In the middle of the night I hear sounds coming from the kitchen. The refrigerator door

opening, a knife rattling around in a jar. I go into the kitchen and Gary is there, making a

sandwich. He ignores my astonishment as he spreads mayonnaise on one slice of bread and

mustard on the other. He doesn’t even look in my direction as he leans against the counter and

begins eating.

I have never felt so awkward. I have no idea what to do or say. "What are you doing here?" I

finally ask.

He looks at me, still chewing, one hand deep inside a jean pocket, as if this isn’t even a mildly

important conversation. He thrusts out his chin and says, "I live here, remember?"

"But, but...You’ve been gone," I explain, "For months and months. And I thought...."

"I know what you thought," he interrupts. "I can just guess. I’ve seen our room. I’ve seen the

kids’ rooms. This place is unbelievable."

This last is said with such contempt that my heart sinks. I can’t believe he’s already looked in

the rooms. After twenty years of nothing but white walls, we did go a little crazy. I let Lanie

paint designs on her ceiling, and Katy has graffiti all over one wall. When I couldn’t decide on a

color for my own room, I compromised and painted each wall a different color.

I will have to paint them all white again. Tomorrow. I’ve dreamed of this moment so many

times, but tonight it’s finally real. He’s really come back. I just can’t believe it. Everyone said he

was gone for good. Even our minister said it. And not I’ve gone and changed everything,

everything, and now I will have to change it all back?

Why are you bringing him back now, God? You know I would have stayed another ten,

twenty, thirty years, whatever you asked. But to give me five months of freedom and peace and

then expect me to give it all up again in an instant...

I will have to give back the life insurance money. As soon as the company finds out, they will

want it back. And that will mean losing the car, the first new car I’ve had in twenty years, and

going back into debt, because I can’t possibly pay it all back now.

And he will be so angry. He will blame me for the whole thing. But it was a natural mistake to

make. I saw him, myself, in the hospital. It’s true it didn’t really look like him ­ his face was

puffy and swollen from the drugs they pumped into him during surgery and I thought for the first

time he resembled Marlon Brando. But when I saw his hands, I was sure it was him. The joints

were swollen and there were rivers of fresh, exposed flesh starting at the rims of the nails and

traveling down his fingers, where he had carefully peeled back the skin from his cuticles in

strips. No one else has hands like that.

And everyone said it was him. Even the children thought it was him. I wasn’t the only one who

was wrong. How can he hold it against me when I was told by everyone, ​everyone​, that he was

dead? Although all along some part of me suspected a trick.

So I begin to defend myself. "There was a body," I start to explain. "There was a wake. I shook

hundreds of hands, ​hundreds​. I never dreamed you were such a celebrity. And every single one

of those people talked like you were dead. There were flowers everywhere, and a funeral, and

now there’s even a headstone! So really," I say, picking up steam now, convincing even myself

with all this evidence, this mass of witnesses on my side, "You really ​must ​be dead after all."

He hasn’t even looked at me throughout this entire speech ­ he just drinks his can of soda. Now

he looks at me with that you­are­such­an­idiot look and I realize that I am, I really am, an idiot.

He’s not dead at all ­ he’s here, right now. How in the world could I have messed up so badly.

And I’m so scared, and I wish it was daytime, and I could call my friends and they could come

over. I wish it wasn’t the middle of the night and just him and I, alone.

Then he says, very quietly, "So, did ya miss me?"

I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say.

"I mean," he continues, "I’ve been gone for five months and I come back and I would think I

would at least get a hug."

I feel sick inside. Another test I’ve failed. Every time he’s around it’s exam time. I’ve failed so

many of them, you’d think he’d get tired of testing me. I failed the how to make mashed potatoes

exam, the how to feed a family of six on eighty dollars a week exam, the how to decorate a house

just like his mothers’ exam, and now I’ve screwed up the how to greet your husband back from

the dead exam.

But I haven’t shaded the truth or cowered to anyone for five whole months, so I speak up. "It’s

not my fault I haven’t missed you," I say, my heart pounding. "I felt guilty about that at first. But

it’s your fault. You could have treated me differently. You could have made our lives together so

wonderful that I’d be devastated now. I wish I did miss you. But it’s your own fault."

"Oh yeah, it’s always ​my​ fault," he says in a tone that makes me wonder if I’ve overlooked

something crucial. "So," he says, and now there are tears in his eyes and I really do feel horrible.

"So I guess this all worked out great for you. I guess you’re glad I’m dead."

He looks so sad and lonely that I start lying again, I can’t help it. "No," I say, "Of course not.

How can you say that. I tried to save your life, remember? You told me not to call the rescue

squad. You even threatened me if I did, remember? The girls couldn’t believe I was calling when

you so clearly told me not to, but I was trying to save your life! It was you who called back and

told them not to come! If you hadn’t done that, you’d be alive right now! I told you it might be

your heart, and ​I called the rescue squad​!"

He smiles bitterly. "You just called the rescue squad so that no one could say later that you

hadn’t done all you could. So that when people found out later I’d been having chest pains they

wouldn’t look at you and say, ’Why didn’t you do anything?’ This way you’re in the clear."

I can’t speak. I wonder if he’s right. Those thoughts did cross my mind. Now that he’s in

heaven, can he read my mind? Is he like God himself now, able to see my every movement, hear

my every word, know even my thoughts?

In the morning I drive to the local supermarket and buy a bouquet of fresh flowers. They’re

priced at $3.99, $5.99, $8.99, and $12.99. I pick up the $3.99 carnations. I can hear him saying,

“The least you could do, now that you have a new car and a new front door and a new picnic

table, is buy me the nicest flowers!” I decide to buy the $5.99 ones.

I drive to the church and when I get out of the car with my flowers, the church secretary is

walking by. “Oh, Mrs. Rhodes,” she says, taking my hand. “We were all so sorry about your

husband. I know it hurts so much and every time I see you here I think about what you and your

children must be going through. I can tell by how often you come and how many flowers you

bring how close you two were.”

I squeeze her hand and say a tearful thank you. I walk to the grave. It really is a beautiful

headstone. I kneel and fan out the flowers upon it. Please God, I pray. I promise to keep a

scrapbook for each one of the children of every letter to the editor about their father, and I

promise to keep up the yard just the way he liked it and I promise that every time someone grabs

me and says again what a wonderful man he was I will nod and say, “He certainly was,” and I

promise to keep bringing fresh flowers to the grave. Just please​, please​, keep him in there.”

This Is How You Make Toast, You Bitch

First you toast the bread, see? It’s not that difficult. You drop the pieces of bread, which you

get out of the BREAD BAG, see? It says "Bread" on the side. Drop two slices in this white thing,

which we call a TOASTER. Push down this little lever. See how that works? DON’T change the

settings, EVER. This is how I like my toast. These settings are NEVER to be changed. You toast

it very lightly, then you TAKE IT OUT and you put butter on it, but THEN, and here’s the tricky

part, are you paying attention? Put the pieces BACK in the toaster, with the butter on them, and

push it down AGAIN so the butter can melt. And then serve it RIGHT AWAY. That’s the way I

like my toast. ​Do you think you can handle that​?

This Is How It Was Then

A phone call for my husband. I call him, then go looking. He’s not in the den. Or the

bedroom. A knock on the bathroom door gets only silence.

I realize he may be ignoring me, so I call: "Barry, it’s a phone call from your work." If he

thinks it’s someone important who wants him, he will answer. But still it’s quiet, so I look out the

back window to see if he’s working in the yard. He was just here ten minutes ago. Still no Barry.

I look out the front door at the driveway. His car is gone. He has left again, without a word.

Whether to the corner market to get a Ccoke or on a three­ day trip, I am not to know. He may be

back in minutes or hours. Telling ​me​ would mean castration.

I tell the caller he’s not available. The caller asks when would be a good time to call back. I tell

him honestly that I don’t know. He tries again. Will my husband be home this evening? I tell

them I have no idea. I am past pretending to the outside world that we have a lovely marriage.

They can think what they like ­ and it will probably be true.

I hang up the phone. I have no idea how many sandwiches to make for lunch. I’ll make an extra

just in case. He’ll be so mad if he comes back for lunch and there’s not a sandwich at his place.

But who knows when we’ll get another loaf of bread. I also open another can of tomato soup. I

watch the thick red globs of Campbell’s best ooze over the jagged can edge and drop into the pot.

I suddenly remember a time, years ago, when I made the two of us tomato soup and grilled

cheese sandwiches. We huddled in the living room in a blanket on the floor with our mugs and

trays and watched "The Cat People," laughing at the scary scenes. I could have stayed wrapped

up in that blanket, with him, forever.