You put the phone down, stand up, rub your head again. There is so much alcohol, lying around in solemn, [[upright bottles]], tops firmly fastened, necks smooth. They have replaced the people that brought them. They are your only company.
You're pretty drunk, now. Time has passed: hours, minutes. You may still be holding the phone, you may not. You may be experiencing a miracle, you may be hallucinating. She tells you, "I'll give you three requests, alright? Three, before I go. Three, a very holy number." There's a pause. "I wish I could give you a few more."\n\n"Three," you say.\n\n"Yes."\n\n"Very holy number," you say.\n\n"Yes."\n\nYou straighten up in your chair, look at the bottle in your hand. You think, stupidly, //Half empty, or half full?//\n\n//I'm talking to my dead wife.// [[Half empty, or half full?]]\n\n"Okay," you say. "One. Did your faith pay off?" You wince: that isn't a kind way of putting it. "What I mean is, God and all that. Is it for real?"\n\n"You know I can't tell you."\n\n"I'd like to know. Because I'd like to carry on your legacy, believe what you believed, but if it's all crap, I'll pick something else of yours to devote myself to. Like swimming or, I don't know, being beautiful."\n\n"You have to come to faith on your own terms, you know that. Not just because some dead girl told you God exists."\n\n"Not just any dead girl." Fuck. You're crying. Or more accurately, your eyes are leaking - tears are streaming down and around your lips, but you can't muster even the smallest sob. "I just want to know if all the fights we had, how much [[earlier]] we could've been married, I just want to know these things happened for a real reason. I just..."\n\nAt this moment, you can't stand yourself. If there were a mirror nearby you would smash it, misplaced anger to the narrowest degree. "I just want to make you happy. Still."\n\n"I know. You did. You always did."\n\n"I don't want to lose you."\n\n"Sorry." She is matter-of-fact. "You already have."\n\n"Yeah." You remind yourself how to breathe: in, out. Oxygen, carbon dioxide. Focus on things you know to be true. "Okay. [[Two]]."
Twenty-three is how old you were when you and your wife met. The world is so fond of patterns. God is love, or irony.\n\n<<back>>
This was the subject of your first poem, ever, in the trailer where your social studies class was held during school renovations. Tenth grade. You've gotten better since then. But maybe there's a little bit of that idea in everything you write. A constant battle between happiness and depression. Confusion as to how best to view the world. How to process all these random actions into some semblance of order.\n\n<<back>>
You've always found it easier to be friends with women. You're not sure why. And your male friends certainly weren't beacons of machismo: you and your best male friend were often thought to be gay, in college. So maybe the female sensibility was easier for you to handle. Maybe you're not all tackle football and 16 oz. steaks.\n\nThis easy rapport with women had been a problem for some past girlfriends, but never for Emma. At least, it was never vocalized. You did it less with her, anyway. Meeting Emma made other women seem a little less interesting.\n\n<<back>>
What if you never find out?\n\nWhat if you live your life together, for 50 years, the both of you happy enough to read fairy tales to your kids and play basketball at the community center every spring, and you never learn about that construction worker, this architect, all those college students? Would your happiness be null and void? Would it be worth anything less if you died never knowing your wife had an affair with another man for 27 years? Would Saint Peter (God help you, you're Catholic) look up your name at the gates of heaven, grimace, and let you know why your wife was always so giving in bed?\n\nYou've had conversations about how late she stays at work. She always tells you she's sorry, that sometimes she's married to the job [[more than you]], and that isn't fair. And when she says it like that, when she admits her fault, you can't argue with her anymore. The whole point of arguing is to make someone else see that they're wrong.\n\nYou only checked on her once, at 10 pm, on a Thursday. Her office light was the only one on in the entire building, and there she was, at her desk, chewing on a pen cap and staring at the screen.\n\nWhat if that was it? What if, after that, you never doubted her again? Who would be justified in mocking your marriage? Who wouldn't believe that this price, the unidentified, undiscovered price, was easy to pay in exchange for happiness?
You met a girl, sometime, in some place full of pine trees and parks, whothat you fell in love with from afar, like a gothic hero or high school freshman. You were not averse to the possibility of her being your wife. The problem was simply that she had faith, and you did not. She believed in the love of God, you believed in the love between human beings. The last night you saw her, it was just starting to snow outside, and the black lampposts seemed to shiver as you walked beneath them. She told you, "I'm always going to love God more than you. Won't that bother you? Won't it be hard to know that I love someone more than you?"\n\nYou weren't sure, but you were willing to give it a shot. And you did, with flowers, poems, romantic movies, late night phone calls. In the end, she chose God. And in a devastating and sickly final irony, the night after you got drunk and cursed the sky, she died.\n\nWell, you thought, that's choosing God for you. You can still recall the numbness, the feeling of being totally absent from your body. You heard the news over the phone, and the next thing you remember is hospital white.\n\nSo, if your wife wants to work late, you can bear checking up on her only once. She's married to her job, just as the girl from your past was married to God. You don't want to interfere. You don't want to lose two people like that.
You reach for one: tall, skinny, deep green. You reach for the phone. "I'm trying to remember," you say, jamming the phone between your cheek and shoulder, screwing the top off what you can already smell will be whiskey, "did we bury you with a cell phone?"\n\n"Hey."\n\n"I mean, you wanted some personal belongings down there with you, just in case."\n\n"Are you drinking?"\n\n"No," you say, then lift the bottle to your lips. You've always admired the burn of whiskey, the warmth. "Actually, I just started."\n\n"Nothing during the funeral?"\n\n"Nothing." You pause, take another swig. "Did you see it?"\n\nShe laughs. Fuck. You miss that laugh. "Yes, I did. Very moving."\n\nYou blink twice, hard. "Wow. Alright. Wow."\n\n"I sure thought so."\n\nYou take another [[drink]] of whiskey. The edges of your ears throb, your throat feels like it's been sanded smooth.
It crosses your mind that this should hurt you, but it doesn't. When you give it a moment of thought, you realize that if you were the one who died, you'd be happy to see your family at any point. Your friends, too; you'd be glad of their company. But if Emma suddenly showed up beside you, just as dead as you were, you'd probably break down crying.\n\nThat seems strange. The person who made you the happiest during your life, all tied up in sadness after it.\n\n<<back>>
"I don't know," you say, after several minutes, your mind blank. "Ask me something, anything you want to know." You take another sip (you're down to sips now - something has made you cautious, responsible), smile. "Or do you know everything, now?"\n\n"Not everything."\n\n"Okay, then. Ask me something you want to know. That's my second request."\n\nThere is a long pause. You try to picture her in thought, conjuring your favorite aspects of her body: her eyes, her toenails, maybe the way she'd bite her lower lip or slowly wiggle her nose. Finally, she says, "Did you have an affair with [[Sharon]]?"\n\n"Emma! Jesus."\n\n"Careful," she says, "I could have you on speaker phone. He could be standing right next to me."\n\n"Hi, Jesus," you say, just to hear her laugh. "Seriously, that's your question?"\n\n"It's something I can't know, because it's in your head."\n\n"Locked away," you say. "Do you think I did?"\n\nAlmost immediately: "No, actually. Not at all."\n\n"What if you never found out?"\n\n"Listen--"\n\n"Think about that. What if we lived our lives together, for 50 years, the both of us happy enough to read [[fairy tales]] to our kids and play basketball at the community center every spring, and you never learn about that waitress, this friend, all those college students? Would your happiness be null and void? Would it be worth anything less if you died, never knowing your husband had an affair with, say, another man, for 27 years? Would Saint Peter look up your name at the gates of heaven, grimace, and let you know why your husband was always so giving in bed?"\n\n"I just asked you a question."\n\n"What if that was that? Who would be justified in mocking your marriage? Who wouldn't believe that this price, the unidentified, undiscovered price, was easy to pay in exchange for happiness?"\n\n"Would you calm down?" She almost sounds angry. It strikes you that, during your hours of conversation, this has been the first modulation in her voice since you answered the phone.\n\n"I'm making a point here."\n\n"Oh, good."\n\n"Emma, why don't you think I had an affair with Sharon?"\n\n"Why do I --" There is a pause, a silent creak before the dam bursts, "Because I love you, you idiot, and I trust you, and I believe in you!"\n\n"So let me get this straight, you believe whole-heartedly that I've never cheated on you, even though you have no hard evidence of my innocence?"\n\n"Yes!"\n\n"What would you call that?"\n\n"I'd call it love, you fuck! I'd call it trust, I'd call it faith, I'd--"\n\nYou rub your thumb against the whiskey bottle, wondering if enough friction could wear the glass paper-thin. You expect this silence would be longer, beautifully long, and now that you know who'se breath it is on the other end, you could listen to it all night,; but you have to finish. "We always fought about this, the love of God against the love between people, between us. We always fought about which was greater."\n\n"I know."\n\n"They're both belief in something intangible. They're both the [[same damn thing]]."
You tell her, "The answering machine didn't pick up, but it should have. This is a cordless phone, and I've been talking on it for hours - the battery should have worn down. How am I not just hallucinating?"\n\n"I don't know. Maybe it's a miracle."\n\nYou scratch behind your ear, absently. Your logical mind doesn't revolt entirely against such an idea. "You think so?"\n\n"I think so. I get to say goodbye. It's the only thing I wished for, and here it is: I got it."\n\n"Ask, and ye shall receive."\n\n"Maybe. Faith. Or, I suppose that's not the right word for it."\n\n"What is the right word for it?"\n\nIt's still nighttime: the clocks around the living room are all in perfect synchronicity. The grandfather clock by the door keeps ticking off the same minute. "Love," she says.\n\nYou smile, widely, so wide a few tears sneak into your mouth. "That sounds better."\n\n"Yeah. It sounds good to me, too."\n\nYou sit up in your chair, carefully put the whiskey bottle on the coffee table and slide it away. "I'm so taking up swimming,." you say. She laughs, and so do you. "Seriously. I'm going to get so damn good at it, I'll be in the Olympics. You get the Olympics, where you are?"\n\n"Sure, we get NBC."\n\n"Good."\n\n"You have one more request, you know."\n\n"I know." You study the back of your hand - your knuckles are cracked from the cold. You're still wearing your wedding ring. "Can you just keep talking forever?"\n\n"You know I can't do that."\n\nYou nod. "Alright, then. Tell me a story about us. A memory, anything." You move to the couch, lie down flat, stare at the ceiling. You wonder if, where you're looking, you're meeting her eyes. "Make sure it's a long memory."\n\n<html><b>∴</b></html>
!!A Conversation With Your Dead Wife\n!!!by <<pop 'sean' 'Sean Woznicki'>>\nAt 3 am, the phone rings. You're still up.\n\nWhen you answer the phone, you hear nothing but slow, steady breathing. You say hello, in as many languages as you can summon, but after Japanese, the line cuts off and leaves you with silence.\n\nYou sit still for a few seconds. Then, you check all the windows, lock all the doors, turn on every light in the house. Wish you had never watched a single horror movie.\n\nYou sit down in your favorite chair to try and steady yourself, so when the phone rings again, you jump almost straight up, like a cartoon, eyes ready to bulge out of your skull. You tell yourself, //wait for the machine to get it//, but the phone rings five times, six, seven. You count every ring. On [[twenty-three]], you pick up. You run through the same list of languages, adding a few you didn't even know were lodged in your brain, until finally the breathing stops and a voice crackles through the phone, "Stop it."\n\nYou do. Your whole body is still, except for one part of it consumed by a sudden nervous tic. Maybe your left eye twitches, maybe the fingers of your free hand clench into a ball. "Emma?"\n\n"Yes." You can hear her smile. "I just... I just really wanted to talk to you."\n\n"I." You run your hand quickly over [[your head]]. "I guess so."\n\n"Can you talk? I mean, are you busy?"\n\n"No. No, everyone's gone now. They'll miss you."\n\n"I know."\n\nYou look at the chair, but you know you won't be sitting back down. "It was all very pomp and circumstance. Very senior prom. More solemn, I guess, but just as perfunctory. I guess it was nice of them."\n\n"Nice of them to what?"\n\n"I don't know. Care. [[Hold on]]."
What is in your right hand?\n| [[The phone, of course. It's been there the whole time.]] |\n| [[Nothing. I've just been using it to prop my head up, to keep from falling asleep.]] |
Good job, drunky. Not only are you hallucinating, your mind is so feeble that you can't even conjure up a visual image of the woman who was sitting across from you two days ago. You're so afraid to say goodbye that you had to dream up this excuse, this phone conversation, like she's just away on an extended business trip. You're pathetic.\n\nAlright, it's okay. Finish this bottle; move to a new one. Wake up tomorrow, remember how to breathe: in, out. Oxygen, carbon dioxide. You will hurt, and for a long time.\n\nBut, maybe, it'll get better. \n\n<html><b>∴</b></html>
You wanted to write fairy tales, for a while. Escapes from reality. You were never terribly fond of reality. You have a feeling you'll like it even less, now.\n\n<<back>>
A Conversation with Your Wife
"You also have another request left," she says. "Number three."\n\nYou imagine that right now, your dead wife is feeling more than you are. You feel drained, like you've lost six pounds. "Does it matter?"\n\n"Sure it does. Everything matters."\n\n"It's certainly pretty to think so." You smile, shake your head. "I don't -- I don't even know if this is real."\n\n"Sure you do."\n\nYou bite the inside of your lip. "I do?"\n\n"Of course you do. Look at your [[right hand]]."
You just finished shaving your head - you can still feel something pressing against your scalp, the afterthought of hair. You're not sure if you did it out of grief, or just out of a need to get the hell away from all those people, all that black.
The problem was a simple one: she had faith, and you did not. She believed in the love of God, you believed in the love between human beings.\n\nYou were lying in bed together one night, looking at each other's hands, entangling your fingers in ways that never seemed to repeat themselves. She kept looking at you with eyes darker than usual, more serious. Finally, she brought your hand to her breast and held it there. She said, "I'm always going to love God more than you. Won't that bother you? Won't it be hard to know that I love someone more than you?"\n\nYour answer was loving, avoidant, and infuriating: "You've thought about marrying me, haven't you?"\n\n<<back>>
Minutes pass. Days. You're thankful to be devoting your energy toward rubbing the bottle thin with your thumb -- otherwise you'd be drinking, just to keep from being still. "You're remarkably lucid," she says, slowly, voice under control, "for being drunk."\n\n"How do you know I'm drunk?" You laugh, then, in spite of yourself. "Besides the fact that I'm //talking// to my //dead wife//, how can you tell I'm drunk?"\n\n"I can see you."\n\nYou freeze. You look at the ceiling, which seems both logical and hopeful. "You can see me?"\n\n"I can see you."\n\n"You can see me, but I can't see you. That doesn't seem fair."\n\n"Well. You're alive, and I'm dead. That doesn't seem fair, either."\n\n"No," you mumble, feeling your eyes turn wet. "It doesn't."\n\n"It's odd," she says. "You're the only person that still makes me feel happy, or sad. I didn't expect that. I thought I'd think of my family, my friends at work, past boyfriends, even pets, and feel... I don't know. Something. I had forgotten how much I knew people, how much I categorized people, simply by how I felt when I thought of them. It's harder to remember things, specific memories, without those emotions attached. But you -- I'm dead, and you can still make me angry, still make me laugh. I didn't expect that at all. I didn't expect that even now, I'd have to feel sad to feel happy."\n\nFuck. You take another drink, back to swigging. You're going to miss her like hell when this is over. "I wish I was with you."\n\n"Oh, no," she says. "I hope you're not with me for a [[very long time]]." She's smiling: "You have to carry on my legacy. You have a life to live, and all that."\n\n"Yeah," you say, wiping your eyes. "[[So they tell me]]."