The wind kicked up hard that night and came swirling in so forcefully that it woke us both. I lay there with my eyes open, and though she remained silent, I knew that Carolyn was doing the same by the way she was breathing; when she was asleep, her lips puckered in a soft cadence. A train rumbled by, and halfway through its passing, a loud bang split the night, and in its wake there followed the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. Carolyn simultaneously jumped and yelped and pressed tightly against me.
“Shit,” I said.
“What was that?” she asked, taking a firm grip on my arm draped over her.
“The picture just fell and shattered on the floor.”
I climbed out of bed and turned on the light. The hole in the wall the picture had covered was wide open; almost all of the plaster had broken away save a few insignificant pieces that held stubbornly to the hole’s perimeter. The interior brick was fully exposed now, rough-hewn and shoddily done for anyone who cared to look.
“Shit,” I said again, studying the hole. “What in the hell are we going to cover it with now?”
“It’s not so bad,” Carolyn said. “Besides, maybe some holes aren’t meant to be covered.”
I looked at her, turned off the light, and went back to bed.
twenty-eight
1
THE STACKED LEGAL PADS on my desk had become synonymous with defeat, with failure. On the days Carolyn worked, I’d lie in bed casting contemptuous glances at them. I would look at them, just sitting there in a neat little stack, and then I’d lie back down and close my eyes and try to sleep.
How many queries had I sent? Sixty? Seventy? I had kept a list but I didn’t bother checking it anymore. The number was irrelevant. What was relevant, however, was that I was almost out of options. In total I had received seven requests, then received seven rejections soon thereafter, each one generic and without substance. Almost out of options, out of agents to query. Then what? Carolyn ceased asking anymore. Half of me was happy she didn’t; the other half wished desperately that she would.
2
I sent the last batch out the last week of July, seven letters, written, signed, and stamped. My last hope. There was no observance or ritual this time around, no kisses to envelopes or wide eyes of excitement. I didn’t even tell Carolyn. I just printed the damn things, signed them, folded them into the envelopes, and dropped them in the mail. Good riddance, I thought.