No Place to Go

Lynn's voice rasped, "I love you. I'm sorry." I wanted to tell her to rest, to save her strength, but she was gone.

A month ago, cancer took my wife of twenty two years from me. From us, rather, from me and the three children that she had given me: Jenny, our eldest at eighteen years; Matt, my only son, fifteen years old; and our baby, thirteen year old Paula. Lynn's death had been hard on all of us, but Matt and Paula took it hardest. I was, in some ways, well-prepared for the grief. It was an old visitor come to darken my doorstep once again. My mother had died in a car crash when I was seven, and my father passed from a stress-related heart attack when I was in college.

Lynn saw me through the latter, and something she told me made the pain easier on me. It was a quote with no certain provenance: "Grief is love with no place to go." I've heard variants of it, slight changes of words or rephrasings, but this was my favorite, the one that Lynn told me, and the one I passed down to our children. It was an unwanted but desperately needed heirloom that she could no longer give them herself. It helped them cope, both the words themselves and knowing that the phrase was one I'd learned from their mother. Matt found particular comfort in it; apparently it was close to something that was said in one of his superhero TV shows. Whatever worked.

The kids were going to see a grief counselor, as was I. That helped, too. But ultimately, only time could heal the wound, if it could be healed at all. I did my best to share but not overshare in their sadness; that was difficult to me, but that I was able to even attempt it was another gift from Lynn.

My mother had been the parent in my life that was able to deal appropriately with emotions, and when she was gone, I was left with my father's stoic presence. He loved me, but he had difficulty showing it. He had difficulty showing any emotion; he cried at my mother's funeral, but that was it. He didn't try to stop me from grieving, but he also didn't guide me through it. My emotional development was stunted through my childhood, and it wasn't until I met and fell in love with Lynn that I learned how to express my feelings again.

I was never as good at it as her; there are certain things you learn in childhood or not at all. But slowly, over the course of our courtship and marriage, I came out of my shell. She helped me grieve for my father in ways that he had never helped me grieve for my mother. She taught me how to show love openly, to not treat it as a weakness that could be exploited by others, but as a strength to fortify myself against the world. She was the one great love of my life. Her death was the greatest test of the lessons she had given me.

Lynn was a very emotional woman, especially when we were younger. She came from a bohemian background; her father was a writer, and her mother was a painter. She was undisciplined until after our children were born; she leaned on me both as the primary provider and to take care of the day-to-day minutiae of our lives. But by the time Paula was one, she became as solid and stable a partner as I could have asked for, trading in her somewhat passive attitude for a new proactive and disciplined one. She could still go off on flights of fancy at times, which I loved, but she became the solid, stable partner that the father of three young children needs.

Her foresight was invaluable after her death. It was why we had large life insurance policies, even at our relatively young ages. It was why she had her funeral arrangements made ahead of time, so that I wouldn't have to deal with it while also trying to take care of our children and myself. And it was why Marcus Devereaux was standing on my stoop with a leather satchel in his hand.

Mr. Deveraux had called me the day before. He told me that he was an attorney, and that Lynn had asked him to handle a specific bequest that wasn't covered by our will. He refused to give me additional details over the phone but asked to come by my home the following day at one o'clock. When asked why we couldn't meet at his or my office, he told me that the location and time were part of Lynn's instructions for him.

He was a tall, slender Black man with a shaved head and a graying beard. It was hard to pinpoint his age, but if I had to guess, he was perhaps ten to fifteen years older than my own forty four years. His well-tailored suit was worn without an overcoat; odd, given the cold weather, but not especially so. There was a kind, if slightly impersonal smile on his face as he held out his hand. "Mr. Jenkins?" He had a deeper voice than I expected from such a slim man, a rich baritone.

"Kurt." I shook his hand; it was a good grip, firm without trying to play any stupid games.

"Marcus Devereaux. Marcus, if you prefer. May I come inside?"

I led him to our living room. Before I could offer him a seat and a drink, he said, "Which way is your dining room? I'm afraid your wife was quite specific in her instructions." I raised an eyebrow and he smiled again. "I know, it sounds odd. But it's far from the most eccentric directive I've been given in my career." I shrugged and beckoned him to follow.

Once there, I asked, "What is this about?"

"Patience, please. I promise, we'll get to that soon." He looked around. "Do you have a small trash can? A wastepaper basket, that type of thing?"

"Sure. I'll go get it." When I returned from my home office, he bade me sit, then put the trash can to one side of me. Afterwards, he sat at the table opposite me, in the spot Lynn would normally have taken.

"Kurt, could you tell me a little bit about Lynn? I only had a limited time with her, no more than a few hours. I'm sorry to say that she was in a great deal of pain, but she was very focused. Can you tell me what she was like? As a person and as a mother?"

"Lynn was wonderful. Funny, smart, loving. Great laugh." He was sympathetic as I smiled sadly. "I think I might miss that the most. The house has been so..." I shook my head. "Her parents were artistic types, and she had a lot of that energy. She was a little flighty when we were younger, but she got that out of her system once the kids came along. She was there for everything the kids needed by the time Paula was in school. Just a great mom; always had time for them."

"And as a wife?"

I felt an odd sensation, like a distant alarm was being sounded. "What is this about?"

Marcus inclined his head. "Part of it is personal curiosity, as I said. But part of it... well, it would be useful for me to know. I can't tell you more than that yet, but I assure you: telling me what you thought of her would be well in line with her wishes."

This was uncomfortable. He was a stranger. And a lawyer. It felt almost like a trap, but at the same time, if it went along with Lynn's wishes... I shrugged. "She was a great wife. The best. A loving, wonderful partner. I could talk with her about anything, and I think she felt the same about me. We had our troubles, like all couples do, but most of those sorted themselves out more than a decade ago. She was a rock when her diagnosis came; I don't... if I had been married to any other woman, I can't imagine that I would have gotten through it as well." I looked down at my hands. "I'll miss her for the rest of my life. She was my life in a lot of ways."

"Thank you, Kurt. For my part, I can tell you that she loved you very much; she spoke of you in glowing terms. Even through the pain, I could tell..." He shook his head. "Perhaps we should get started."

Marcus placed his satchel on the table and began to withdraw four objects from it: an envelope, a bottle of scotch, and a pair of tumblers. Each was of special interest to me: the envelope had my name on it in Lynn's swooping cursive handwriting; the scotch was an unopened Macallan 25 Year Sherry Oak, a very expensive bottle; and the tumblers, while themselves rather plain and unexceptional, represented an ill omen.

When Lynn had to give me bad news, we would sit like this. She'd wait until the early afternoon on a school day or the late evening on the weekend, times when the kids couldn't interrupt us. We'd sit in the positions Marcus and I now occupied at the table. She would bring out two tumblers and a bottle of scotch, then pour us each a finger. Once we'd finished them, she'd pour another that wasn't to be touched until she'd finished with whatever she'd needed to say.

It was a ritual that she learned early in our marriage to help manage the pain I felt with particularly bad news. She had taught me how to deal with my emotions, as I mentioned before, but particularly strong ones could still leave me unable to cope with their intensity. When she lost her mother, this was how she'd broken the news. When she was fired from her job, this was how she'd broken the news. And when she learned that she had previously undiagnosed stage four cancer, this was how she'd broken the news. The ritual was painful, but it gave a familiar shape to the pain, rather than leaving it free and uncontrolled.

He poured each of us a finger and passed me my glass. I sipped at it; this was a fine scotch, and drinking it quickly was sacrilege. Sipping also gave me time to think. "Marcus, why are you here?"

His voice was even. "Your wife retained me to do what we are doing right now. I can't give you more detail until after we've completed the initial set of instructions."

"Can you tell me how you were hired? I've never heard of you before yesterday."

Marcus considered his next words carefully. "Your wife consulted with a number of attorneys to find one that she felt was well qualified for the task that she needed to see accomplished. But, again, I can't give you specifics about what qualities she required until after we've completed the initial set of instructions."

"And I assume that the instructions are, roughly, to have this very fine scotch and then... Do I read the letter? Do you?"

"You do."

"Have you read it?"

He nodded. "I helped her prepare it personally. No other person was involved."

I took a deep breath and finished the rest of the Macallan in my glass, then held out my hand for the letter. He instead took up the bottle again and leaned across the table to pour another finger in my glass. That deep voice intoned, "Drink."

My brows furrowed. "No, that's wrong. Lynn would pour me one drink, I'd finish that, and then I'd drink the second one after she'd given me her news."

His voice was steady, with just a hint of regret. "Mr. Jenkins... Kurt. I am the only living person that knows what is in that envelope. And I am telling you: drink the second one now, before you read it."

I swallowed without moving the glass to my lips. "Marcus, what is-- "

"Drink." His voice changed, sympathetic but firm. "Please, Kurt. You do not know me, and you have no reason to trust me, but man to man? Drink."

I shouldn't have just tossed it back; like I said, a sacrilege. But my ritual had already been profaned, so what was an expensive glass of scotch in the grand scheme of things? He held his hand out for the tumbler, then gave me the envelope. As I opened it, he poured another finger into my glass, but kept it on his side of the table. I raised an eyebrow. "If I give it back to you now, you'll drink it before you're even halfway through."

I pulled a letter from the envelope. It was long; multiple pages of typewritten text. I leafed through it quickly, not reading, and the only handwriting was Lynn's signature on the last page. Returning to the first, I began to read to myself.

My dearest love,

This is the hardest letter I've ever had to write. I love you so, and I know that you love me, too. I am sure that you are in so much pain right now; that is why I had Mr. Deveraux deliver this a month after my death, so that you didn't have to deal with what you will read here while still deep in your initial grief. It may seem cruel to space things out in this way, but I promise you: I am doing it this way only because I love you and the children.

I must repeat this: I love you. You are the greatest love of my life. I wish that things could have been different. I wanted us to spend our golden years together traveling and playing with our grandchildren. The greatest regret of my life is not my death; it is only that my death will leave you alone for so long. I hope that you will find someone to share the rest of your life with you. I hope, even, that you will find the greatest love of your life after I am gone, that what we had together pales in comparison to the love that sustains you to the end of your years.

I must repeat that I love you, because what will come next is so hard. Because it will make you doubt my words. It will make you doubt my love. That is a greater pain to me than any cancer, any tumor or radiation or chemotherapy. But I know you, my love. And I know how you will feel when you have read this letter. I am so sorry to do this to you, but please, don't doubt that I love you more than any man I've ever loved. I could not have hoped for a better husband.

The words in this letter are meant to explain my behavior and how they will affect your life going forward. They are not meant to excuse; I have no excuses and no justifications for what I have done. They are not made in an attempt to earn forgiveness; I am beyond the succor of your forgiveness. But they are meant to allow you to make sense of the cruel hand that fate has dealt you. If I could take this burden from you, I would do anything. But I cannot; I can only tell you what I've done and hope that you can someday recover from the damage that the truth will inflict upon you.

Kurt, the simple truth is this: you are the greatest love of my life, but you are not the only man that I've loved during our marriage.

I reread the line several times to make sure I'd seen it right.

Kurt, the simple truth is this: you are the greatest love of my life, but you are not the only man that I've loved during our marriage.

you are the greatest love of my life, but you are not the only man that I've loved during our marriage.

you are not the only man that I've loved during our marriage.

I blinked and looked up at Marcus' face. He nodded, his lips a tight line. I glanced at the tumbler just out of reach; he had been right. With a sigh he said, "I'm sorry, Kurt. It gets worse." I opened my mouth to speak and he simply nodded to the letter. We hadn't completed the initial set of instructions.

I write those words with the greatest of shame. Please, I need you to understand: you did nothing wrong. You are blameless in my infidelity, even though I convinced myself otherwise at the time. You are, as I wrote before, the best husband I could have asked for. You were an excellent lover, a bountiful provider, and a wonderful father. You are not the reason I strayed. I am.

I strayed because I was weak and prideful and foolish. I strayed because I needed something that I thought you couldn't provide, when in fact, I didn't ask you to; I thought I knew the limits of your love, but they were instead the limits of mine.

I will provide detail that you would perhaps wish that I hadn't. I provide it because Mr. Deveraux convinced me that it would be crueler to not do so. I am not attempting to flaunt my infidelities; as I said, they are a source of shame for me. But I am dead and my shame no longer matters. Only your ability to move past them and make our children safe matters.

I looked up at Deveraux. "Make our children safe? What the fuck does that mean? What the fuck is this, you asshole? Did you-- you son of a bitch, did you fuck my wife?"

He shook his head. "No, Kurt. Her affair ended long before I met her. And you can call me any name you want. I assure you, you are not wrong in any of them. But the insight you need, the bulk of it, will come only if you continue reading."

Muttering threats and insults, I looked back to the hated letter.

My fall came after Jennifer was born, but its seeds were planted in the earliest days of our relationship. I was intrigued with you from the beginning, then infatuated. You were so quiet and closed off. But you were also stable and intelligent.

My parents were intelligent, but not stable. They were free to the point of foolishness. I loved them, but there's a reason I fell for you: I needed a counterpoint to the life I'd had before. I needed a man that could make me feel safe and cared for. I did not expect you to love me; I was not certain if you were capable of it at first. But as I got to know you, as you told me of your mother's death and your childhood, as I understood you better, I began to fall in love with you. You were so like you described your father to me: a man capable of love, but almost incapable of displaying it.

But then he passed, suddenly and unexpectedly, and you grieved. I helped you through it, and somewhere in there, in that display of sorrow, a floodgate opened. The love that you held inside washed over me as I comforted you; I knew that you would provide not only stability for me, but also love. And I wanted to believe that my love, and the way that you were able to love me, would make you a better man, a stronger one. I still believe that.

I only wish that it had made me a better woman. My ego in those days was quite inflated; I'm sure you remember. You were not the only man that had been interested in me, but I knew that I was the first woman that you were ever truly emotionally intimate with. Not physically, of course, but the first woman that you loved. That made me feel powerful. It was a power that I wanted to wield well, in service to our happiness, but feelings of power breed arrogance, even if they never fully manifest into outward action.

We were married. Our early marriage was wonderful; we both worked, but we also both knew that it was with an eye towards you building a business so that I could someday stop working and raise our children. You worked long hours, and I began to miss you dearly. Your love, once unleashed, was like the sun, and I missed basking in its glory. I did not cheat on you; that was the farthest thing from my mind. Instead, if you'll remember, I missed a few of my birth control pills. But I have to confess now: I didn't miss them. I simply didn't take them. That was the first lie that I told you.

I was foolish. I thought that if we had a child, you would be around more often, instead of working harder at securing our future. I thought that, even if you weren't, a child's love could sustain me until you could shine for me again. I didn't consider the difficulty that having a child would bring, the way it would drain me.

I had been warned, of course, by our friends who had children of their own, but I didn't heed them. You provided stability to my life, and surely that would be enough. Even if it wasn't, I had grown used to the ways that a beautiful woman with a sharp mind could sometimes avoid responsibilities as though she were dancing between raindrops. Neither of these things saved me, though.

Jennifer was a beautiful child. I don't regret that we had her at all. But it quickly became apparent how wrong I had been. You provided stability, but it was at the cost of more time away while I recovered. When you were with us, your sun shone on our daughter, and I felt left in the shade. I know you did not mean this, and I should have expected it. It's not as though you neglected me. You still showed me the love that you could when we were alone together, but that time was limited.

Then, the second blow to our happiness happened: my mother died just before Jennifer turned one. I was inconsolable, as you remember. We weren't close by the end; the two of you never got along, and she thought a businessman was a bad fit for me. But I still loved her, and the pain was almost overpowering. You tried to comfort me, but her death didn't mean that you had miraculously more time or energy available to help me. You did what you could, but you weren't much better at dealing with grief by then than you were when your father died. I struggled largely by myself.