other holds up her fingers, indicating how many minutes until our escape.
“I should have left right then and there, but I wanted to make it through to the clam chowder. Ever have it? There’s this
taste that’s real distinct but kind of strange.”
“It’s Barry’s recipe,” I told her.
“Wow, no way!” Sandee paused for a moment, as if out of respect. “Then he tells me he knows this doctor who could fix my boobs
for under five grand, he says this like he’s offering me a prize, so I look him in the eye and say, ‘Baby, I’m sure he could.’
When he goes to the bathroom I call over the waiter and order a bottle of two-hundred-dollar wine and five seafood and steak
platters. Then I put on my coat and walk out.”
“Good for you.” I picked tobacco flecks out of my teeth.
“No,” Sandee sighed. “I shouldn’t have gone out with him in the first place.”
“Barry stopped over last night,” I said, as if to console her.
“You fuck?”
My mouth turned up in a guilty little grin.
“If Randall were around I’d fuck him.” She dropped her unlit cigarette in her pocket and wiped her mouth over her sleeve.
“Then I’d kill him. Or maybe not. He had such tiny ears. I used to worry that if he ever needed glasses he wouldn’t have anything
to hold them up. You can’t kill someone with ears like that.”
Sandee sighed and shook her head. “We can’t let go, don’t you see? We’re clinging to the ghosts of our dead husbands. Metaphorically
speaking,” she added.
I stared at her.
She leaned toward me. “We’re both so busy fighting the corpses of our dead marriages that we’re half-dead ourselves. There’s
no room for anything else—how can there be?” She stamped her heeled foot for emphasis. “You can’t love the dead and the living
at the same time.”
I knew what she said was true. I had said the same thing to myself a hundred times. But hearing it out loud was startling.
It was like hearing a nun swear.
“I can’t keep on like this,” Sandee said, more to herself than to me. “I’m so goddamned sick of sex. Some nights I want to
cut off my vaggy, leave it in the room with the guy, and say, ‘Here, you wanted it so much, you take care of it.’ It’s just
getting too hard .”
Amen, I thought, remembering the way Barry and I had clawed and pulled and bit, almost as if we were trying to destroy each other
or, most probably, some part of ourselves. I stuck my gnawed cigarette in my apron pocket and followed Sandee back inside,
weaving slightly as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Right before we passed the bathrooms, she turned and laid her hand
on my arm.
“Think I’ll ever love anyone again?” she asked, not a question but more of a challenge.
I stared into her face, her clear and pale complexion, her perfect cheekbones, her wide and too generous mouth, leaned forward,
and pressed my lips against her forehead, a mother’s kiss.
“Sure you will,” I said in my most comforting voice, “I’m positive you will.”
It wasn’t until later that I realized it was myself I was really talking to.
When I got back home, I grabbed Killer’s leash and took her for a quick walk down by the inlet. It was just beginning to get
dark, the sky an orangeish tint, the wind cold and sharp. I love late fall, love how thick and large the air feels, love the
trees with their bare branches, love the way the frozen ground feels so much more solid beneath my feet. As soon as we reached
the beach, I snapped Killer off the leash and let her run over the sand. During low tide, the distant water is silver blue,
the mud flat gleaming and damp. Much of the coast around Anchorage is surrounded by a strange, thick clay that smells of salt
and old water and sucks at your feet and sometimes, though rarely, acts like quicksand.
There’s a story locals love to scare newcomers with about a man who got stuck in the mudflat out by Cook Inlet and, when
“I should have left right then and there, but I wanted to make it through to the clam chowder. Ever have it? There’s this
taste that’s real distinct but kind of strange.”
“It’s Barry’s recipe,” I told her.
“Wow, no way!” Sandee paused for a moment, as if out of respect. “Then he tells me he knows this doctor who could fix my boobs
for under five grand, he says this like he’s offering me a prize, so I look him in the eye and say, ‘Baby, I’m sure he could.’
When he goes to the bathroom I call over the waiter and order a bottle of two-hundred-dollar wine and five seafood and steak
platters. Then I put on my coat and walk out.”
“Good for you.” I picked tobacco flecks out of my teeth.
“No,” Sandee sighed. “I shouldn’t have gone out with him in the first place.”
“Barry stopped over last night,” I said, as if to console her.
“You fuck?”
My mouth turned up in a guilty little grin.
“If Randall were around I’d fuck him.” She dropped her unlit cigarette in her pocket and wiped her mouth over her sleeve.
“Then I’d kill him. Or maybe not. He had such tiny ears. I used to worry that if he ever needed glasses he wouldn’t have anything
to hold them up. You can’t kill someone with ears like that.”
Sandee sighed and shook her head. “We can’t let go, don’t you see? We’re clinging to the ghosts of our dead husbands. Metaphorically
speaking,” she added.
I stared at her.
She leaned toward me. “We’re both so busy fighting the corpses of our dead marriages that we’re half-dead ourselves. There’s
no room for anything else—how can there be?” She stamped her heeled foot for emphasis. “You can’t love the dead and the living
at the same time.”
I knew what she said was true. I had said the same thing to myself a hundred times. But hearing it out loud was startling.
It was like hearing a nun swear.
“I can’t keep on like this,” Sandee said, more to herself than to me. “I’m so goddamned sick of sex. Some nights I want to
cut off my vaggy, leave it in the room with the guy, and say, ‘Here, you wanted it so much, you take care of it.’ It’s just
getting too hard .”
Amen, I thought, remembering the way Barry and I had clawed and pulled and bit, almost as if we were trying to destroy each other
or, most probably, some part of ourselves. I stuck my gnawed cigarette in my apron pocket and followed Sandee back inside,
weaving slightly as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Right before we passed the bathrooms, she turned and laid her hand
on my arm.
“Think I’ll ever love anyone again?” she asked, not a question but more of a challenge.
I stared into her face, her clear and pale complexion, her perfect cheekbones, her wide and too generous mouth, leaned forward,
and pressed my lips against her forehead, a mother’s kiss.
“Sure you will,” I said in my most comforting voice, “I’m positive you will.”
It wasn’t until later that I realized it was myself I was really talking to.
When I got back home, I grabbed Killer’s leash and took her for a quick walk down by the inlet. It was just beginning to get
dark, the sky an orangeish tint, the wind cold and sharp. I love late fall, love how thick and large the air feels, love the
trees with their bare branches, love the way the frozen ground feels so much more solid beneath my feet. As soon as we reached
the beach, I snapped Killer off the leash and let her run over the sand. During low tide, the distant water is silver blue,
the mud flat gleaming and damp. Much of the coast around Anchorage is surrounded by a strange, thick clay that smells of salt
and old water and sucks at your feet and sometimes, though rarely, acts like quicksand.
There’s a story locals love to scare newcomers with about a man who got stuck in the mudflat out by Cook Inlet and, when
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