One Hundred Names (Special Edition)

Constance’s mind. She thought about what Bob had said: the idea wouldn’t have appeared in the filing cabinet if it hadn’t
become something
and it was so frustrating not knowing what that something was.
Come on, Constance
,
Kitty silently wished, taking a last look around the shed,
give me a clue.
She waited a moment but the potting shed remained still and silent.
    Kitty grabbed a bottle of wine, thought better of it, took a second and followed Bob back to the house. She removed the pile of photo albums from the armchair facing Bob, a French-style armchair with a metallic gold flower design. She could see Bob and Constance sitting by the roaring fire, discussing issues, theories, far-off, outlandish stories to cover, both arguing and bonded by their love for the unusual and fantastical, and equally so by the ordinary and seemingly mundane.
    ‘How are you, Bob?’ Kitty finally asked. ‘How are you doing?’
    He sighed. A long heavy sigh that carried more weight than any words. ‘It’s been two weeks. One shudders to think that it’s been that long. The day after her funeral I woke up and said to myself, I can’t do this. I cannot get through this day. But I did. Somehow. And then that day was over and I was facing the night and I said to myself, I cannot face this night. But I did. Somehow. And then that night was over. I have said the same thing to myself every day and every night since. Each second is rather torturous, as though it will never move on, and as though it will never get any easier, and yet when I look back on it, look where we are. Two weeks on. And I’m doing it. And I still believe I simply cannot.’
    Kitty eyes filled as she listened to him.
    ‘I expected the world to end when she died.’ He took a bottle from Kitty, opened it swiftly with a bottle opener that had been on the side table next to the
Irish Times
crossword, a biro and his reading glasses. ‘But it didn’t. Everything kept going, everything is still going. Sometimes I go for walks and I find that I have stopped moving, and everything else is still shifting and evolving all around me. And I wonder, don’t they know? Don’t they know about the terrible thing that has happened?’
    ‘I know how you feel,’ Kitty said gently.
    ‘There are good widowers and bad ones. You hear about the good ones all the time. Gosh, isn’t so-and-so great, so strong, so
brave
for doing whatever so soon. I fear I’m not a good widower, Kitty. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t wish to go anywhere. Most of the time I don’t want to even be here, but you’re not supposed to say that, are you? You’re just supposed to say insightful meaningful things that surprise people so that they can tell other people how brave you are. Brave,’ he repeated, his eyes filling. ‘But I was never the brave one. Why it should fall upon me to become that now is beyond me.’ Bob swiftly reached for the second bottle, opened it as quickly, deftly, and then handed it back to Kitty. ‘I don’t know where we keep the glasses,’ he said, then clinked his bottle against hers. ‘To … something.’
    ‘To our beloved Constance,’ Kitty said, lifting the bottle to her lips and drinking. The red wine burned her throat on the way down but left a delicious warm sweet coating in her mouth. She quickly followed it up with another mouthful.
    ‘Our beloved Constance,’ Bob repeated, thoughtfully studying the bottle.
    ‘And to getting through tonight,’ she added.
    ‘Ah, now that is one I will drink to,’ he said, and raised his bottle in the air. ‘To getting through tonight.’
    They sat in a comfortable silence, Kitty trying to figure out how to broach the subject, but Bob beat her to it.
    ‘I sense you’ve run into some trouble with the story.’
    ‘That’s an understatement,’ Kitty sighed, then took another swig. ‘I’m sorry to admit it, Bob, but I’m lost. Totally and utterly lost. Pete is expecting the story by Friday, or at least to
know
what it is, and, well, unless I figure this out I have to go up there and tell him that there is no story, that I have ruined the entire Constance story. Yet another failure on my part.’ Her eyes felt hot as they filled up with frustration and guilt.
    ‘Ah. Well, perhaps there’s something I can help you with,’ Bob said, maintaining his good nature in spite of what she had revealed. ‘I’m afraid I know no more about the names than you do, and after a week of your investigations I now know