Stephen White: Blinded

Sam said, “In case you’re wondering, I don’t believe that talking helps.”

I hadn’t been wondering. But I was eager to hear his thoughts on the matter. “Yeah?”

“Sherry thinks talking about things makes them better. Round and round we go. Me? I don’t think so. Words don’t heal. Time? Maybe. Words? No.”

I thought he was making a veiled editorial comment on my chosen profession, but rather than taking the bait, I waited to see where he’d go next.

I had to wait a while-about twenty miles-until we crossed I-25 at Dacono. We were getting close to home.

Sam said, “Sherry and I are done. I’m moving out.”

“You are?” I didn’t have any trouble keeping the surprise out of my voice.

“Yeah. She’s been seeing somebody.”

“She has?” This time my voice was nothing but surprise.

“I’ve known about it. The affair. A guy came in to buy flowers for his wife, that’s how she met him. He’s a psych professor at the university. I followed him to work one day, that’s how I know.”

He’d emphasized the guy’s profession, as though he wanted to spoil the air with the innuendo that the field of psychology had something to do with his problems. I wondered if I knew the man responsible for making Sam a cuckold. I hoped not.

“Did she know you knew?” I asked.

“No. I thought it was a thing. That it would pass. I still think it will pass. The affair’s not the reason the marriage is over.”

“What is?”

“Ask her? I’m a difficult guy. Ask me? I put up with a lot. Too much. She’d probably say the same, of course. That she put up with a lot from me. But I put up with a ton from her over the last few years. I did.”

I recalled the tense visits I’d witnessed in the hospital. “What are you talking about? Criticism? What?”

His answer took a moment to compose. “There’s a point where criticism stops and something else starts. Something more serious. More demeaning, damaging, you know? Somewhere near there was… us.”

“Are you talking about… abuse, Sam? Sherry… did what?”

“Next topic, Alan. I said what I’m going to say.”

Sometimes friendship means inquisitiveness, sometimes it means silent respect. I had a thousand questions. I asked none of them.

But Sam answered one that wasn’t even on my list. “I almost had an affair, too. Over Thanksgiving.”

I quickly catalogued the likely suspects. “Detective Reynoso?”

“Turns out we get along.”

I glanced over at him. I was checking to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. “Why didn’t you?”

“Hadn’t talked to Sherry yet. But… I’ve talked to her now, so who knows? California’s not that far away. I like the beach.”

I didn’t know Sam had ever seen a beach.

“And you like Carmen?”

“Yeah, I do. Don’t know how much that means. I loved Sherry. What good did it do?”

I hit the brakes to avoid running up on an old primer-covered Dodge truck that was pulling a long trailer piled high with hay.

“I’m sorry, Sam. About Sherry.”

“Ever feel like you’re playing the same music you were playing as a kid? When girls first became real? Where women are concerned, I don’t know that I’ve progressed much in thirty years.”

Sam’s words transported me back to Teri Reginelli and ¡Dios mío, hay un hacha en mi cabeza! I knew that the Gibbs Storeys of the world were still capable of capturing my feet in the quicksand of my adolescence, but I desperately wanted to believe that I had developed the maturity to pull myself back out. Before I had a chance to get lost any further in that old swamp, Sam yanked me back to the present.

“You know what? Sherry and me? We had a good thing. And then one day we didn’t. It’s been bad now almost as long as it was good.”

“Simon?”

“We’ll do okay with him. We will. We’re not idiots.”

“You want to run anything by me about his reaction to all this, I’m happy to listen.”

“Yeah, thanks. If the phone doesn’t ring, that’s me.”

I laughed.

“Marriage is a weird thing. Gibbs and Sterling-what was that? All the screwing around they did. And Holly Malone? The good Catholic girl from South Bend? Her and her husband? What were they up to with their shenanigans? You and Lauren seem like you’re rock solid, but I know you’re not. God only knows what sexual perversity the two of you are into.”

I opened my mouth.

He held up his hand. “God knows, Alan-I don’t want to.”

The car lurched and hopped as we crossed two sets of railroad tracks. “You’re allowed to hit the brakes, you know, before you hit the bumps,” Sam said.

Metaphor? With Sam, I could never be quite sure. “I’ll remember that,” I said.

“I know you’re not,” he repeated. “Rock solid, I mean.”

“It’s a challenge, Sam. For us, for everybody.”

“I’m glad we agree on that. Because I don’t really want to talk about it after this.”

I said I was sorry again about him and Sherry. He pretended to ignore it.

He said, “You see the papers? They found that woman who shut down DIA. She’s from Boulder. Figures. I wouldn’t want to be her.”

Thanks to a brilliant moon the mountains were looming large against the night sky. The delta shapes of the Flatirons remained indistinct. It didn’t matter. I could feel Boulder long before I could see it.