The Heaven of Animals: Stories by David James Poissant Page A

did, terribly.
    “Call me,” he said at the end.
    He waited another month, then, worried she’d missed the first messages, called again. This time, the voice on the machine was hers. She was going by her maiden name, and the new outgoing message was no-nonsense. Leave your name and number, and I’ll call you back, it said like a reprimand.
    He gave her his information again, then he gave her more news. He’d gotten a raise, he said—big lie. There was a chance he might be transferred to Atlanta—big, giant lie. He said he missed her, that he should have told her that the last time he called. Anyway, he wanted her to know just how much he missed her, how he didn’t care for this arrangement, how, before a year was up and the divorce became final, they might consider other options available to them. Could she call him? Please? And soon?
    A year went by.
    He called, left his message at the beep. If he could just have a minute of her time. All he really wanted was to say that he was sorry. He was so sorry, and, even if what they’d shared wasn’t happiness, exactly, then at least it was something familiar and good, certainly better than what he had now, which was nothing. Maybe, if it wasn’t too much to ask, maybe she would take him back and everything could return to the way it had been. Better than the way it had been. He would try harder, no matter what trying harder meant. He would work. He would take her places. He would listen when she talked. He really would try this time, if only she’d give him the chance. If it wasn’t too much to ask.
    The next week, the papers arrived.
    He didn’t sign them. By now, he knew enough to know it was over. He only wanted to talk to her. He thought, if he held back on the signing, she’d be forced to call, but the only calls that came were from her lawyer, then his.
    He signed.
    “Now leave her alone,” his lawyer said. “Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t give her reason to request a restraining order.”
    This seemed, to Brig, excessive. Had he missed something? Was this necessary? Restraint? Restraint from what? Brig had never raised a hand to her. He’d never raised his voice . He’d seldom raised his ass from the couch, and that had been the problem. But he’d outgrown that. A year in the desert, and he was a new man. He hoped he was.
    He hoped that this, all of this—the threat of restraint, Kate’s refusal to take his calls—was, in fact, proof of her affection, proof that maybe she cared too much, found the pain too acute to keep him in her life. And, if it was easier to cut him out of her life altogether, that didn’t mean she didn’t still love him. He believed this. He had to. This abiding belief kept him off the couch.
    Still, he wanted—needed—to hear Kate’s voice one more time. But, when he called, the number had been disconnected.
    Two more years, and word came from his parents that Kate was engaged. The guy was a big-shot lawyer. The announcement had filled a quarter page of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution .
    “I’m sorry,” his mother said, but the conversation was cut short by a knock on the door. The woman in the next apartment wanted to know if Brig might be able to watch her cat.
    .   .   .
    They sat on the bed, then lay down. There was one pillow, and Brig let Lily have it. She stretched out on her back and studied the ceiling. He lay on his side and studied her. Her real arm was closest to him, and he wondered whether she’d picked her place on the bed on purpose, whether she lay on her back to shield the prosthesis from view.
    “Why Brig ?” she asked.
    “Family name,” he said.
    “As in, a family of shipbuilders?”
    “Brig’s short for Brigham, as in Brigham Young, as in Mormon. And, before you ask, my dad had one wife. Like most Mormons. Just one. That fucking TV show’s got everyone confused.”
    “I love that show,” Lily said, and, when Brig gave her the eyebrow, she shrugged and said, “I’m kidding. I