He Loves Me

The church bell tolls—dong, dong, dong.

I sit on the bench and wait, like I have every day for five years.

Roland and I used to have lunch with the guys every afternoon, but when my circumstances changed, we agreed just to meet here.

I scuff the toe of my shoe in the grass. The sun is high, and a cicada screams nearby. It’ll be a quick visit, what with the heat.

I am contemplating what to do with the afternoon when I hear the crunch of gravel beneath tires and turn towards him, giddy. These visits with Roland are the best part of my day. My heart patters a jaunty little tune against my ribcage. It’s always been this way with him.

He keeps his car perfectly washed and buffed. He pays the boy next door to come over once a week to wash and wax it.

On one of our visits, Roland told me he could never live in New England because he couldn’t stand to have all that mud and salt on his car.

I am glad he didn’t live in New England because I am certain he would not sit on this bench with me each day with feet of snow on the ground. Though he does come in the rain, so perhaps I am underestimating him.

The door to his car slams shut, and I am pulled out of my musings.

He looks just as handsome as ever as he fixes his salt-and-pepper hair in the car window’s reflection.

He hasn’t worked in fifteen years, but he never stopped dressing like a bank manager—collared shirt tucked into slacks. The shoes he’s wearing must be new because the heels snap against the asphalt as he circles the car to the passenger side door. He pulls out flowers—blue chrysanthemums, my favorite.

My cheeks pink, and I smile.

He’s often brought me flowers in the last forty-five years, but it still makes me swoon when he does.

He sits down next to me, placing the flowers on the bench between us. I smile at him. He forces a smile for a moment before it drops.

He looks tired, too tired.

Now that he’s next to me, I can see the dark circles under his eyes.

I want to take his hand, or lay his head in my lap, and stroke his hair as if we were back in college. But I know Roland; he needs time.

So I wait for him to speak.

I count my way around the petals on the flowers without removing a single one.

He loves me; he loves me not. He loves me; he loves me not. He loves me…

He clears his throat.

“Brian,” his voice sounds strangled. “Brian, I can’t come to see you anymore.”

I recoil so hard that I hurt my neck.

The longest we’ve ever gone without seeing one another was when he went on his honeymoon back in 1983.

I swallow hard and open my mouth—but no words come out. He knows I’m not as mobile as I used to be, so it’s not like I can meet him for dinner or a cup of coffee somewhere else.

How could he abandon me like this? I almost weep, but then I set my jaw and sit up a little straighter.

I assume it’s Mary’s fault. She’s never much liked me. And who could blame her, married to a man who could never love her back.

Well, he has told me he loves her.

He says he loves both of us, but I don’t believe him. He wasn’t sneaking out of his house in the middle of the night to kiss her, now was he?

Although it was the house he shared with Mary that he was sneaking out of…

I notice Roland has been speaking the entire time that my mind has been spinning. He has tears dripping down his face.

I turn to him, but he has his eyes fixed on the grass.

“She’s dying, Brian. Mary’s dying.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of it.

“She wants to move down to the coast to be near the kids and the grandkids.”

My blood runs cold. I know there will be no convincing Roland now. College-roommate-and-secret-on-and-off-again-lover doesn’t stack up to dying wife of forty years and grandkids.

I let out a quiet huff of air.

“Will you help me take care of her? I know you never got on very well, but for me?”

Tears sting my own eyes.

“Of course,” I say, throat closing up around my words.

He nods, drying his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Thank you, my love.”

I know he’s only said it because he’s distracted.

He hasn’t called me that since his kids were born. No doubt Mary overheard him say it back when the phone cord couldn’t stretch far enough for proper privacy and told him not to call me that anymore.

And now she gets the last laugh, doesn’t she? She’s finally got her way, taking him away from me, all the way to the coast, while I’m trapped here.

Roland slaps his hands down on his knees, his Midwestern way of letting me know he’s planning to leave. The keys fumble for a moment in his arthritic hands. I close my eyes; I cannot watch him leave.

Tears drip from my chin. I make no move to dry them. I need him to see how he’s hurt me.

But I hear the sound of a trowel in the dirt and peek at him with one-eye. There he is, kneeling in the dirt, planting the flowers.

So like Roland to ignore my dramatics.

I take a shaky breath and finally find my voice.

“We’ve been together every day for forty-five years,” I say. I hate the begging tone, but I can’t change it now.

“I’ve been here every day for the last five, 3 pm, rain or shine,” he says back. He sounds defensive and exhausted.

“Don’t go,” but even I hear how hollow it sounds.

He doesn’t acknowledge me for a long moment.

“I love you,” he whispers. It hangs between us. I don’t say it back.

Then he presses his hand into my gravestone and hauls himself up.

I kneel and count the petals on the flowers again.

He loves me.

He loves her more.