A Husband's Grief

short work in progress loosely modeled on personal loss

I was painting when I received word, or more precisely cleaning up painting debris. Hands filled with paper towels and soiled brushes, I trudged to the door. I was annoyed at the persistent knocking, certain it was a salesperson or college student conducting a survey.I'm glad I'm not home to be bothered by this every week,I thought, reflecting on my vacation week schedule.

I opened the door to see Elaine, my sister-in-law, dressed in work attire and shifting from foot to foot. "Mark's been trying to call. Chris is dead."

My response was unoriginal: "no!" Almost reflexively, I denied the fact out of existence. I blinked and Elaine still stood there. "Call Mark. Chris is dead. Chris killed himself. Mark's been calling and you didn't answer."

The phone, unplugged since yesterday, lay lifeless among painting tools. I had noticed it was dead, but hadn't worried. There were other phones elsewhere in the house, and what could be so urgent it required immediate attention? Only a matter of life and death. Finishing painting was the priority; chit chat could wait. My cell phone vibrated softly in my purse:Chris is dead. Chris is dead.I had failed Mark. I was absent in his time of greatest need.

I was probably rude to ignore Elaine, leaving her in the hallway as I catapulted past her to grab a working phone.This will kill Mark. This will kill him.I punched the numbers so clumsily I had to redial twice.

"Hello?" His voice sounded broken.

"Oh baby, I'm so sorry."

He was seated outside, I learned, sobbing with sharp intakes of air. No one at his work knew yet. The day was proceeding as normal for the rest of the world, unaware or unconcerned that Chris was dead. I talked him inside to tell his boss. I looked up to see Elaine, anxious and embarrassed, staring at me from the living room. I thanked her and let her out. I cleaned the paint smudged phone.

The problem is, I've never been what one would describe as a good wife to Mark. Don't get me wrong, I have never cheated. I don't verbally or physically abuse him. Yet I know I'm lacking in the natural ability to support and comfort some women claim as a birthright. When Chris died, I tried so hard to be the wife Mark deserved. I held him as he cried. I raced to clean the house, pack and get on the road to collect the pieces of Chris's life scattered several states away. I forgot makeup and essentials – heck, makeupisessential – and didn't complain. It could all be bought at the local Walmart, a store against which my liberal principles usually rebelled. I vied for best female lead in the role of supportive wife in a real life drama, even though I can't act.

Yet I resented it when Mark complained over a missing cell phone charger, or blamed me for a household mishap I didn't cause. I grew frustrated when he sometimes refused sex, too sad for intimacy.I have needs too, damn it! I'm your wife!

How could I say that? Didn't I know what he'd lost?

I'd love to say my relationship with Chris was stellar, but it wasn't. Truth be told, I sometimes resented his closeness to Mark. They shared a superglue best friends bond that sealed out all foreign materials – like a wife, for instance. I once told Mark he would divorce me if Chris insisted, and then guiltily went to confession for saying it.Oh Lord, forgive me for my jealousy. Chris, please forgive me for being a jealous shrew.

Where do I seek Chris's forgiveness now? I sometimes wonder if he sees and hears my thoughts – a voyeur of the spirit world.I knew she didn't like me, that bitch!Yet I did like Chris. He was easy to love – affable, kind, and smart. I loved him even though he was a serial cheater and I feared he would leave Mark astray. I loved him despite the fact he teased me mercilessly about my awkward manners. I loved him notwithstanding the women who stalked him, disrupting our home seeking clues to find him after he'd spurned their affections.

Perhaps my love is sufficient to convince Chris to forgive me my jealousy. Perhaps he knows I'd renounce all my selfish greed for Mark's affections if I could bring him back.

"I'll never have another best friend. You're my only friend now."

You're right, baby. You won't.

"Never is a long time, love. You don't know that."

"I won't."

"I'm so sorry, love." I wrap my arms around his shoulders and sigh.

Mark's clearing out his room now. His room – the designated "man cave." It had been a mess for so long I had given up on imposing any order, unless I tacked it myself. He needs to find space for Chris's things now: T-shirts, beer mugs, ski jackets, police insignia. He wants to put old photographs, suddenly too precious for storage in assorted boxes and envelopes, into albums. So many snapshots of Chris and Mark smiling, beers in hand, girls I don't recognize at their sides. Chris and Mark in suits at fraternity events. On the beach. Next to Mark's new truck. Finally, Chris standing beside his new police cruiser, so proud to be a cop and so far away from home.

"Do you think I'll ever see Chris again?

I don't know.

"I think you will, baby, eventually."

"He wasn't religious. I don't think he believed in God."

"I don't think that matters in the end."

"I don't want to be in a heaven without Chris."

I dialed the rectory at our church the week after Chris died.

"Hello, Father? Do you have a minute?"

Choking back tears, I explain what happened. The call was ostensibly to keep the priest informed in case Mark called, but I really wanted answers. I wanted to know what to say when Mark tells me he's angry with God besides "I know. I am too." I yearned for consolation that Chris isn't condemned by God for what he did.

The priest's discomfort was palpable. He wanted me off the phone.

"I'll pray for you and Mark. Please drive safely."

I'll pray for you? That's it?

I punched the end button on the phone furiously. I needed so much more. My heart hardened. I felt betrayed.

I open the door on returning from work and see Mark sitting on the patio. Chris's tall beer mug is sitting on the table, and two shot glasses.

"Have you been drinking, baby?"

"I got a Warsteiner keg, like I was planning to take to Chris's next month."

"What are the shot glasses for?" I see our good bottle of tequila resting at the table's edge.

"I did a shot. Poured out one for my dead homie."

"That's good."

"I'm angry with Chris. If he were here, I'd punch him in the face."

Wouldn't anybody?