How to Talk to a Widower

each other at some point, but this lot is haunted and I’m paralyzed by a fear that makes no sense, and I don’t stop shaking until I see her taillights light up and the minivan start to move. I’ve got a tattoo on my wrist to remind me of what I’ve lost, and I’ve got Laney Potter in parking lots to remind me of what I’ve done, and I’ll just have to get used to it, but sometimes the absolute permanence of everything is like a tire iron to the skull.

    I don’t throw things at the rabbits anymore. After burying the one in my backyard, the least I can do is grant the rest of them full grazing rights, so his death will not have been in vain. They sit quivering on my lawn, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three, nibbling at grass, or just meditating on whatever it is that rabbits think about. The rabbits pay no attention to me, do not cast accusing glances in my direction as I feared they might, do not seem to connect me at all to the dark fate that befell their brother. The rabbits know that sometimes shit just happens, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. So they graze, and I watch them, and it would be nice to think that we’re all maybe a little wiser than we were before.
    And that’s what I’m doing on Thursday afternoon, sitting by my open bedroom window in front of my laptop, watching a lone rabbit resting in the shadow of the giant ash tree and tinkering with my ever-changing outline, when the phone rings. “Doug? It’s Brooke.”
    Her voice is an aria, and the little hairs on my arms perform a standing ovation. “Hey,” I say. I stand up and pace the room nervously.
    “I’m calling about Russ,” she says quickly, heading me off at the pass.
    “What about him?”
    “He stole the driver’s ed car.”
    “What?”
    “He somehow pinched the keys out of Coach Warren’s jacket and now he’s gone.”
    “That’s unbelievable.”
    “I don’t want to involve the police yet, but it’s been twenty minutes, and he’s not a licensed driver. He could get hurt. Or hurt someone.”
    “I know,” I say, my mind racing. “Where the hell is he going?”
    “I was hoping you could tell me.”
    Outside, a car beeps loudly to the beat of “Shave and a Haircut.” “Hold on a minute,” I say. “Is it a white Corolla?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t call the police. I’ll have it back to you in fifteen minutes.”

    When I get downstairs, Russ is leaning against the car, grinning from ear to ear. “My first solo flight,” he says. “Am I good, or what?”
    “Why the hell would you steal the driver’s ed car?”
    “It’s a manifestation of my lingering grief?”
    “You could have been arrested.”
    “It was an acceptable risk.”
    “You don’t get it. You’re in deep shit now.”
    “It was this, or get into another fight. And I’ve renounced violence, for the time being.”
    “But what were you trying to accomplish?” I say, exasperated.
    “I don’t know. I’m just a stupid kid.”
    “That you are. And we’re going back there right now.”
    “I’ll drive,” he says, and I flash him my dirtiest look. He shrugs and tosses me the keys, which I snatch angrily out of the air. “Fine,” he says, and then looks at me appraisingly. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
    “What?”
    “That T-shirt has a big hole in the armpit. Go put a sweater on. And brush your hair, for fuck’s sake, it looks like you slept in it.” He leans in and sniffs me. “You know what, just take a quick shower. I’ll wait.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    And then he smiles at me, my crazy, beautiful, fucked-up stepson, and understanding dawns. “She’s looking very good today, Doug. I saw her in her office.”
    “You’re insane.”
    “The course of true love is never straight.”
    “I can’t believe you did this.”
    “Why not?” he says. “It’s exactly like something I would do.”
    I stand there scratching my head like an idiot for a minute, and then I shake my head at him and smile. “Give me five minutes.”
    “Make it ten. And wear the blue cable crewneck. It matches your eyes.”
    “Okay, now you’re just being weird.”
    “Sorry.”

    On the drive over to the school we sing along to The Clash at the top of our lungs with the windows open. We sing the guitar solos note for note, we bang out the drumbeats on the dashboard in perfect time, we harmonize on-key when it’s called for. No one can do it like we do. Our instincts are