The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

is to go after him, comfort him by saying how much I miss Riley as well. But I can’t do it.

Maybe later I will, when I build up the proper calluses allowing me to lie to my son with grace and conviction.

And what a depressing thought that is.

Five

Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin

Colin walked up the stairs inside his mother’s house, stepping with care around endless towers of crap on every riser. His mother would claim each pile to be full of things with which she could never part. To Colin, it was all junk, most of it not even worth donating to the Salvation Army. Some piles were lumps of old clothing, most having belonged to Colin’s father. Three shoes here, a pair of faded corduroys there, a bathrobe and collection of tighty-whities there.

But most of the piles on the stairs were rectangular and towering just enough that any forceful brush against them would topple them, like a gigantic Jenga game. Stacks of old hardcover books, tabloid magazines dating back to the eighties, shoeboxes with decades-old photos inside, and even empty Tupperware containers. Empty containers. Those puzzled Colin most.

The upstairs landing was no better. Nor was the hallway, nor any other area in the house. Crap was everywhere. Colin sometimes wondered if his father’s heart attack had been a blessing for him. Easier to die than to untangle this mess.

“Where are you?”

“In my room,” his mother replied.

Colin stubbed his toe on an end table lying on its side in the hallway. He cursed and was tempted to kick it in frustration but decided to let it go. The end table didn’t choose to be there after all.

He rounded the corner into his mother’s bedroom and saw her at her vanity, a set once owned by his mother’s mother. Mahogany finish, tri-angled mirror, and a delicate, needlepoint-topped stool. His mother was facing the mirror, applying lipstick, a creamy silk robe cinched loosely around her bony frame.

Her reflected gaze caught his.

“You have to clean up all your things,” Colin said. It was his usual greeting. “It’s just not safe.”

“You know I’m not going to have that conversation again.” Her typical reply.

“At least the stairs,” he said. “You’ll kill yourself. One stumble and gravity will do the rest.”

“Oh, don’t be so morbid.”

He noticed the cocktail glass on top of the vanity. Empty. No coaster. His grandmother was undoubtedly cursing from her grave.

“Why are you putting on makeup? It’s time for bed.”

She turned and her long, wiry gray hair swept across her shoulders. “Because it makes me happy. When you get to my age, doing things that make one happy is far more important than doing things that make sense.”

Her crooked lipstick and slurred words didn’t nullify what Colin conceded was a sound argument.

“You were ranting about some Linda person,” he said. “I don’t remember her.”

She sighed, turned back to the mirror, and started brushing out her hair. The image that popped into Colin’s head was the tail of a horse being groomed. “Oh, I’m past that,” she said.

“It was only ten minutes ago.”

“I suppose it was just something that needed to come out.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

“One away from enough.” She picked up her empty glass. “Pour me that last one, will you? The bottle’s in the bathroom.”

This was the part Colin hated because he always agreed. He’d put up much more of a fight when he and Meg moved back to Whitefish Bay four months ago. Back then, he’d argue with his mother, even hide her booze. Urged her to see a therapist to help with her mood swings, her compulsive hoarding (collecting, she called it), her need to get on some medication. But he learned he couldn’t force her to do anything, much less force himself to ignore her. So they settled into a routine on these nights, the evenings where she’d rant and call him to her side. He’d lightly chastise her about the clutter, ask her how many drinks she’d had, pour her one last one, and see that she got to sleep. Maybe he was nothing more than an enabler, and when he really thought about it, Colin figured he’d become the parent in the relationship, and that was about as bittersweet as something could be.

He stepped into the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of Plymouth Gin. This was the most clutter-free area of the house, along with a four-foot berth around her vanity set. Colin wondered if it represented some kind of safe zone for her, a place that existed as it always had, a return to her past she held dear while she slowly suffocated herself in the rest of the space.

He walked back and poured her two fingers.

“Thank you.”

“You need to drink less,” he said.

She lifted the glass, her hand wrinkled, spotted, and quivering in a way Colin thought more typical for a person twenty years older.

She took a sip and said, “Nights are difficult for me.”

“I know they are.”

“I’m not as bad as I seem.”

“I know, Mom.”

It was mostly true. She never drank until the sun went down, and during the daytime, she led a fairly normal life. She had a small community of friends that managed to get her out and doing things, and Meg drove her when she needed to go to the store.

“How’s the baby?” she asked.

“Fine. Kicking a little.”

“It’s a girl. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll find out in December.” The due date was a week before Christmas.

Colin sat on the edge of the bed. His mother pivoted in her chair and smiled at him.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure I do anything for you at all. We moved here, and I’m just sitting back and watching you crumble.”

“Everything crumbles eventually,” she said. “That’s how the world makes room for new things.”

“Maybe we should look into getting you help. Someone who comes by the house for a few hours every day.”

“You keep suggesting that,” she said. “You keep at it, and I’ll keep saying no.