The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

angry in death. But there’re other faces of death that aren’t nearly so calm. Twisted faces of rage, pain, and mind-shattering fear.

I pray my son never has to see any of those.

* * *

Four blocks later, we arrive.

Middleton Prep is an exclusive private school for sixth through twelfth grades, and my father insisted on Max going there as long as we live back home. I wanted to take some kind of noble stand and insist public school was just fine, but I didn’t consider this for long. I won’t sacrifice a better education for my son out of principle. Max struggles with school enough as it is, and I can’t argue against sending him somewhere the teachers are paid fairly and the average class size is fifteen.

We bypass the drop-off lane and park; I want to escort Max in on his first day of sixth grade. I start to open my door when he says, “You don’t need to come in.”

“You sure? You don’t want me to come inside?”

“No, I’m okay.”

I want to ask him why, and I don’t want to ask him why. I don’t want to make him second-guess himself, make him crack this delicate shell of courage that he’s apparently been able to build.

He sees my struggle and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Gotta grow up some time,” he says.

This simple statement breaks my heart. I reach out, touch the side of his face, and force back the tears. A few still escape, but I don’t break down.

“You’re a strong kid, you know that?” I say.

“I suppose.”

I lean in and kiss him on the head, then Max reaches down, picks up his backpack and lunch, and gets out of the car. I decide to get out anyway, if only to watch him walk inside, because driving immediately away feels too much like abandonment.

I call out after he crosses the drop-off lane and reaches the sidewalk. He turns and offers a wave, and for a moment, I think I see a trace of a smile, though perhaps the glare of the early sun is tricking me into thinking so.

“Morning, Rose.”

The vaguely familiar voice comes from behind me, and I turn and see Alec. He’s walking my way, packaged neatly in a crisp, blue button-down shirt and thin olive slacks. A little boy holds his hand.

“Hi, Alec.”

“That your son heading in over there?”

“Yes,” I say. “Max. Just starting sixth grade.”

“Well, this is Micah,” he says, then looks down at his son. “Looks like you’ll have another friend, buddy. Max just moved here from…” Alec looks over to me.

“Wisconsin,” I say.

“Wisconsin. That’s right.” Alec smiles, and everything around me warms a degree or two. “Micah’s starting sixth grade, too. It’ll be nice for him to meet Max. Micah, this is Rose.”

Micah looks a lot like Alec, just with lighter skin and thoughtfully chaotic hair. Looking at this boy, I can already imagine what a striking man he will someday become. He reaches out his right hand and offers it to me.

“How do you do?” he asks.

In a thousand years, Max would never offer his hand and a how do you do to a stranger. I take Micah’s small hand and give it a shake. His grip is stronger than I expected.

“Well, I’m just fine, Micah. Nice to meet you.”

The pleasantness of this little exchange is ended by another voice, this one also distantly familiar, but not in a comforting way.

“There you are.”

I turn and see a bullet of a woman walking with a brisk huff directly toward us. Her gaze is drilled into Alec.

Tasha Collins.

Like my sister, she hasn’t aged as much as she’s been maintained, like a car whose owner keeps applying wax in hopes of hiding the wear from all those miles. Her long, lush hair looks unnaturally black, as if it were dipped in a giant inkwell, and her face has a plastic sheen to it, no doubt the subject of a lengthy, daily makeup routine. But otherwise Tasha looks just like she did in high school. Tall, pale, and slim, a beautiful, brittle mannequin, ever unsmiling, as if doing so would wrinkle some of the smooth.

“You’re late,” she says, coming up a few feet from us and stopping with still no acknowledgment of Micah or me.

Alec sighs lightly, perhaps a micromeditation necessary before any conversation with his ex.

“Good morning to you as well,” he says. His voice takes on an edge, the kind that conveys his desire to scream at Tasha were he not around others. I picture him angry, realizing it’s not hard to do. Nostrils flared, forearms tensed, veins in his temples pounding. I’ll bet Alec and Tasha have had some epic arguments.

“You know I wanted to talk to his teacher before class started.”

“Hi, Mama,” Micah says.

Tasha finally notices him, bending down and giving him a swift, almost aggressive kiss on the forehead. “Hi, sweetheart. Ready for your first day?”

“Uh-huh.”

Tasha straightens and faces me. Blinks a couple of times with owl-like wonder. “I know you,” she says. “How do I know you?”

“Hi, Tasha,” I say. “Rose Yates.” I don’t extend my hand. I don’t have Micah’s manners, at least not in this moment.

The wonder breaks and a wave of excitement washes over her face, as if she’s been told a terrible secret about one of her enemies. “Rose Yates. I heard you were back in town. Wow, it’s been so long.”

She moves in for a hug. For a half second, I consider stepping back but then realize I have no real reason to hate this person now. Sure, she called me Pancake Tits back in high school, but I don’t even know the Tasha Collins of today. People change.

We hug. It’s like embracing a lamppost, minus the warmth.

“I heard about your husband. I’m so, so sorry.”

I’ve heard this enough that I can rate someone’s empathy on a scale from one to ten. Alec was about an eight when he told me this. Tasha clocks in somewhere around a two. Maybe one