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Novelo Rectangle

An unexpected gift from a secret Santa arrived. The package was wrapped in brown paper. Her address had been hand written, in a slanting script.There was no return address. It had been mailed from Syracuse, NY. She didn’t know anybody who lived there. She could tell by the weight and feel of the package, that it contained a book. Passionate reader that she was, she was thrilled at the prospect of a new book. She only hoped that it was nothing she already owned. She brought the package inside and set it on the kitchen counter. She made herself a curry for dinner, washed the pan and the plate, brewed some tea, and checked her email.Then it was time to open the book. She planned to indulge in some pre-bedtime reading. The cat jumped into her lap – he knew her schedule as well as she did. Balancing the package on her knee, so as not to disturb the cat, she ripped the paper open. It was a compilation of Rilke’s poetry. A swell of emotion subsumed her. The last time she’d owned this book, she’d been twenty years old. She’d bought it at the B.U. bookshop, and each night before bed, Herrick had read a sonnet out loud to her, in his deep, resonant voice. They both loved the book so much that they bought a backup copy, though they had very little money. The thought of being without the book was intolerable.She opened the volume to a random page, and read:Put out my eyes, and I can see you stillShe sighed deeply, and closed the book, and let the tears come flooding out. How, she wondered, had that girl she had been, turned into the woman she was now?She could remember exactly how it felt to be twenty. She had believed that the world was a fascinating place, full of people that she might be able to love. She’d had such an appetite for experiences, and she wanted to know everything, go everywhere. She had no compunction about loving Herrick without reservation, because she had no idea how deeply she could be hurt. She’d never yet been betrayed. Now, she was fifty. She lived a very small, circumscribed life. She lived in a tiny rural town and worked at a library. She kept to her routines and never deviated from them. She interacted with the same fifteen people, and kept everyone else at arm’s length. She lived alone, and told herself that she liked it. When her friends tried to set her up with eligible widowers, she declined. Who has the time? she would say, rhetorically. But, in fact, she had a surfeit of time. And time was in the habit of stretching itself out thin. To keep time from warping and distorting everything, she filled every minute of her day with activity. It was time to read. She re-opened the book. On the first blank page, the page that is called the “dedication” page, was written:To Marie, my first and last love. HerrickUnderneath, he had written his phone number. They’d not spoken in thirty years. Not since she saw him in front of the Middle East, kissing another woman. A redhead. She remembered vividly, how the woman’s red hair and Herrick’s blond hair complimented each other.She had been so furious, so devastated, that she’d packed her all things and boarded a bus back to her hometown, that very afternoon. She’d left him and their apartment and their band and her job and college. In Utica, her father had picked her up from the terminal. He hadn’t asked her what happened. She cried, and he let her cry. When finally, her sobs subsided, he said, “You want to think about what you’re doing. You tend to let your emotions get the better of you.”“He cheated on me.”“People cheat, honey. People are just stupid animals in heat.”“Did you ever cheat on Mom?”“No,” he said, “but look where we live. There’s only twenty women to choose from, and I know all of there husbands.”“I can’t believe you’re on his side.”“I’m not. I’m on your side. I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. Except he’s somebody you love.”“I can’t love a cheater.”“I think that’s where you’re wrong. I think you could forgive him.”“But why should I?”“Because you’re going to wish you did.”And that was all he has to say on the subject, they never talked about it again. Not then, not in all the years that followed. And her father was right: she did miss Herrick, every day. So often, she’d read something or see something on the internet that she knew he would find funny, and she wished she could tell him about it .They shared the same dark sense of humor and love of absurdity. When she went to concerts, she wished that he was with her so they could critique the performance afterwards. Often, when they heard good music, they would become inspired and write a song in an attempt to beat the band they’d heard at their own game. When she suffered a loss or a humiliation, she wished she could cry on his shoulder. He’d always known how to comfort her, and when she was wrought up and bitter, he was tender and affectionate. Thinking about Herrick, she wondered why, when she left, he’d never tried to contact her. He could have driven to her hometown and knocked on her father’s door. He could have begged her forgiveness. Why hadn’t he?She’d always assumed that either his love for her was false, or that his love for the redhead was stronger.But what had he meant when he wrote in the book that she was his “first and last love”?The idea of calling him was terrifying. What if he said that he just wanted to “catch up”? Would she have to pretend that his infidelity was just “water under the bridge”?He still had the power to wound her. Why risk it?She went to bed, and before submerging into a Niquil induced sleep, she resolved to forget all about the book and its sender. But that night she dreamed she was running through a house that was about to be sold, looking for something. She discovered room after room that she had never been in, despite having lived in the house for years. And her sense of waste and regret was crushing. When she awoke, she knew that she had to call Herrick, regardless of the outcome. It was nine am on a Sunday. She was aware that it was a bit early to be phoning him – he was likely still asleep, if he was anything like he was before. But she had to call before she lost her nerve. “Hello?”His voice was rough, more shopworn, than it used to be. But it was unmistakeably him. “Hey,” she said, softly. She didn’t know what to say. Fear had completely cleared her mind of words. “Is that you, Marie?” he asked.“Yeah.”“Oh, my God,” he said, and there was a long pause. It sounded as though he was crying. She never interrupted when someone was crying. She had learned from her father, that if somebody was crying, they had a good reason to, and a right to. So she stayed silent. Eventually he said, “I’ve missed you so much.”“I’ve missed you, too.”“I don’t understand why you left me.”“Because you were cheating on me with a redhead.”He sighed deeply. “I didn’t know you knew about that. I thought you just got sick of me.”They were both quiet for an interval. Then he said, “The redhead. I got her pregnant, and we got married. It was a shit show right from the beginning. Neither one of us was in love. Neither one of us had any business being a parent. My daughter turned out fine, but that’s to her credit.”“She must be...how old?”“She’s thirty. I’m a grandpa, she has a one year old son.”She tried to picture him with grey hair, wrinkles around his eyes, maybe a beer belly, sagging jowls. “Miranda, is her name. My grandson is named Kai.”He pronounced the name in such a way that she knew he didn’t approve of it.“I call him Koi, just to piss off my daughter.”“What an asshole you are.”“You would not recognize me otherwise, but yes, I’m still an asshole. So, did you have kids?”“Sort of. I raised my sister’s daughter. My sister is a meth head. Her daughter calls me Real Mom, and my sister, Biological Mom.”“What a fucking savage.”“She is,” Marie said, proudly.“Did you ever get married?”“Yeah,” Marie said, “the less said about that, the better”.“C’mon. Tell me about it. I’m nosy.”“Oh, he was a pathological liar. He figured out who my ideal man was, and then pretended to be that person.”“So who is your ideal man?”“He pretended to be a college educated, vegetarian Christian socialist.”They both laughed. Not because her ex was wrong – but because he wasn’t. “So,” she asked, “are you still married?”“No,” he said.“Elaborate,” she said.“I cheated on her.”“Do you see a pattern?”“Yes,” he said, “I am aware that I’m the problem. I am a bottomless pit. I need constant attention, but no amount of attention can make me feel like I’m loved. It’s because my mother was an alcoholic and neglected me as an infant.”He said all this as though his life story was boring.He continued, “Look. I’m fifty-two years old. Remember how I knew everything when I was young? Now I know that I don’t know jack shit about anything. But I know this. Put out my eyes, and I can see you still. Tears welled up in her eyes. She had to breathe in and out, deeply, before she could manage to say, “So, how soon can you get here?”

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Anne Nassar

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