For Kate

An unfaithful husband drives with his young lover as they speculate their future.

Old work - 2003

For Kate

For Kate's eighteenth birthday I gave her a five-year diary from an old bookstore tucked in one of the many nooks and crannies of Cheyenne. It was held shut by a small metal lock and key, and I knew immediately that she'd love it. It seemed her style; she liked cute and sentimental things and I didn't give it a second thought before buying it and tucking it into the glove compartment of my pickup truck. I'd bought a bottle of tequila -Kate's favorite- earlier that day and now it was clenched between my legs, already half gone.

It was as she was fiddling with the tiny lock and key of her new diary that I saw a familiar, cranberry red Cadillac driving our way. It was my wife, without a doubt. Her blonde form was easily distinguishable even from this far and my hand reached out and shoved Kate's head down a little rougher than I had intended.

"It's her," I said, "She keeps the lights on in the daytime. I can't think of a single habit in a woman that irritates me more than that."

I loosened my grip on Kate's head, and then lifted it completely when I knew she was going to stay put. I ran it through my hair, a habit of mine when put in any sort of difficult situation. I kept my eyes on the Cadillac coming towards us and forced an indolent grin to my hopefully calm slouch for when she glanced at me.

"Why does she?" Kate asked.

"She thinks it's safer. Why does she need to be safer? She's driving exactly fifty-five miles an hour. She believes in those signs: 'Speed Monitored by Aircraft'. It doesn't matter that you can look up and see that the sky is empty."

"She'll see your lips move, Jack. She'll know you're talking to someone."

For a moment, I froze. The Cadillac was close enough for the driver to see my face, and I struggled quickly for some sort of excuse. One came easily enough, and I relaxed with a snort. "She'll think I'm singing along with the radio."

As my wife drove by, I merely gave her a salute with my hand still on the wheel and a cast of my lopsided grin which I hoped was relaxed and care-free enough. She honked twice at me; I couldn't tell whether the chirps of the horn were in greeting or aggravation at the fact that I was going easily eighty miles an hour. I glanced down at Kate, who was staring at my boots and the floor. On the tape deck Rosanne Cash sang, "Nobody's into me, no one's a mystery."

"Do you think she's getting famous because of who her daddy was or for herself?" I asked.

"There are about a hundred pop tops on the floor, did you know that? Some little kid could cut a bare foot on one of these, Jack."

I stared ahead at the road, a little irked at my question being overlooked. "No little kids get into this truck except you."

"How come you let it get so dirty?"

"How come," I mocked, raising my voice to a silly pitch. A glance at the rear view window told me the Cadillac was well-behind us. "You even sound like a kid. You can get back into the seat now, if you want. She's not going to look over her shoulder and see you."

"How do you know?"

"I just know," I answered after a pause. "Like I know I'm going to get meat-loaf for supper. It's in the air. Like I know what you'll be writing in that diary."

"What will I be writing?" Kate asked rather smugly, getting back into her seat and leaning over to rest her head on my shoulder as she so often did while I drove. Ahead, the white, broken lines of the road passed by quickly, and I slowed my speed a little, shifting and remembering the bottle between my legs.

"Tonight you'll write, "I love Jack. This is my birthday present from him. I can’t imagine loving anybody more than I love Jack.'"

"I can't," she shot back. I continued.

"In a year you'll write, 'I wonder what I ever really saw in Jack. I wonder why I spent so many days just riding around in his pick-up. It's true he taught me something about sex. It’s true there was never much else to do in Cheyenne."

"I won't write that," Kate scoffed softly.

"No?"

She sat up, raising her chin and grinning. "Tonight I'll write, 'I love Jack. This is my birthday present from him. I can't imagine anybody loving anybody more than I love Jack.'"

"No, you can't," I said, "You can't imagine it."

"In a year I'll write, 'Jack should be home any minute now. The table's set- my grandmother's linen and her old silver and yellow candles left over from the wedding- but I don't know if I can wait until after the trout a la Navarra to make love to him.'"

I snorted, ever the skeptic. "It must have been a fast divorce."

Kate disregarded my pessimism, continuing as if she hadn't heard any blow to her idealistic future. I listened with a smile, leaning back and placing my left hand at twelve o' clock allowing myself a better view of her.

"In two years," she said, "I'll write, 'Jack should be home by now. Little Jack is hungry for his supper. He said his first word today besides "Mama" and "Papa". He said "caca".'"

I laughed, "He was probably trying to finger-paint with caca on the bathroom wall when you heard him say it."

"In three years, I'll write, 'My n*****s are a little sore from nursing Eliza Rosamund.'"

"Rosamund," I added thoughtfully, "Every little girl should have a middle name she hates."

"'Her breath smells like vanilla and her eyes are just Jack's color of blue.'"

"That's nice," I said simply.

"So, which one do you like?"

"I like yours," I said, "But I believe mine."

"It doesn't matter. I believe mine," she said with certainty.

I smiled -the smile that Kate would later admit to making her fall in love with me- and rested my elbow on the car door. She hugged my arm close and closed her eyes.

Kate was wrong in the end.

Eliza Rosamund's eyes were the same smoldering brown as her mothers.