How to Talk to a Widower

cement my place in history by taking a leak in old Ben’s toilet. I got caught and hustled from the building, and was sentenced to spend the rest of the afternoon on the bus. The driver was cool, though. He bought me McDonald’s and let me look through the extensive and well-preserved
Playboy
collection he kept in a cardboard box under his seat, forever linking in my mind the Liberty Bell and the puckered lips and conical, air-brushed breasts of April’s playmate of the month. Her name was Janelle and she liked rock climbing, water sports, and men who weren’t afraid to sweat. The point being, there are some things that should just stay roped off.
    But as bad as the house is, I rarely leave it. Because the pain is my last link to her, so as much as it hurts, I wrap it around myself like a blanket, like a teenaged girl cutting jagged lines on her inner thigh with a razor blade, inflicting the hurt on myself just because I need to feel something. I’m not ready for time to heal this wound, but I also know I’m powerless to stop it. And knowing that makes me fight harder than ever to hold on to the pain and anchor myself in this tragedy while it’s still freshly tragic. So every so often I pull at my scabs like a dog, desperately trying to draw some fresh blood from my open wound, but even as I do it, I know the day will come when I pull off that scab and there’s no blood underneath it, just the soft pink expanse of virgin skin. And when that finally happens, when time has inevitably had its way with me, then I’ll know she’s gone for good.
    And I know that at some point in the future there will be someone else. She’ll be smart and beautiful and damaged in her own way, and we’ll understand each other and we’ll fall in love, and I’ll feel guilty for being happy, so I’ll do little things to sabotage us whenever things start getting too good. And she’ll be patient with me, and then, when she’s taken as much abuse as she can stand, there will be loud venting fights and then, presumably, a tearful ultimatum and after that we’ll turn a corner. I’ll still feel guilty, but I’ll get over it in stages, and with each one of those stages, Hailey will fade further and further into the distant past, until she’s nothing more than a footnote in the story of my life. And one day, an older version of me will tell his children how he’d been married once, before he ever met their mother, but that his wife had died, and Hailey will be not a person to them but a small, intangible, biographical blip, a sad thing that happened to their father on the way to happily ever after. And worse, maybe that’s how I’ll see it too.
    And I don’t need you to tell me that this will happen, that it’s inevitable. I’m not fooling myself. But just because something is true, it doesn’t mean I’m ready to face it today. Sometimes the only truth people can handle is the one they woke up with that morning. And this morning, like every morning, I woke up with my pain. So do me a favor and don’t fuck with it.

11

    From:
[email protected]
    To:
[email protected]
    Date: Wednesday, September 13, 2006
    Subject: How to Talk to a Widower

    You’re a star! According to the folks at M, your last column broke the record for reader mail, the very record previously set by your column last month. I’ve forwarded yet another sack-load of mail for you to not open. The magazine has been forwarding calls from newswires and talk shows who want to interview you. I’m in the process of negotiating both US and overseas syndication deals. Some people from NBC called, they want you for a segment on the “Today” show. If I get my way it will be Matt Lauer who does the interview. He just comes off as more serious, less of a talking head. And Oprah’s people have been sniffing around (!!!). More importantly, I’ve been talking to publishing people and there is significant interest at a few major houses. I smell a memoir! You just need to write up the proposal. This is what we’ve been waiting for! We need to talk. I tried you myself a number of times and left you something like thirty voice mails. What gives? E-mailing is so uncivilized.
    —K

    From:
[email protected]
    To:
[email protected]
    Date: Wednesday, September 13, 2006
    Subject: No Thanks

    Sorry about the phone, Kyle. Technical difficulties. Not really interested in meeting Matt Lauer or Oprah. I’m glad the column worked out, but like I