He gave a bitter little laugh.
“Dolly…”
“What happened in these, Caleb?”
He looked toward our bedroom. Then back at me.
“You begged me not to open a box containing…. your own shoes?”
“Those are the shoes I wore during four months of our marriage. The ones I never told you the truth about.”
I stared at him.
“What truth?”
He saw exactly where my mind went.
“No. God, no. Not another woman.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Those are the shoes I wore during four months of our marriage. The ones I never told you the truth about.”
Caleb pushed himself up.
For a moment, I thought he’d finally explain.
Instead he took the shoes from me and walked toward the front door.
“Get your coat.”
“Caleb.”
“Please. If I’m going to tell you this, I need to show you something first.”
“I need to show you something first.”
That annoyed me.
“After 15 years, suddenly you need scenery?”
He looked down at the shoes.
“I know how stupid that sounds.”
“It sounds worse than stupid.”
“I know.”
That answer shut me up.
***
Ten minutes later, we were driving across town.
That answer shut me up.
The shoes sat on the floor between Caleb’s feet.
I kept glancing at them.
Fifteen years earlier, we’d been newlyweds with mismatched dishes, a secondhand couch, and a kitchen drawer that fell out every time you opened it too quickly.
We’d been broke.
Fifteen years earlier, we’d been newlyweds with mismatched dishes.
But I’d thought we’d been broke together.
Caleb eventually turned onto a street I recognized.
“Our old neighborhood?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Almost there.”
***
The brick was gray now and the ugly green awning was gone, but I knew those windows.
Caleb eventually turned onto a street I recognized.
Caleb parked around the corner.
Then he picked up the shoes.
“Come on.”
We walked half a block.
He stopped beside an old bus shelter.
“This?”
He sat on the bench.
I remained standing.
“What am I looking at, Caleb?”
He placed the shoes beside him.
“What am I looking at, Caleb?”
“This is where I used to eat lunch.”
I frowned.
“Your office was 20 minutes away.”
He looked up at me.
“I wasn’t working there anymore, Dolly.”
For a few seconds, I genuinely thought I’d misheard him.
“What?”
Caleb stared at the road.
“This is where I used to eat lunch.”
“Three months after we got married, they eliminated my position.”
Traffic moved past us. Everything looked insultingly ordinary.
“You lost your job?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“No.”
I sat beside him because my legs had suddenly stopped feeling useful.
“How long were you unemployed?”
“Three months after we got married, they eliminated my position.”
Caleb didn’t answer immediately.
“Almost four months.”
I turned toward him.
“Four months?”
He nodded.
My mind started pulling memories off shelves.
Morning coffee.
Caleb knotting his tie.
Me packing lunches sometimes.
Him kissing me beside the apartment door.
“Have a good day.”
“You too.”
Every weekday.
For four months.
My mind started pulling memories off shelves.
***
“You left every morning.”
“Yes.”
“Dressed for work.”
Another nod.
“Where did you go?”
“Library mostly,” he admitted. “Employment center. Interviews. Anywhere I thought somebody might hire me.”
I stared at the shoes.
Suddenly their creased leather looked different.
“Why?”
“Where did you go?”
“I was scared,” he admitted. “We had $12 until payday once.”
I looked at him sharply.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he said, “You remember when I told you the office started giving us free lunch?”
Of course I remembered.
I’d been thrilled.
One less expense.
“I was scared. We had $12 until payday once.”
I had joked that corporate America had finally done something useful.
“There was no free lunch, Dolly.”
“What did you eat?”
“Whatever I could afford.”
“Caleb.”
“Sometimes nothing,” he confessed.
I stood. “No.”
“Dolly…”
“No. Don’t make that sound romantic.”
“I wasn’t…”
“There was no free lunch, Dolly.”
“You let me sit in that apartment thinking we were both working, thinking we were both keeping us afloat, while you were out here pretending?”
“I was applying everywhere.”
“That’s not what I said.”
He went quiet.
And another memory came back.
“You let me sit in that apartment thinking we were both working.”
One night, maybe five months into our marriage, Caleb had arrived home after nine.
I’d made chicken Parmesan because he’d loved it when we were dating.
He barely touched it.
We fought.
I accused him of caring more about work than being home.
He said he’d already eaten with coworkers.
I accused him of caring more about work than being home.
I remembered going to bed furious.
“That dinner.”
Caleb looked at me.
“What?”
“The chicken Parmesan.”
His expression said it all.
“You hadn’t eaten with coworkers,” I whispered.
“No.”
“Where had you been?”
“Walking between two interviews and a temp agency.”
“You hadn’t eaten with coworkers.”
I turned away from him.
For 15 years, that memory had belonged to one version of our marriage.
