The Book of Joe

bathed in a soft golden light. “So,” she says. “Tonight you played paintball, smoked pot, and hurt yourself climbing a fence.”
    “It sounds stupid when you put it like that,” I say. “Out of context.”
    “Why don’t you put it into context for me?”
    I think about it for a moment and then shrug. “The context has temporarily eluded me. I guess I was trying to relive my youth a little.”
    “Like you were such a pothead in your youth.”
    “Well, maybe I should have been.” This is of course the exact wrong thing to say, because it makes me sound like a bitter fuck. The correct response would be “I didn’t need the weed because I had you,” or something along those lines. It would be corny, overtly flirtatious, and would have earned me at best a sarcastic frown, but underneath it all it might have reminded her that she’d once loved me.
    Carly tears open another alcohol swab with her teeth and continues scrubbing my bloodied ankle. “Can I be honest with you?” she says.
    “As long as you’re going to say something nice.”
    “Since you got to the Falls, you seem determined to make a complete ass out of yourself and absorb a good deal of bodily harm along the way.”
    “Could you explain to me how that was nice?”
    “Some might say,” she continues, easily ignoring me, “that you’re doing it deliberately.”
    “And why would I do that?”
    “I don’t know,” she says, turning back to my cut. She pulls out some gauze and tape from a drawer under me and begins carefully wrapping the cut. “Some misguided form of penance, maybe.”
    “That’s a neat theory,” I say. “But what’s my sin?”
    “Everyone’s got something.”
    “What have you got?”
    She considers the question. “I’m not sure,” she confesses, biting on her lip thoughtfully. “But I know I’ve already done all the penance I’m going to do.”
    “I heard about that - your marriage, I mean. I’m sorry. I just - I don’t know what to say.”
    “That’s actually perfect,” Carly says, standing up brusquely and lowering my now-bandaged foot. “Because we are so not going to discuss it.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say again.
    “Don’t be.”
    “What should I be?”
    Carly fixes me with a look in which bitterness and resigned warmth mingle awkwardly, like guests early to a cocktail party. “You should be going,” she says.
    Jared and I sit in a subdued silence on the short drive home, the last remnants of the weed diffusing from our bloodstream like bubbles from champagne going flat. I replay my c onversation with Carly, trying to recall its exact tone, but it’s already fading to fuzzy unreality. I still have no clue as to what she feels toward me, but I’m developing the strong suspicion that her ambivalence is probably not cause for uncontained optimism. We pull up to the house and Jared cuts the engine, leaning back as he hands me my keys.
    “So, how’d that work out for you back there?” he asks.
    “Okay,” I say. “Not too good. I don’t know. Lousy.”
    “As long as you’re clear on it.”
    “What about the window girl?”
    “Kate.”
    “Kate. You think you’ll talk to her anytime soon?”
    “I don’t know,” Jared says. “As frustrating as it is, there’s something nice about this stage.”
    “She doesn’t know you exist. I don’t think you can legally call that a stage.”
    “I know. But I haven’t fucked anything up yet.”
    “Point taken.”
    We step out of the car and trudge across the lawn toward the front porch, two battle-weary soldiers back from the trenches, when Jared suddenly tenses up. “Busted,” he whispers to me through his teeth. I looked up and follow his gaze to find Cindy standing on the porch, looking tired and mightily pissed. She takes in our ragged, limping, paint-spattered appearance with angry, disapproving eyes that burn with unbridled hostility when they come to rest on me.
    Her face contracts briefly as she sniffs, and I have no doubt that she can smell the weed on us. I steel myself for the inevitable tongue-lashing, but the night has one more surprise in store for me. Cindy comes down the stairs, nodding slowly as if I’ve done nothing more than fulfill her worst expectations.
    “Hi, Cindy,” I say to break the silence. “What’s up?”
    In a burst of intuition, I know why she’s there before she says anything. My father’s come out of his coma. It’s a miracle, really; the doctors don’t know what to make of it. The nurse