The Stout of Heart

THE STOUT OF HEART

“Can you please go up and just talk to him? That’s all I’m asking,” she says to me in that pleading little-girl voice that I recognize from long ago.

“What’s he doing up there?”

“He’s buried in those catalogues again. It’s that time of year when they send him the catalogues. A whole boxful arrives and he carries them up there like they’re alive or something. He goes in his room and he won’t come out. For days he’s been up there. A week now at least.”

“A week?”

“A week solid. Smoking. That’s all he does since he quit drinking. Smokes and coughs. The kids have tried to bring him sandwiches but he won’t eat. He won’t answer them or anything. Won’t even open the door.”

“He’s not dead, is he?”

“Oh, that’s very funny. I thought you came to help.” And with this she starts to break down and tremble around the corners of her voluptuous mouth. The mouth, too, is something I remember. Something I’ll never forget. I pat her shoulder but she pulls away fast, hiding her face.

“I’ll go up.”

“Good,” she says, and moves to the sink with purpose, like she’s about to start a major cleanup. “If he lets you in ask him how long he thinks this will go on. It’s not for me I’m asking. It’s for the kids.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Good. Just ask him how long he thinks we can stand this.” She swallows hard on the last word and flips the water on full blast so the splashing covers her sobs.

I shuffle up the stairs past photos of their kids in soccer gear and beaming smiles. Past fishing scenes and better days. At the landing I can smell his smoke. I follow it down the hall to his door with a horseshoe hook on it suspending raincoats, belts, and a dark wool vest. I knock. No answer. “Reese?” I say to the door. “Reese, it’s me, Jamey. You in there?” I hear a chair slide across the floorboards. Silence. I hear him slowly stand. A cough. He moves to the door and stops. I can hear him breathing on the other side. He’s very close. “Reese? Lemme in, okay? I wanna talk to you.”