The Shape of Desire (23 page)

“Yeah. I think I’ll go over tomorrow, no matter what Marquez tells me. I won’t stay if it seems like she wants me gone.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“Yeah,” Ellen says on a sigh. “Might be easier on everyone. I’ll pick you up at eleven, how does that sound? We can bring her some lunch.”

“See you then.”

After we hang up, I sit on the couch for another ten minutes, just staring at my interlaced hands. That’s the phone call I always dread, always expect, the information brought by indifferent strangers.
Ms. Devane? I’m afraid I have bad news. We found a man dead this morning, I’m sorry to say, and he had your name and number on a piece of paper in his pocket.
Would that call come to me or would it go to Christina? Is she filled with twice as much fear, worried over two brothers, both of them constantly exposed to risks that they do not bother to try to mitigate? Did she resign herself long ago to the idea that their lives would be short, their ends probably brutal? Is she amazed they’ve survived this long, grateful for every additional week or month or year that she can turn around one unexpected morning and find them standing on her front porch, hungry and gaunt and edgy, but alive?

I cannot get to that place. I cannot surrender myself to fatalism where Dante is concerned. I cannot endure the knowledge that his condition practically guarantees an early death—may, in fact, lead to him dying alone somewhere, far from me, in a spot where his body is never found. So he might not just die, he might vanish from my life, simply fail to show up again, and I will never know what happened to him. I will first be frantic, then despairing, then lost, lost, lost in a deep well of impenetrable darkness, and I will
never know
. Did he starve to death? Lose a battle with a vicious opponent? Simply wear out, his body too depleted by unnatural stresses to maintain itself another day?

Decide he did not love me after all? Might he be alive still, back in human shape, but tired of my nagging or my possessiveness or my unimaginative personality?

“If it happens, Dante, if you fall out of love with me, just tell me,” I pleaded once a few years ago, when I had become a little obsessed with the topic of Dante’s death. “Break up with me—I’ll make it easy for you, I won’t cry and beg—just don’t leave me wondering. I’d rather know that you’d fallen in love with someone else than think that you’re dead when you’re not.”

He had rolled his eyes in exasperation. “All right, I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ll send you an e-mail. ‘Hey, Maria. Babe! Tired of you, girl, so I’m dumping you now. But don’t worry. I’m fine. Not dead yet.’”

He was being facetious, of course, but I answered, “It would be a comfort.”

He’d pulled me into his arms and dropped a rough kiss on the top of my head. “It’s not going to happen anytime soon. You’re more likely to dump
me
.”

I’d stared up at him. “You must be joking.”

“Hey, you put up with a lot more shit from me than I do from you,” he said. “You’re the one who settled. I’m the one who got lucky.”

I patted him on the cheek. “You keep on believing that.”

“I always do.”

I don’t entirely put my faith in that declaration, but I do believe that he will keep his promise; he will let me know if he plans to abandon me. So I am back to a single fear, but it’s monstrous: One day he will be gone from my life. One day he will die.

T
here is nothing I want to do less than go to Kathleen’s house the day after her husband’s death. I spent the morning making spinach lasagna and dividing it into freezer containers to create
handy single-serving meals. Food is a cultural substitution for love, and cooking offers a hedge against an overwhelming sense of helplessness, but in my heart I know my efforts are wasted. Kathleen will likely never want to eat again.

Ellen arrives a few minutes late in her red Miata, and we head to Kathleen’s in almost total silence. Once I’ve asked, “Any more news?” and she’s replied in the negative, we don’t have anything else to say. I am relieved to see two cars already in the driveway, one of them belonging to Marquez, one with Arkansas plates. We will not have to attempt to carry on conversation with Kathleen, just the two of us. I can’t think of anything to say to
her
, either.

Marquez answers the door, and instead of berating us for coming over uninvited, he embraces us one at a time. He makes it a real hug; I find it comforting to be momentarily squeezed against his soft, substantial frame.

“How is she?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not good.”

“Who else is here?” Ellen wants to know.

“Her sister and her husband arrived about three in the morning. They’re both sleeping right now.”

“You planning to go home anytime soon?” she asks him.

“When her sister gets up, maybe. She seems to like me to be here, so—” He shrugs.

I glance around the house, which I have only ever seen from the outside. The front door leads directly into the living room, which is furnished in a sort of amped-up country style—lots of ruffles on the curtains, lots of blue hearts patterned on everything from crockery-style flower vases to stenciled lamp shades. To my right I can glimpse a darkened hallway leading toward what I assume are bedrooms. The hallway walls are hung with framed family photos that appear to cover generations. There is a sweetness that pervades the whole setting; it is possible
to imagine Kathleen happily choosing each flounced valence, each stitched doily, each separate mat and moulding. Something inside my chest twists with pain.

“Where is she?” Ellen asks.

“In the kitchen. I was trying to convince her to eat something, but she—” Now he shakes his head. “I don’t think she’s consumed a thing since yesterday morning, and I know she was throwing up last night.”

“We’ll get her to eat something,” Ellen says, striding purposefully down the hallway to our left. “
That
I can do.”

The kitchen is small and bright, decorated with copper molds of roosters and cheery yellow accents. Kathleen is sitting at an oak table, her arms lax before her, her hair lank, her face a ruin. She looks up when we step in, but I can’t read any expression. She’s not angry we’re here, not surprised, not grateful. She simply doesn’t care.

Ellen marches over, bends down, and takes the limp body in a hug. “It’s so terrible that I don’t even know what to say,” she says, “so I’m not going to try to make stuff up. Maria and I came by just to help you fill the time. We’ll sit here for a little while, and then there will be another two hours gone by.”

I see Kathleen sort of nod over Ellen’s shoulder, then Ellen releases her and I step in to offer my own awkward embrace. I know it’s impossible for anyone to lose significant weight overnight, but somehow she feels like she is nothing but bones, jostling against each other inside a thin bag of flesh. “Hey,” is all I have to offer. She nods again.

Ellen turns brisk. “So what would you like to eat?”

“Nothing,” Kathleen manages in a faint whisper.

Ellen rests her fists on her hips. “Well, you’re going to have
something
before I leave today, so you’d better figure out what you’re most likely to keep down.”

“One of the neighbors brought over some chicken noodle soup,” Marquez tells her.

“And I brought spinach lasagna,” I say, though even I realize someone who’s been throwing up all night will not be interested in pasta.

“Oh, can I have some?” Marquez asks. “I’m starving.”

“Anyone who wants it can have some.”

“I’m just going to heat up some of this soup,” Ellen says. “Where do you keep your pans?”

In a few minutes, the four of us are seated around the table in an uncomfortable travesty of one of our workweek lunches. But perhaps the familiarity of the ritual, the group of friends, works benignly on Kathleen’s mental state. She takes the bowl of soup from Ellen and obediently begins spooning up the broth. She also drinks half a glass of 7UP that Marquez has poured for her. I can’t help but think of these as “sick foods,” since they’re part of the diet my mother would always prepare for me when I had a stomach flu. Then again, I suppose Kathleen has fallen ill with one of the most calamitous diseases there is—grief—and she will be a long time recovering, if she ever does.

Kathleen, while she might be managing food, is not up to conversation, so Ellen and Marquez and I talk softly on the most neutral topics we can identify. I mention my trip to St. Charles yesterday. Marquez tells us he saw a movie Friday night with friends. He wouldn’t recommend it, though; too many plot holes, not enough action. Ellen says her tomato plants are still yielding fruit. “One year I was getting tomatoes almost through Thanksgiving, but I can’t imagine that will happen again anytime soon,” she says.

We have been sitting there for nearly an hour when Kathleen suddenly begins to speak. “I didn’t want him to go yesterday morning,” she says in a soft, exhausted voice. She is not looking at any of us; she’s watching her hands crumble one of the saltines that Ellen insisted she eat along with the soup. “I said, ‘It’s such a pretty day and there’s so much work to do in the yard. Go running when it’s cold and cloudy out and I don’t feel like working in the garden.’ I said, ‘You’ve still got a cast
on your arm. What if you trip? You’ll really hurt yourself if you fall.’ But he wanted to go.”

Nobody responds with anything like
It was his time
or
God has a plan and you can’t know what it is
or
Everything happens for a reason
. “He loved to run,” Marquez says, and that seems to satisfy her.

“He really did,” Kathleen answers. “He was good at it and it made him happy. There were a lot of things he wasn’t good at, and that would make him mad, but he could run really fast.” She shakes her head; big tears fall from her eyes but she doesn’t appear to notice. “That’s why I don’t understand. Why couldn’t he just have kept running? Why couldn’t he get away?”

The three of us exchange startled, puzzled glances. We have no idea what she’s talking about, but will it make it better or worse for her if we press for an explanation?

“Honey, we’re still not quite sure what happened to Ritchie,” Ellen says. “Don’t tell us if you don’t feel like talking about it, but if you do—”

“He was running. In Babler State Park,” Kathleen says, enunciating with great precision. “And some—some
creature
caught up to him and attacked him.
Mauled
him to death.
Killed
him.”

Ellen and I stare at each other in horror. This is far more gruesome than any of the ordinary demises we had speculated about. “‘Some creature’?” Ellen repeats faintly. “Do you know what kind?”

Kathleen shakes her head. The tears are still dropping from her eyes, steady as a drip from a leaky faucet. She doesn’t seem to care. “They said—the police said—they would have to do some forensics. They couldn’t tell if it was a dog or a coyote or something else—they didn’t know yet. They’re going to do tests.”

“Can coyotes kill a grown man?” Ellen asks. “Aren’t they too small?”

Marquez makes an abrupt motion with his hand to cut her off, as if to say,
Consider that question some other time
. “I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” he says.

“They think they have a witness,” Kathleen says in a hopeless voice. “Oh, but maybe they don’t. They aren’t sure. But they found human footprints at the scene—right by Ritchie’s body, they said—footprints that had to have been made after he was attacked. But no one called the cops to report the crime, not until a couple of park rangers happened to find him.”

“Well, that’s cold,” Marquez observes.

“So there’s a sociopath
and
a dangerous animal on the loose, but I’m more worried about the animal,” Ellen says. “You’d think the cops would make an announcement. Or maybe even close the park until they can catch it.”

“Even if they do,” Kathleen says softly, “Ritchie will still be dead.”

Ellen lays a hand on her arm. “I know, baby,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

It’s clear Kathleen isn’t going to choke down another bite, and the rest of us have long ago finished our meals, so Marquez stands up and begins clearing the dishes. Ellen clears her throat. “I don’t want to sound heartless, but I have to ask practical questions,” she says. “Have you thought about funeral arrangements?”

“Kelly’s going to help me with that,” Kathleen says. “My sister.”

“Good. Make sure to take someone with you when you—when you pick out a casket,” says Ellen. “Sometimes you’re not thinking clearly and you end up with something way more expensive than you planned.”

From the sink, Marquez says, “You let us know if you want any help writing up death notices or anything like that.”

“When do you think you’ll have the funeral?” Ellen asks. “Ritchie has family, doesn’t he—a brother, maybe a mom still living? You’ll probably want to wait till they get here.”

Kathleen’s hands clench, her face flushes, and she speaks in a voice that is suddenly frenzied. “I’ll
wait
until the police are done with the
autopsy
,” she exclaims with a sort of singsong emphasis. “They’re cutting him open—they’re
examining
him, they’re trying to figure out what exactly
killed
him. But I don’t
care
what killed him. I don’t want him to be
dead
.”

Then she breaks down, sobbing in long, hysterical wails, pounding her fists against the table, knocking her forehead against the wood. Marquez spins around from the sink, but Ellen is quicker. She leaps up, pulls Kathleen out of her chair and into a tight hold, rocking that fragile body against her own. Kathleen can’t be comforted, of course; she continues to sob, to flail, to beat her small hands against Ellen’s sturdy back. Ellen strokes the disordered hair, makes soothing
shh
sounds into Kathleen’s ear, and eventually pulls Kathleen down so they are both sprawled on the kitchen floor. And still Ellen holds her, and still she rocks her, and still she offers proof with her own body that the world has not ended, that it still holds life, it holds love, it holds real and physical connections that cannot be severed all at once.