Hello Beautiful

In the dark center of the night, he saw Charlie standing in a doorway. His father-in-law met William’s eyes and offered his warmest smile. William was able to see the pain in Charlie, the same way he’d seen it in the college basketball players, the way he’d seen it in Sylvie on the bench. His overtaxed liver, his unsatisfying work, his broken heart: William saw it all and said, “I’m glad to see you,” because he was. But by the time the words left his mouth, Charlie had disappeared. William stared at the empty space his father-in-law had occupied, and then continued to walk.

Julia

August 1983

William left the apartment just before eight at night. The dinner dishes were still on the table. Julia looked at the check he’d handed her. She studied her father-in-law’s signature. She’d never seen the man’s handwriting before; his name looked scratched onto the paper, as if it had been dashed off as quickly as possible. Ten thousand dollars seemed like an impossible amount of money to be lodged behind this handwriting. Her father-in-law had apparently sent the check to her husband sixteen months earlier, and William had never told her.

Julia found it hard to wrap her mind around this fact. The previous fall, when she was pregnant and William had asked to be excused from his teaching position, her financial anxiety would have been lifted entirely if she’d known they had this extra money. Instead, the worry about how much she could afford to give Cecelia and spend on food plus her father’s death had braided themselves together inside her, and she’d had a constant headache.

Julia washed the dinner dishes and wiped the kitchen countertops. She cleaned her face and put on her nightgown. Alice was asleep in the bassinet, her face peaceful. Julia watched her perfect features for a few minutes — her tiny nose, her pink cheeks, her long eyelashes — and then sat down on the couch. She’d finished her normal evening routine, even if this wasn’t a normal evening. For the first time, Julia considered the sheet of folded paper William had handed her. When he’d walked out, she’d put it down, still folded, on the coffee table. She was aware of a prickly sensation in her chest, aware that she was scared to unfold the sheet. Don’t be silly, she thought, and with feigned confidence smoothed the page flat on her lap. William’s handwriting was different from his father’s: His letters were round and easy to read. His handwriting was as familiar to Julia as her own.

I’m no good for you and Alice. If I stayed, I’d ruin your life. You deserve to be free, Julia. Our marriage is over. I’m sorry for everything.

She read the sentences on a loop, as if they were a book she restarted as soon as she reached the last page. After a while she stopped and lay down on the couch. She wished Sylvie was beside her on the cushions, to hold her. Julia wasn’t ready to talk, but she was alone in a way that felt dangerous. She got up and double-checked the lock on the front door. She dug out the old toolbox from under the kitchen sink and removed the rusty hammer they’d used to hang pictures when they moved. She placed the hammer next to the letter and check on the small coffee table, in case she needed protection, and lay back down. She told herself to sleep but found she couldn’t close her eyes. Any small noise and she pushed herself upright, wondering if it was William’s key in the lock. Had he ever been out past ten? No. It was now midnight. After midnight, the bars would be closed. The campus buildings were shut. Alice woke up, and Julia fed her back to sleep. She was still on the couch at three in the morning. She thought, Is this actually happening?

Julia hadn’t lost her clarity from Alice’s birth. When she paid attention, she could see everything. But she’d paid as little attention to William as possible since Alice was born. She’d kept her gaze averted, partly because Julia had come to know what, apparently, her husband had also figured out: They didn’t work together. Or perhaps they had worked, while Julia was intent on fixing the world and people around her. She had pushed William into the career of teaching, pushed him into graduate school, even pushed him to marry her. But Julia had stopped pushing when Alice was born. And when she stopped pushing, something in their marriage sputtered to a stop. She’d continued to play her role as a wife, and he’d continued to play his role as a husband, but they’d done no more than go through the motions for a while now.

“I was going to stay with you, though,” she said to the empty room. “I’d made a commitment.”