Free Love Stories in This Town by Amanda Eyre Ward Page B

mother. “You were difficult until the day Paul found you, and then you sweetened for a while. I thought you had changed. But it was just Paul, all along.”
    I closed my eyes, and things seemed spinny. When I forced them open, my mother was watching me. “It's been over a year,” she said. “Now it's up to you to save yourself.”
    I nodded. “I hear you,” I said, and then I threw up.
    I had nightmares about Paul's bones coming to find me. I didn't want them, though I had brought his green plastic hairbrush to the police station in a fit of sentimentality. The word around town was that once they matched the DNA, the police would knock on your door with the news. In my town, that fall, we waited.
    I guess I hadn't really believed that Helen was gone until the rib arrived. Helen, who had walked hand in hand with me to kindergarten, her brown hair swinging, who had taught me to kiss, pressing her own dry lips to mine. Helen!
    Kent called the following week. My assistant, Cindy, came into my office. “Kent Hornbeck on Line Two,” she said.
    “Take a message,” I said.
    She shrugged pertly. Cindy. This gal was all about pert. She came back not a minute later. “He says he's made reservations at Caroline's Comedy Club for Thursday,” said Cindy.
    “Yuck,” I said.
    “It's fun,” said Cindy.
    “You've been to Caroline's Comedy Club?”
    “This guy I dated? Thomas Drury? He was big into comedy. It's fun, really.”
    “Give me that number,” I said. I called Kent in arbitrage. I'll be honest: I don't know what arbitrage is. Paul was a lawyer and I'm in publishing. Arbitrage has just never factored in.
    Kent answered the phone. I explained that I would not be able to go to Caroline's Comedy Club. “Lawrence told me this might be difficult,” said Kent.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Listen, I've already bought the tickets. It's just a comedy show. I'll meet you there at seven?”
    “Fine,” I said.
    But first there was Alexa, the therapist. She told me to let go of regrets. I told her my mother said I had never been a very nice person. She told me to let go of fear. I told her about the comedy club, and she thought it was a good idea.
    Caroline's was crowded and smoky. Kent held my arm as we wound our way to our seats. One table leg must have been shorter than the rest; the table kept tipping all around. I was tired before our drinks arrived. “So what did your husband do?” asked Kent. I thought this was a strange way to begin a date.
    “Lawyer,” I said.
    “My wife sold software,” said Kent.
    “Your wife?” I said.
    “Wendy,” said Kent. “She was on Flight 11.”
    “I didn't know,” I said. What did I want with some widower, I thought. “Jesus, I'm sorry,” I said. The waitress returned with our order. She was a bit sour, but I guess you don't have to be funny to serve the drinks.
    “Where was he?” asked Kent. “Your husband?”
    “The North Tower,” I said.
    His eyes were dull. “Wendy was in business class,” he said. I nodded. “Did he … did you talk to him?” asked Kent.
    “No,” I said. He nodded, and drank his martini quickly. We ordered another round.
    The first comedian had bad skin. He told a bunch of jokes about his mother, and then a bunch of jokes about how dumb Cajuns are. I had never met a Cajun, so these jokes were wasted on me. It seemed that Cajuns ate catfish sandwiches and kept alligators as pets. We sipped our drinks sadly, and after the first comedian had finished, I told Kent I was exhausted, went outside, and hailed a cab.
    Paul and I used to watch the news after work. One night, a reporter in a blue windbreaker stood in a Kansas parking lot, where a plane had just crashed. “If you were on a plane going down,” I said to my husband, “I would not want you to call me. I would rather remember all the good times. Not one last crummy phone call, you know?”
    “I don't know,” said Paul. “I might want you to call me.” “Well, don't call me,” I said. “I'm