Free On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren Page A

showing up when you’re with a new boyfriend.”
    “Exactly,” I respond, just to needle him. “Hey, you’re the one who left, not me. Did you think I was just going to wait around for you?” I get up and begin packing my coffeemaker and coffee mugs. “Why did you come here anyway?”
    Matt can’t seem to remember. He stares at the floor.
    “There’s a box of your stuff behind you,” I say. And there’s nothing more to say.
    He picks up the box and leaves without saying another word.

Pearl on Her Husband
(June 1)
    Henry just didn’t come home one night. I knew. I knew when he didn’t come in by nine that something was wrong. I was smart enough to know that. I watched the clock with dread as it moved from 8:30 to 9:00. I promised myself that promptly at nine I would take action. I knew. I knew nothing was going to change between 8:30 and 9:00. Sure, I hoped, but deep in my heart I knew. I called Mike Halvorsen at the sheriff ’s department and told him I was going to search for my husband. I asked him to please check in on us in case I found something I wasn’t prepared to handle. I hung up the phone and went to the shelf by the back door, found the big flashlight, put on my work boots, and started walking. I decided I’d best take the old Chevy pickup in case I had to transport Henry—in case he was still alive. I confess, I felt a little detached about what was going on. I knew what was going on, but it didn’t seem quite real to me. It didn’t and it did. I knew enough about what had probably happened to entertain the idea of what my life would look like if Henry was dead. I couldn’t quite picture it, but it felt like something lifting from me.
    As I drove the old road to the back forty, I remembered riding my horse out there as a girl to bring my daddy his lunch or some cold water. This farm was so deeply in my blood, in my skin, and I recalled the sense of violation I had when Henry asked my father for my hand, married me, and then took over my home. He never acknowledged that this was my home. If I had been a man, it would have stayed my home. I thought about it a lot. It burned me. Marrying Henry seemed more like a business arrangement from the word go. His father owned the farm behind ours, and with Henry marrying me, our farms would merge to become one of the largest in the county. It made good sense to him, and it made good sense to our families. No one really asked if it made good sense to me. I was coming of age and needed a place to go. My parents did not welcome the burden of a grown daughter living with them any longer, one who would bring them shame if I turned down a perfectly good suitor. I owed my parents more than that. They didn’t deserve to be shamed or burdened. I married Henry. Henry must have known what I did not feel for him. I was more an observer and less a participant in our sex. Frankly, I never liked it. I found it quite repulsive actually. I did not like his corn in my field and I did not like his semen in my body. His presence polluted my home and my body. I tried to like him. I really did. I tried to think about the nice things he did—how he would chop wood for my parents, or occasionally treat me to a new dress. Little things mean a lot. That’s how I made it so long—thinking about those little things. Dutiful . . . Henry was dutiful. He knew his duties as a man, and he did them well, and for that, I could not complain. He protected, he provided, he was good to my parents. Being on the receiving end of a man’s duties always has a price, though. Some women don’t mind paying it. Some women enjoy paying it. I did not. After a few years, I wised up and lied. I told him he snored so loudly I couldn’t sleep and I went off to sleep in another room—in the room that was mine as a child. He didn’t question it. Maybe he was just as relieved. I don’t know.
    First, I saw his tractor upside down. They are so easy to roll. Hit a bump, jerk the wheel, and it’s all