’m not usually a light sleeper, but I woke to a dim light coming from outside my room. I looked over. Analise stood in the doorway, her petite figure silhouetted by the light from the foyer. She quietly shut the door, then walked over to the side of the bed. I lay there looking up at her. She was breathing heavily, but said nothing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

For a moment she just looked at me. Then she knelt by the side of the bed. My room was bathed in the moon’s blue glow and I could see her eyes, dark and lonely and filled with hurt. “No. I’m not.” She took a deep breath. Then staring intently into my eyes, said, “Will you make love to me?”

For a moment I just stared at her. She looked vulnerable—beautiful, lonely, and vulnerable. My body screamed for her, but I slowly shook my head. “No.”

She lowered her head. After a moment she asked, “Aren’t I pretty enough?”

“It’s not that,” I said.

“Then what is it?”

“You’re not mine.”

She touched my arm. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ll be yours tonight,” she whispered. “I won’t ask anything of you. I won’t hold you to anything. I promise.”

I propped myself up on my elbow. “Analise …”

“I just want someone to love me.”

I looked into her eyes. “I understand. But I can’t.”

After a moment she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Do you want me to go?” I asked.

She was looking down, but shook her head. “No.” She rubbed her eyes. “You must think I’m horrible.”

“No. I don’t.”

She knelt there for another moment, then sighed and stood. “Good night.” She started to the door.

“Analise,” I said.

She stopped, slowly turning back. Her face was wet with tears.

“Come back.”

She just looked at me.

“Come here. Please.”

She walked slowly over to the side of my bed. I moved over, making a space for her. “Let me hold you.”

“But …”

I pulled down the sheets then took her hand. “Lay down. I just want to hold you.” She sat on the side of my bed then lifted her legs onto the bed next to me. I put my arms around her, pulling her tightly in, our faces next to each other. I whispered into her ear, “I know what it’s like to feel so lonely that you just don’t care anymore. You’re a good girl, you just hurt. I understand. I hurt too. I want you too. But I’m not ready to share what belonged only to McKale and me.”

She was staring into my eyes. Then it was as if some great emotional dam burst, because she began sobbing so hard that the bed shook. I held her tightly until her sobbing slowed to a whimper. Finally she stilled and fell asleep.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” I said. I lay back and fell asleep too.