How to Talk to a Widower

a little while there.
    “What?”
    “You’re angry.”
    “So you’ve been telling me.”
    “No, I mean right now. At me.”
    “No,” I say softly. “You’re probably right. I screwed up. I haven’t been there for him. I wanted to be, I just wasn’t.”
    “It’s not your fault,” she says. “You were grieving. And it’s not like it’s too late. Just reach out to him. Let him know you’re there for him.”
    “They’re moving to Florida.”
    Her eyes grow wide and her jaw drops, her lips forming a perfect little O of surprise. “What?”
    “It’s the Sunshine State,” I say dumbly.
    “I meet with Russ every week. He never said anything.”
    “He just found out.”
    “Well, that explains today’s fight, I guess,” Brooke says, leaning back in her chair, deflated. “Jesus Christ, Doug! No one under eighty moves to Florida. Isn’t that like a federal statute or something?”
    “Well, they are,” I say.
    “If you asked me how to go about irreversibly screwing up that boy, you know what I would tell you to do?”
    “What?”
    “Take him away from his friends and his hometown and the memories of his mother, and send him to a new state with that father of his.”
    “Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.”
    “What are you going to do about it?”
    “I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it.”
    “And somehow, I knew you were going to say that.”
    “Yeah,” I say sadly, standing up to leave. “I’m predictable like that.”
    “Well,” she says, standing up. “Maybe you’ll surprise yourself one of these days.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Doug,” she says hesitantly as she comes around the desk. “You didn’t invent grief. My shrink once told me that.”
    “Really? Your shrink told you about me?”
    Her laugh comes from her belly, loud, musical, and completely unrestrained. “The point is, people become possessive of their grief, almost proud of it. They want to believe it’s like no one else’s. But it is. It’s exactly like everybody else’s. Grief is like a shark. It’s been around forever, and in that time there’s been just about no evolution. You know why?”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s perfect just the way it is.” She smiles compassionately, and I can see there’s a faint dusting of glitter in her eye shadow, which strikes me as sweet, a glimpse of the little girl who still lives there, the one who believes in fairies and princesses.
    “Why did he say that to you?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Why were you grieving?”
    She grins. “Now what kind of professional would I be if I discussed my personal life with you?”
    “I guess you have some boundaries after all.”
    “When they suit me,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Maybe I’ll tell you under different circumstances. When I wouldn’t be compromising myself professionally.”
    There are only a handful of ways to interpret or misinterpret that last remark, but I’ve been out of the game for way too long to try, no matter how loudly the Claire in my head is calling me chickenshit. “Okay,” I say, extending my hand. “Thanks for the talk, or session, or whatever this was.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    The doorknob sticks when I turn it. “You have to pull it up,” she says, and as she squeezes past me to open it, I catch a whiff of her, a pleasant blend of blow-dried citrus shampoo, spearmint gum, and cigarettes that makes me suddenly homesick for something I can’t quite pinpoint. Not that I’m trying to smell her or anything.

18

    RUSS LOOKS UP WHEN I STEP BACK OUT INTO THE hallway. “So?” he says.
    “So,” I say, sitting down next to him.
    “How’d it go?”
    “Not really what I expected.”
    “I know. It’s almost worth being a fuckup, getting sent to her office every week.”
    “You’re not a fuckup. You’re the brightest kid I know.”
    “I’m the only kid you know.”
    “So you’re it by default. You still hold the title.”
    “Whatever,” he says with a shrug. “Am I suspended?”
    “Yes.”
    “Excellent,” he says. “Paid vacation.”
    “But who’s paying?”
    He pulls his hair off his face and runs his fingers over his swollen eye. “Look at my face, dude. It’s already paid for.” He stands up and lifts his hands over his head to stretch his back. “Let’s get out of here.”
    “Where to, exactly?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m driving.”

    Outside the sky has filled with thick ash-colored thunderheads, and as Russ adjusts the driver’s