Free Shake Down the Stars by Renee Swindle Page B

like a space creature in a Kubrick movie or a Byzantine saint.
    He’s watching one of his documentaries. He wasn’t much of a television watcher before our divorce, but now he watches hours at a time, almost all documentaries:
The Civil War,
World War I
and
II, Baseball, The Roosevelt Years.
Subject matter is of no importance; the only criterion seems to be that the film is at least four hours long.
    The room itself is fairly neat except for the piles of empty boxes in two corners. Along with the TV, he’s recently purchased a KitchenAid mixer he’ll never use, a new laptop, and bundles of video games that he keeps in his office.
    I help myself to his drink sitting on the coffee table—whisky with too much water, but whisky nonetheless. He looks me up and down as I sip—okay, gulp, his gaze landing on the tear at the side of my dress. “What the hell happened?”
    â€œOh, you know, the usual—a party, a troll, a fence. I’m fine.”
    He raises a brow. “Your dress tells a more sordid story.”
    I take several more gulps of whisky.
    â€œHelp yourself,” he says sarcastically.
    â€œThanks.” Feeling better, I join him on the couch. On TV a flock of flamingoes grazes while a camera pans from above. Spence takes a sip from his drink and hands me the glass; I sip and pass it back.
    â€œYour mom called.”
    I keep my eyes on the flamingoes. I dread having to see Mom ever again.
    â€œFirst two calls, she wanted to know if you were okay and if I knew where you were. Third call, she wanted to know why you hadn’t called and said she feels bad about what happened, but that you ruined Margot’s party. Margot called, too. She wants you to know that she’ll have someone pack everything you left behind and bring it to your apartment. Oh, and she also says she’s pissed that you ruined Curtis’s song but forgives you.”
    I rest my head on his shoulder. I dread ever having to see either of them ever again.
    â€œAnd Charles called.”
    â€œThe Reverend, too?” I ask.
    â€œYeah, he said something about owing you an apology? He wants you to call.”
    I let out a long sigh.
    â€œSounds like the party was a success.”
    â€œOr something like that.”
    The camera appears to fall underwater, and we watch a family of hippos swim as gracefully as a school of fish. Spence takes my hand and digs himself deeper into the couch.
    I’m not sure what he thinks I’ve been up to tonight, but, thankfully, he’s not one to ask, which saves me from having to explain my behavior. He has no clue about the men I’ve been with, and I don’t intend for him to ever find out. He’s an assistant professor at UC Berkeley. Philosophy. I sometimes think his devotion to his field is why nothing riles him. When the goal is the question, you’re never concerned with answers.
    After another minute of watching hippos, I say, “I’m going to need a ride home tomorrow.”
    â€œAnd your car is . . . ?”
    â€œBack at the mansion. I used a cab to get here.” I stand with a yawn while stretching my arms, then start toward the bathroom. From behind I hear him say, “The plot thickens.”
    I walk past the guest bedroom, past our—Spence’s—bedroom. Once in the bathroom, I open the cabinet and pop one of his Ambien. Next, I head into the bedroom and take out a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I’ve staked out the bottom drawer of his bureau for nights like this, which, since I’m here almost every night, are innumerable.
    We haven’t defined what we’re doing. Even though we see each other almost every night and have sex as frequently, we’re not officially back together. We’re not officially anything, except in mourning.
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    B efore Hailey died, Spence and I were experiencing one of those lulls married couples face from time