A Couple Years of Gardening (Chapter 9) (standard:romance, 4276 words) [9/10] show all parts
Author: kmr412002	Added: Mar 26 2008	Views/Reads: 2237/1741	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The coutship and marriage of a detective as told by his wife.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Jack, it's part time. If I left Atlanta, I couldn't make a living in 
New York.” 

“Even if you live with me.” 

“It's not just the money.  You know that. There are weekends where I
only see you in the middle of the night and you're asking me to give up 
my home there.” I plea only halfheartedly, because I'm tired of 
fighting this. I'm tired of denying the fact that I ever want to spend 
any time away from this man. 

Jack gasps with exaggerated shock which makes me laugh. He says, “Home? 
You haven't unpacked your boxes. Your refrigerator is papered with 
takeout menus. Hell, some of your clothes are still in suitcases.” 

I smirk, “Excuse me, Detective, are you trying to make a case?” 

He smiles, “I guess I am. Your home is with me.”  He spoke that last
sentence like it was a universal truth. If he said the sky was green, I 
would have believed him. 

Just then a player in a game we had totally lost track of did something
that made the crowd roar. We both stand up and I take his hand. 

I knew that getting back together would not get rid of my fear of
commitment.  I knew Jack was giving me the time I needed, but I needed 
to let him know that I was somehow capable of making a commitment.  I 
was not going to lose him, again. 

When we have dinner at Ernan's and Irma's home, I can tell that at first
Jack still does not know what to make of the dark little man with the 
ponytail; especially when Ernan peppers his conversations with words 
like spirit and cosmic. But, eventually, Jack is telling Ernan about 
his work, and how he became a detective; he shares more than he ever 
shared with me. 

It's a relaxing evening until the topic turns to our future.  I don't
know if it's because he became so comfortable with Ernan, but I hear 
this phrase from Jack, “our place.” 

Irma is saying something to me, but I can't hear, for all the thoughts
flooding my mind.  I knew this was coming, and I really want it.  I 
really do, despite the fact that right now I want to run out into the 
dark night. 

Fortunately, I find a way to escape when Irma returns to kitchen to
finish preparing dinner and I follow her to help. As we're working, 
she's telling me about their three children and what they're doing now. 
All of sudden, she turns to me, and says, “You love him, don't you?  
This is the one?” 

I nod and take a sip of wine for my suddenly dry mouth. I whisper, “I
think so.” “Then don't fuck it up.” 

I cough and sputter when she says that. Irma has never cursed before.
I've known her nearly twenty years, and I've never heard even the word 
‘damn' from her. 

I laugh, “Irma!” 

“I am telling you this because you do love him.  Do you remember when
Ernan bought you that violin?” 

I nod. 

“You were going to buy that cheap violin, which would have been a
disaster with those long fingers of yours. But Ernan surprised you and 
bought you the one that was more expensive, and you barely spoke to him 
for weeks. You had built a fence around your heart, and someone had 
dared to knock it down. Just now, when Jack said something about you 
living in New York, you couldn't leave the room fast enough. Tell me, 
Nina, what crime has he committed?” 

I shrug but she continues to look at me. Even though I could pretend I
know nothing of what she is say I saying, I am tired of lying to 
myself. I rinse out my wine glass several times, as I say, “He fell in 
love with me.  That's what he did. He's made a place in his life for 
me; a safe, warm place. And I know for this man, sometimes that was 
hard to do. I even sent him away and he still --.” My throat tightens 
and she takes my hands. 

I whisper, “Sometimes, Irma, I wonder what I have to do so he won't love
me anymore, because he's got to be crazy to love someone like me. When 
the phone rings in Atlanta, I don't want to answer it. But if it's him, 
all I can think about is the next time we'll --.” 

Irma looks me in the eye, “Listen to me, Nina. You deserve this. No
matter what you think--. No, don't think. That always gets you in 
trouble. You deserve someone to love you like he does. Baby, just take 
my word for it. This is the one.” 

After dinner, Ernan asks me if I would like to provide the evening's
entertainment. I give him a puzzled look. 

He says, “Thais?  Please don't tell me you've forgotten.” I laugh
nervously, “I believe I've forgotten my violin.” 

“Violin?” asks Jack. 

Ernan taps Jack's shoulder and speaks to him in a conspiratorial manner.
“You should have seen her, Jack, at seventeen; such a chip on her 
shoulder. One day I am giving a lesson and she comes downstairs and 
just sits at the bottom of the step to listen. When the student leaves, 
that tough girl is sobbing. She wants to learn how to playThais. Never 
picked up the instrument in her life, but she learns. Got to be pretty 
good, too.” 

“You play the violin?” Jack asks again. 

I give Jack a look of exasperation. “It was a long time ago.” 

Ernan walks to the hallway closet, and pulls out a violin and some sheet
music. He places them on the piano and sits on the bench looking up at 
me. 

I sigh and get up. When I pick up the violin, I tell Ernan that I've
forgotten my fingering. He says, “Listen to me. It will come.” 

I look at Irma who is sitting beside Jack. She is smiling at him while
he is looking at me. Ernan plays the first few chords and I close my 
eyes and play. 

We're sitting in his car in front of the loft. Jack has said very little
on the way back. Irrational thoughts float through my head. He must 
hate the violin, and this, he can't take. It's over. 

When we pull into the garage, he takes my hand and looks at me with that
detective look, chin lowered and eyes slightly squinty as if he can 
read my thoughts. “Why didn't you tell me?” 

I smile nervously, “What?  About Irma's great cooking?” 

“Fuck it, Nina.”  He throws my hand down and starts to get out of the
car. 

I grab his arm, “I'm sorry.” He closes the car door.  He shrugs and
says, “Maybe you think that kind of music might be a little over my 
head.” 

I shake my head vigorously, “Oh no, I've never thought that.  It's just
that--. Just first tell me, why is this so important to you?” 

“Because I thought I knew you. Maybe I'm a fool, but when you played, I
saw another person. I wonder how I could sleep beside you, love you and 
not know of that person. We talked about sharing the rough stuff that 
has happened to us, and all I know is that rough shit must have 
happened to the girl that learned to play that violin.” 

“You do know me. I never told you I play because it never came up.” 

“Bullshit, Nina. That night; the first night at the loft; we were
listening to violin music coming from that restaurant down the street. 
You were in tears, but I blew it off to nerves.” 

“I forgot about that.” 

“Maybe that's the difference between you and me. I remember everything
about that night.” 

Ow, that hurts, but I know he is hurt even more, and I am about to tell
him exactly why I don't mention the violin to anyone; why I only play 
alone when I'm sure I'm alone in case I fill the urge to curl up in a 
corner to have a good cry. His cell phone rings. I kiss his cheek and 
leave him to take the call. 

He has to go to work and I need to return to Atlanta this evening. We
say our goodbyes there. He asks if he will see me next weekend, which 
he has not done that in a long time. After he leaves, I think about 
Irma and I wonder if this time I have fucked up my relationship with 
Jack. 

I am a little apprehensive about this weekend with Jack. Not only
because of the dismal way we had parted, but things have worked out 
well with my New York replacement; so well in fact that my work load 
has doubled in Atlanta.  We planned to get away for week next month, 
but now I doubt if I'll be able to do that. 

As soon as I catch sight of him in the airport, I can tell he is ill.
He's pale and heat radiates from him even before I touch his forehead. 
He says, “I'd love to kiss you, but I don't think that's a good idea.” 

“Sweetheart, you caught Gracie's flu.” 

“Nah, I'm fine.  I'm just a little beat.” He starts to takes my bag and
sets it back down as if it were full of bricks. I grab my stuff and 
hold his arm as we walk to the parking lot. 

I drive back to the loft, while he sleeps. When I help him out of the
car, he is glassy eyed and disoriented. We get up to the loft, and I 
help him into bed. As I take off his shoes, and loosen his tie, he 
says, “Neen, I need just a few minutes and then we can go to the lake; 
just you and me, uh, Baby?” 

I smile and put a cold towel on his head, and say, “Sure, Jack.” 

While he sleeps, I get some work done. I catch up on work and submit
some editorial changes back to Atlanta. Close to midnight, I find some 
corny romantic movie, but fall asleep halfway through. I awake to 
Jack's voice.  By the time I get to the bedroom, I find he is having a 
nightmare. He's always had nightmares, but now he sounds particularly 
desperate and frightened. I know it's because of the fever, but still 
it hurts to hear him. He keeps telling someone to put down their 
fucking gun down. I get another cold towel and put it on his forehead. 
I whisper to him hoping to calm him down. When he is quiet, I get up to 
leave. Just then he sits up and grabs my wrist as the towel tumbles to 
my feet. 

“Nina?” 

“Yes, Jack, I'm here.” 

“Please stay. Don't leave.”  I pick up the towel and place it back on
his head. 

He repeats, “Nina?” 

I say, “I'm not going anywhere.”  I wonder, as I curl up beside him, if
I've just promised I won't ever leave him. I hope I'm the kind of 
person that can do so. 

The next morning, I call Kate. She tells me he was feeling lousy days
ago, but wanted to save some time up so we could go up to the lake for 
a few days. I wonder if he had taken the time off, would he be in such 
bad shape now. 

Jack sleeps on and off for nearly two days. The second evening, I leave
to pick up some groceries. When I check on him, he is awake and reading 
a magazine. “Hey, you look great.”  I kiss his cool forehead. When I 
tell him how long he's been out, he stands up and then immediately sits 
back down. “Take it easy, Jack.” 

I bring him some soup, and he asks “God, what about your work?” 

I say, “Don't worry about that.” 

He gets up again and grabs a towel.  I ask, “Where are you going?” 

He doesn't say anything; just looks at me.  I take his arm and walk him
back to the bed. “No, Jack.  After the rough night you had, you need at 
least another day.” 

He looks like a petulant child glaring at me with his arms crossed.  I
can tell he won't be very good company this evening. “Why?  What 
happened last night?” 

“You had a pretty high fever last night and --.”  I shrug and turn
around. 

“And what --.  Did I do something?” 

I shake my head and say, “No, Jack, nothing happened. How's the soup?” 

“It's fine.” 

I don't know whether or not to be relieved he didn't remember. 

While he watches a baseball game in the bedroom, I read and answer some
emails. While, I work on laundry, he steps out, he says, “I remember 
now, Nina.” 

I don't look at him as I fold.  “That's good. I don't need this, you
know.  I don't need to be playing nurse.  I don't need to be standing 
over a stove making a soup.  I don't need --.” 

“Sure, you don't, Nina.  And you sure don't need to be halfway across
the country worrying about some cop.” 

I stop what I'm doing and look at him. “No, I don't. 

He smiles when he says, “You only go through that kind of crap if you're
in love with someone.” 

He loops his arm around my waist as he whispers in my ear, “I remember
now.” 

I say it then, “Only if I'm hopelessly in love, desperately in love.” 

When I see that Jack's home is becoming mine, I have an urge to put
something of myself in the loft. I find this vintage pillow at a tag 
sale.  A rooster is embroidered in the middle with “Up in the Morning” 
scripted underneath it. I put it on the sofa and when Jack comes home, 
he stares at it. 

I can't tell what he is thinking. I say, “If you hate it, I can put it
somewhere else.” 

He shakes head and whispers into my hair. “When you're away, it will
remind me you're going to come back to me.” 

However, in the following weeks, when I return from Atlanta, the pillow
is moved to either the bedroom or to a chair at the table.  I don't 
know why it bothers me; it just does. One evening, we decide to go to 
movie. Just as we make it to the door, his cell rings. I know by now 
what that probably means. He apologizes and says he has to go in. I 
shrug and throw myself on the sofa pretending to be engrossed in what's 
on TV. He sits on the other end studying some notes on another case he 
is working on. He begins to furiously scribble and mark up other papers 
with a highlighter. That's when I see it. He is actually using the 
pillow as a desk. I notice this just in time to see him mark up the 
back of the pillow. 

I snatch the pillow from his lap causing his paperwork to fly
everywhere. “Goddamn, Jack, if you hate it that much, I'll take it 
home.” 

We both know I am not upset about the pillow. He sighs, “Listen, Nina, I
can't deal with this right now.” 

“Then, don't. Go to work.” 

While he is picking up his papers, he looks up toward the ceiling and
shakes his head. I hate it when he does this. 

I stomp off to the bedroom and shove the pillow in the closet where my
suitcase is stored. He stands by the doorway. “Nina, you are home.” 

I ask, “What do you mean?” 

“You said ‘You'll take it home.'  Baby, you are home.” 

I sit on the bed and feel like I'm about to become of those nags I said
I would never become. “How can we have a home when you're never here 
long enough to make one?” 

“I don't know, Neen. Maybe I'll be able to figure that out when someone
can explain to me how some fucker can rape a seven year old girl?” 

What can I say to something like that?  I feel extraordinarily petty and
extraordinarily saddened that I am sending him this way to deal with 
something like this.  But I'm also saddened that this world has once 
again elbowed its way into ours. 

He looks around the room, “Where is it?” 

“What?” 

“The pillow.” 

I nod toward the closet. 

He says, “Put it back.” 

I try to look defiant, but I must be doing a poor job, because, he
repeats, “Put it back.” 

I pull the pillow out of the closet and place it on my lap. 

He sits beside me. “I told you when I first saw that pillow, it reminded
me that you were coming back. But lately it reminds me that --. He 
looks down and I can tell he is embarrassed, as usual, to show any 
neediness. 

“What is it, Jack?” 

“It reminds me that you are not here.” 

“I don't know what to say except I'm here now.  Look, I guess I'm
overreacting because that pillow meant to me that I have a place in 
your life.”  I feel like an idiot when I say this. I'm talking to a man 
whose bad days are filled with such violence, while mine are filled 
with ranting ad executives. 

“Nina, you have more than just a place in my life. You have my heart. I
offered a life here with me. I know it's not perfect, but with you, I 
never felt I had to be.” 

I stand up and hug him.  I don't want him to go like this, so I say,
“I'll be here waiting, Jack. I'll leave a light on.” 

He clears his throat, “You'll be here?” 

“Of course. What else can I do?  I'm in love with you; no matter where I
find the pillow next time I come in.” 

He smiles and tugs on the knot in his tie. “Maybe later we can get away.
Maybe next weekend.” 

I look at him working on the tie and think how hard it's been to leave
him the past few weeks. I have longed for a life with this man, despite 
the disappointments of missed dinners and the weekends where the only 
contact we may have is blindly groping for each other during the middle 
of the night. I have waited for my yearnings to dull, but they just 
seem to sharpen with time. I reach up to stop his hand. “How much time 
do we have until you have to go?” 

He looks at his watch, “Thirty minutes.” 

I unbutton my blouse and say. “Let's make the most of it.” 

He calls me later that night. “Happy birthday, Baby.” 

“How did you know?” 

“What, you forget you sleep with a detective?” 

“Where are you?” 

“I'm on a stakeout. Barrett went to get some coffee. I hid your gift in
the kitchen closet.  I wanted to give it to you in person, but I could 
use it right now.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You'll see.  Go get it.” 

I push aside nearly empty cereal boxes to find a large gift wrapped box
behind them. When I open it, I gasp. It's a violin. 

“Jack, what did you do?” 

“I fell in love with you, Nina. All of you, even some of those parts
you'd rather not share.” 

“It's not that, Jack. It's just that --.”  I can't talk anymore 

“I talked to Ernan about what to get you and ended up telling him
exactly how I'm crazy about you. That's when he suggested this. He's a 
great guy, Nina. He even went with me to pick it up.” 

I am very weepy all of sudden and all I can choke out is, “Jack.” 

He says, “Now, if you cry you won't be able to do me a favor. In
Atlanta, sometimes when you talked to me on the phone, you made me feel 
like I was right next to you. It's like I could touch you, smell you. I 
want you to do something else that will make me feel that way. I want 
to hear that music again.” 

I prop up the phone on a pillow and playThais and when I'm done, I know
where I belong and who I belong to. But that panicky feeling starts to 
seep in and I pick up the phone hoping to say anything glib to disguise 
how intensely I feel. That's when he says my name that way, “Nina?” 

“Yes, Jack?” 

“You know I'm going to marry you one day?” 

I say, “Yes, I know that. I'll leave a light on for you. Be safe.” 

“I am now.” 

Sometime just before daylight, I feel him slip in beside me. He kisses
the space between my shoulder blades, and wraps his arms around me. I 
feel the tension in his arms relax as he falls asleep. 

I doze for another hour and slip out of bed, take a shower and dress. I
quietly pack and call a cab. He never stirs, so I knew he must be 
exhausted. That's one reason I don't wake him. But also, I'm afraid if 
I do, I won't be able to leave this time. 

The cab honks and I kiss his forehead. He sits up and rubs his eyes,
“Give me a second.” 

“No, don't get up. The cab is downstairs right now.” 

“Nina, why did you do that?” 

I stand up and grab my bags. “Because I want you to get some rest.
You'll need it when you help me move the rest of my stuff in here.” 

He nods; lies back down and closes his eyes.  He calls across the room
as I slip out, “Love you, Neen. 

“Love you, Jack.” 

While I'm standing at the freight elevator, the door bursts open. He is
standing there with the bedsheet wrapped around his waist. “How many 
drawers do you think you'll need?” 

“Tons,” I wave and step into the elevator. 


Tweet