Elizabeth Wrenn - Last Known Address

‘Oh, can’t complain,’ she said. They smiled at each other, an unspoken acknowledgement that Mrs B. had a lot she could complain about, but rarely did. Kathryn quickly scanned a small box of fiber cereal, two bananas, a small drum of old-fashioned oatmeal, a quart of milk and a tube of arthritis ointment. Mrs B. had pen in hand, poised above her checkbook, waiting to dole out a quarter of her weekly budget for, basically, breakfast. Kathryn wondered if Mrs B. ate cereal for two, if not three meals a day.

She looked at Mrs B., then suddenly was aware that only one very irritated man remained in her line, the guy in the ill-fitting suit. He was watching the remainder of her line following Ting toward register six, like little goslings with grocery baskets over their wings, following the goose. Ting, about as high as she was round, even waddled like a goose.

‘Oh, and this please,’ said Mrs B., after she’d checked the total on the screen. She handed Kathryn a small tin of mints.

‘Sure,’ said Kathryn. ‘Do you want it in your bag or your purse?’

‘Bag, please,’ she said to both Kathryn and Matt, who was now standing at the end of her counter.

‘Sorry,’ said Matt, almost breathless. ‘We’re, like, completely out of that kind of juice, so I went to the back to check and they spilled, like, a whole box of cabbages back there.’ He grinned. ‘They’re rolling all over the place. Tom’s back there imitating Knelbrecht, saying, “Heads will roll for this!”’ Kathryn thought Matt had a great laugh.

She smiled at him. ‘No problem. But in the future, if the item’s not up front, just come tell me right away, please.’

He nodded, then tucked the mints into one of Mrs B.’s two canvas bags. Kathryn made a mental note to thank him for remembering to use both of Mrs B.’s bags, even for just the few items. Mrs B. walked and bused everywhere, therefore liked the weight split between two bags. Plus, Kathryn knew, she liked getting double bag credit.

She took Mrs B.’s proffered check, stamped it, opened the register, slipped it under the drawer, and removed a dime. She placed the coin carefully in Mrs B.’s soft, wrinkly palm. ‘Here’s your bag credit, Mrs B. Don’t spend it all in one place.’

Mrs B. chuckled, and Kathryn fed on it like a transfusion. She knew it wouldn’t cure her disease, but it might help her survive one more day.

‘Y’all better pull over soon, Shel .’

Meg heard C.C.’s voice, understood her words, but they sounded hollow, as if they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. Lulled by movement and the low and steady drone of the motor, she’d fallen into a deep car-sleep; emerging was like swimming up to an unseeable surface. She wondered how long she’d been asleep.

‘There’s a lot of traffic right here. I’ll pull off at the next exit.’ Shelly’s voice too sounded distant, boxed in. Meg blinked, started to lift her head, felt a sharp pain in the side of her neck. She licked her dry lips, groggily remembered C.C. announcing several miles ago that MJ. had woken up and might need to pee. But Meg had drifted right back into a sleep that felt deeper than she’d had in weeks. With her head resting against her wadded-up sweater on the window, her neck felt like it had petrified at that angle. She massaged it with one hand, rubbed her eyes with the other, finally coming out of her stupor. A loud, sharp bark made her jump, sending a shooting pain down her neck.

M.J.’s bark was surprisingly deep, given her small size. Meg gingerly turned around in her seat. MJ. barked again, staring directly at her. There was an unmistakable look of urgency in the dog’s eyes. She remembered the same look in Buster’s eyes when he would stand by the back door, waiting to be let out. He never barked, though they’d wished he would. Meg had tried to teach him to bark, to complain , because too often she would come from another room to find him standing silently by the front door, waiting patiently, looking absolutely pained, and she would have no idea how long the poor dog had been suffering silently. Sometimes she would just get a feeling, maybe noting his absence for a while. She’d often find him leaning on the door, looking like he’d give anything for the power of speech at that moment. Or opposable thumbs. After a while, he learned to come find them, then just her. Grant, whether watching TV or reading a book, would be so absorbed he would rarely notice the dog’s urgent stares. So he’d find Meg, home his big brown eyes in on her.

Buster. Meg closed her eyes again, a small moan escaping as she pictured not their old lovable, floppy-eared shepherd mix, but instead his urn. She had initially set it on the mantel, thinking: that’s where urns go. But unbeknownst to her, days before the trip, Grant had moved it. Merely moved it. She’d thought he’d taken it.

For three days, Meg had believed Grant’s note: that he was going to Lake Louise to sprinkle Buster’s ashes. She had been hurt and angry that he would do such a meaningful and important ritual without her. But she had not suspected more to his unannounced departure. It was only on the third day that she found Buster’s urn. It was completely full, tucked behind the curtain on the wide, low windowsill of the living room. It was as if Grant had said his own final goodbye to the dog by placing the urn where Buster had so often sat in life: at the window, watching the squirrels cavort across the hillside and into the woods. Panicked at what her bones already knew, Meg had searched the house, found all the wrong things missing: Grant’s camera equipment, his laptop, his box of old manuscript starts from college. His baseball cards. The photos of the kids from his dresser. Left behind were his Fighting Cougars mug from work, the Cougar book ends–a gift on his retirement–many of his clothes, all of his ties, and his briefcase. Their wedding photo remained on his dresser.

Although Meg had tried to rationalize all this–Well, he’s just gone off to do some photography, some writing, she thought, even though he’d never actually done that before, just talked about it–after finding the urn, there was a foreboding inside her for the rest of that day, one that grew all night, like a tsunami slowly rolling in from another continent, not knowing when it would crash over her. It had kept her awake all night.

The next morning Meg wandered in her thin, blue robe, no slippers on her cold feet, through the quiet house, clutching her robe closed with one hand, checking all the spots where the missing items should be. Only hours later, when, sobbing again, she’d picked up Buster’s urn, cradling it in her arms, had she seen the other note. He’d anchored it–or hidden it–under the urn. It only confirmed what her heart already knew.

Meg, I’ve left. I had to. I’m doing this for both of us. All the bits of glue that were keeping us together are gone. I think we both know that. I have needs I can no longer deny. I’ve ignored my own dreams and aspirations for too long. Maybe you’ll find a dream of your own.

I’ll write when I land somewhere. Take care.

Grant

His words ate at her like parasites, from the inside out. Who was he to say she didn’t have a dream? Hadn’t she already achieved that dream? Of raising a family, meaningful work, a life-long marriage? It was his note that had ended her dream.

A car honked. Meg blinked, that amorphous pain in her torso again. She couldn’t even tell exactly where it was. Maybe that’s what a broken heart felt like, when it spilled over inside you. She stared at the traffic zooming along the lanes of interstate.

‘I am not kiddin’, Shell!’ said C.C. ‘She’s going t’pee on me!