He Hid Himself in Every Room So I Could Survive Him

Frank cleared his throat from the next room.

Not loud.

Just enough.

Ellen turned.

He looked tired.

Bone tired.

But his eyes were clear.

“Ellie,” he said, “did you bring that crossword book you promised me?”

Just like that.

He moved the whole conversation two feet to the left.

She went to get it from her purse.

I stood there at the counter with the knife in my hand and realized the note had not been for later.

It had been for now.

That night, after Ellen left, I found Frank awake in the dark.

Not fully dark.

The kind that comes from one lamp left on in the corner because somebody forgot to switch it off and nobody has the heart to call it a mistake.

I was rinsing out teacups when he said, “You read it.”

Not a question.

I turned.

He was looking at me over the top of his blanket.

I could have lied.

Could have said, “Read what?”

Could have kept protecting him from being seen while he was trying so hard to protect me from what was coming.

Instead I leaned back against the sink and said, “The angry one.”

He nodded once.

Like a mechanic confirming the right part had finally arrived.

“You mad?” he asked.

I let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

“At you?”

He shrugged a little.

“At life. At the notes. At the whole circus.”

I dried my hands on the dish towel.

Then I went and sat across from him.

Not beside.

Across.

So he could see my face.

“I’m mad,” I said.

He waited.

“I’m mad that you’re doing this at all.”

His eyes lowered.

Not ashamed.

Just tired.

“I know.”

“I’m mad that you’re hiding yourself in this house like I’m some kind of fool who won’t know how to boil water after you’re gone.”