I’d simper at the look of you square-stepping the aisle in your veil, remembering the rambunctious Jew in the wear-worn Tshirt and over-scrubbed jeans who found herself a bit tipsy and 20 down in the Big Easy. “Chicks With Dicks,” I think it said, the shirt I mean. I’d try to hide my smirk from your father and fail spectacularly, his brow wincing beneath his double-bridged bifocals. “Mr. And Mrs. Tom Sabala,” he’d mutter to himself, “the son-of-a-bitch.”
And I’d almost believe it could work, that time really does stand still. And when you ask me if it matters, I’d gaze at you sober-eyed and say in one of those hard-lining Marlin Brando sorts of ways, “Fuck ‘em, I never liked rain anyway.” At least that’s how the dream ends, shadows standing still.
But now everything moves and the best I can do is hold my stomach. I still think of you; how you loved reading comics in the tub and hated soggy bread. Our daily walks in the city so familiar with its morning greys and browns.
Getting over you wasn’t easy. I read The Chronicle every Sunday for a year just to make sure you hadn’t been caught in an earthquake or attacked by a shark or something. And I suppose standing there pigeon-toed some part ofmewanted to just wander off to Tiujana with you and never look back, but everything moves.
This probably sounds strange to you, but I’ve kept everything of ours, honest to God, a wife and a mortgage later. I mean it. Everything’s sill in there, even that old swim gear we bought at the Walton’s garage sale. God, I would’ve loved to snorkel.
We would’ve had our times, laughed at the Bird Lady in the park and pitied everyone who didn’t celebrate spring in New York. “Sorry s.o.b.’s” I think we’d call them. But everything would’ve been an illusion, one fantastic storm before the drought. Eventually you would’ve seen that too and hated me for it, hated everything. 43 big ones and a healthy life insurance policy down the road you’d be standing in St. Edward’s an old woman, wondering why you ate corn dogs every Saturday and pretended to like The Dodgers.
The smell of decaying Scrub Okay and the way your “S’s” roll off the great planked walls of the place would remind you of the vows you said right here on these steps, at St. Ed’s. You’d scold yourself for remembering something so sentimental for such a bastard and scowl a little at my eulogy.
You’d probably come to question everything after that.
You’d wonder if I ever really loved you and whether I’d have liked the name Harriet for a girl. Or why I didn’t like strip-malls and insisted on leaving my socks on in bed. Remember the pocket watch you gave that I left unwound. Part of you would wish you’d have said, “Fuck it,” and drunk yourself funny in Milwaukee’s lousiest bar, wedding dress and all.
But part of you would’ve wanted to stay, too, I suppose.