SHUDDERVILLE FIVE Read Online Free PDF Page B

windshield, and we couldn’t stop screaming at each other.
    “Is this it?” I said.
    “Do you want it to be?” you shouted.
    “I don’t know! Do you?”
    “So it’s over?”
    “Do you want it to be over?”
    We stared at each other.
    It felt like the end of everything.
    We pulled into a gas station and sat in the pouring rain, numb and miserable. Then the conversation turned deadly cold.
    “Should I find a lawyer?”
    “Go ahead,” you said.
    I waited for the longest time for you to say something else. Meet me halfway.
    But you didn’t.
    I remember the sound of the rain enveloping us, and the wind shaking the car. I remember being cold and shivering, the kind of cold that burrowed deep and got into your bones. Our creation, our marriage was dead. It was unbelievable. Jaw-dropping.
    We made up later on, but that fight left me with one question. Can you ever truly love somebody after you’ve hated them so much? Do these wounds ever heal? Is it possible? We were once so unbelievably close. My entire world revolved around you. And now, what’s left of us? Can you tell me that?
    Charlotte
    He remembered the fight. It was awful. How had they gotten to such a low point in their marriage—talk of divorce? But they’d managed to survive a succession of quarrels and arguments during the eight years of their marriage, primarily because they loved one another and didn’t want to split up. He couldn’t imagine ever fighting that viciously with her again. He wouldn’t allow it. But now it was too late. He sat rubbing the back of his head with his hands, nursing imagined wounds.
    In a state of shock, he went upstairs to the master bedroom and rummaged through his wife’s bureau drawers. She had packed in a hurry and had left a few things behind—all gifts from him. Sexy sweaters, a lacy red bra-and-panties set, a pair of gold earrings and several expensive necklaces. Most hurtful of all was her wedding ring on the bedside table.
    On the wall above the bed was an expensively framed photograph of the two of them on their wedding day, looking crazy-in-love. Had he ever been that young? Had she ever looked more beautiful?
    He began a methodical room-by-room search, his heart ticking at the base of his throat. The living room was full of walnut furniture, legs and back rails covered in ornate scrollwork featuring vines and acorns. There were a lot of throw pillows and colorful fabrics. Charlotte had picked out the drapes herself, made of a thick rich fabric. She didn’t like the sun. She preferred rainy days. Gloomy overcast days. “It diffuses the light,” she once told him. But that was just an excuse.
    She liked curling up with a good book. She liked wrapping herself in a blanket. She liked the cold and the gloom, because it made her feel cozy and happy. She wanted to nest—he could see that now. It was evident in the cushiony armchairs and the pastel hues and the sunny kitchen full of brand new appliances. She had tried to create a nest for them to have a family in, but he’d ruined it with his outbursts. He’d blown it all to pieces.
    Will sat on the Haitian-cotton sofa and gazed out the wide windows, feeling desperate and alienated, suddenly understanding why his wife preferred the dark. Dusk created a dark blue velvet backdrop for the diamond stars and opal moon. He sat on the sofa and rubbed his hands back and forth over the fabric. He didn’t know what to do. He glanced around and noticed that the door to her office was open. He went inside and tossed her things around until he found what he was looking for.
    *
    The following morning, Will drove to the university and sat in the back of Owen Landry’s art history class. The professor had thick glasses and stringy brown hair that hung down over his narrow face. There was a stale weariness to the lecture, a gray gravity that put everyone to sleep.
    When class was over, Will waited in back of the lecture hall while the students filed out. He recognized the