How to Talk to a Widower

getting wealthy off the advance, but then again, I’m going to be wealthy anyway, and besides, that’s not really the point. I’ve got Russ to think about now, and even though we don’t need the money, I don’t think it would be setting a particularly good example for him if I sat around scratching my balls all day. The book will be a memoir chronicling the mess I made of things after Hailey died. I’m not terribly eager to relive that time, but in the final analysis, it’s the best way I can think of to keep her alive. Because I know now that the pain will inevitably fade, I can already feel it happening, like dying embers at the edge of a bonfire, turning a lifeless gray and disintegrating into the breeze. Knowing that there is a published record of us will go a long way toward helping me to let go, or that’s the theory anyway.
    So now I’m officially an author. I have a contract, an editor, a new laptop, a deadline, and no idea of how to write this thing. But it’s a strange and not entirely unpleasant feeling, having something to do again. I sit at the desk in my bedroom, with the hard autumn rain pounding on the roof, clattering like applause on the metal top of the air compressor on the side of the house, and I look out the window and organize my thoughts.
    I had a wife. Her name was Hailey. Now she’s gone. And so am I.
    That’s all I’ve got so far. But I’ve got a year to write the rest, and it’s not like I have any shortage of material. I’ll come up with something.

    To celebrate the book deal, Russ drives me to the tattoo parlor, where I commission a smaller version of Hailey’s comet to be placed on the inside of my right wrist. This way, no matter where I am, I’ll be able to flick my wrist and see it and remember that she’s a part of me. I know that sounds corny as hell, but it just feels right to be marked by her. I explain my reasoning to Russ while the tattoo artist snaps on his latex gloves and starts scrubbing my arm with alcohol.
    “Makes sense,” Russ says.
    “Which begs the question,” I say. “Why did you put yours on your neck?”
    “I don’t know. It just seemed like a cool place for a tattoo.”
    “But you can only see it by twisting your neck in the mirror, and then you’re bending it out of shape.”
    “Good point. I’ll have to get another one like yours.”
    “The hell you will.”
    It’s a very respectable tattoo parlor, sandwiched in a strip mall between a bakery and a dry cleaner, and the tattooist looks like your grandfather, with a ring of white hair around his bald, freckled dome of a head, a kind, thin-lipped smile, and a lumber-jack shirt under his apron.
    “You have no tattoos,” I say, looking down at his pristine forearms.
    “The cobbler’s children go barefoot,” he says, powering up the needle. “How are you with pain?”
    Russ and I look at each other and smile.

    The nights can be rough. They used to be the easiest part of the day for me, the only time the pain would fade to a dull throb. There was less of a sense of the world continuing outside your windows, of people going about their lives, of time marching on, of you being sidelined from everything by the immense load of your grief. Also, by nightfall I was usually drunk. I don’t keep any booze in the house anymore. Pot, either, for the record. So now I’m a clean and sober stepfather with nothing to take the edge off the witching hour.
    I walk into Russ’s room and he quickly flips off his computer monitor. There is a girl now. I’m learning about her in small increments, but it’s still on a need-to-know basis. He’s not yet comfortable talking about her, and I don’t want to pry. I’m happy for him, but it’s little things like this, turning off his monitor when I walk into the room, that remind me that no matter how chummy we are, I’m still the guardian and he’s still the kid, and as much as we may blur the lines, they are still immutably there. I know that’s probably a good thing, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt a little. I’ve only been his stepfather again for a few weeks, and I’m already sad about the little pieces of him that I’ll inevitably lose.
    “How’s it going?” I say.
    “Swell.”
    “Want to go to a movie?”
    “Can’t,” he says. “Homework.”
    “Fine. Be that way.”
    “Why don’t you call Ms. Hayes?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Why not?”
    “She made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to hear from me.”
    “You’re