Page 23 of The Butcher's Wife
“She tells you that stuff out of love, you know?”
“She’s from a different generation.”
“Not now, Annetta, I’ve had a long day.”
So he was a mama’s boy. He never forced me in bed. When he had time, he took me on dates. He bought me fancy jewelry. I’d gotten luckier than I ever could’ve imagined. For a long time, I distanced myself from Serafina, poisoned by the guilt that I’d tried to shape destiny andinadvertently ruined hers. She was the princess of the family. It was she who deserved the Prince Charming husband.
And then I saw what Prince Charming did behind closed doors, and I thanked God every night after that I had taken her place.
Now, lying in Dom’s California king-size bed, I’m completely alone. If he came to the penthouse last night, I didn’t see him. Outside the bedroom window, silver and rust skyscrapers jut out of the ground, piercing a blanket of grey clouds so dense it looks like someone forgot to paint the sky. I’ve been working up the courage all morning to drag myself out of my burrow of warm blankets and search for Dom in his ice chest of a penthouse—seriously, I need to layer up just to get a cup of water—but with no one demanding my presence, sleep eventually sucks me back under until noon.
When I wake up again, I stand in Dom’s closet like I have every day this week and sift through his shirts. He used to give everyone in the family a hug when he’d come over for dinner. The familiar pine and smoke scent of his cologne brings a rush of memories—Serafina and I rolling our eyes at Carlo and Dom arguing over some baseball game, the brief sensation of Dom’s rough fingertips brushing against mine as I passed the salt, heat plunging through me when he stretched long after a big meal, his button-up straining across his broad chest. Of all the men Dad has worked with over the years, Dom’s one of the few I have happy memories with.
I pull a light blue button-up off the hanger and slip it on, rubbing my arms through the thin fabric to keep warm.
Dom didn’t tell me any of his expectations for me when he stopped by the penthouse yesterday, not that I had highhopes after the loathing way he looked at me on our wedding day. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t want a wife, or that I’m too young for him, or he resents being told what to do—it doesn’t matter. We’re married now. If I can convince him I’d be a good wife for him, whatever that might mean, I can prove to him that this marriage can serve us both.
Unless he wants kids? My mouth goes dry.
He’s thirty-eight and never even been married as far as I know. He won’t want that. Probably.
Twisting the hem of his shirt in my fingers, I walk downstairs in search of him.
While Dom’s been over to my parents’ house hundreds of times, we’ve never had dinner at his place, and I’ve always held the idea that it would look something like a medieval tavern. There’d be a big bearskin rug in front of the fireplace with caskets of beer strewn about. Or maybe it’d look like Cousin Tito’s place, with a massive television always tuned to soccer and a single brown recliner in the center of the living room, and an ice chest of beer within arm’s reach.
Instead, I was bewildered to find a long, wide fish tank stocked with ghostly silver angelfish and swarms of tiny glittering fish darting through gently waving green plant fronds. In all the time I’ve known Dom, I’d never heard any mention of him keeping fish, and I’d never seen him reading a book, definitely not any of the elegant-looking Italian classics lining his modest bookcase.
His place is modern and airy, with framed portraits of tall, smiling women, bearded men, and mop-headed children all over the walls and countertops. Pictures of a little boy and girl with dark eyes and wide smiles in soccer uniforms and multiple sets of family Christmas photos are stuck to his refrigerator door with magnets. I didn’t even know he had siblings, and now I’m finding out he getsdressed up as Santa for his family’s Christmas photos. I couldn’t find any photos of his parents, which supports my long-held belief that the only explanation for Dom’s huge appetite is that he was raised in the woods by a pack of wolves.
The inside of his fridge is the only part of his house that makes sense. It’s completely empty, save for a few bottles of condiments and a half-pack of Guinness. When Mom brought me here a few days ago, she took one look at the kitchen, muttered a string of criticisms under her breath, and came back hours later with a full stock of groceries and kitchenware. She wasn’t about to send me off to battle without my weapons.
Without any sign of him, I make my way upstairs to crawl back into Dom’s bed and stare up at the ceiling, spreading my arms and legs like a starfish under the comforter. I haven’t shaved my legs. I haven’t done my makeup. The nail polish on my left pointer finger has a chip in it. I should get back up and fix those things, but if Dom isn’t going to come home anytime soon, what’s the point? No one’s here to see me, and it’s at once as intriguing and terrifying as the bottom of the ocean.
Thanksgiving is in a few days. Mom said she’s going to find someone trustworthy to deliver groceries for me. Once that’s settled, I could take the day and practice cooking all of the dishes Dom loves.
But if he’s just going to walk out through the elevator again, past me in a skimpy outfit and all my delicious food, who am I doing it for?
I thought I had him yesterday. The way his stomach growled said he wanted the food I’d prepared, even if he didn’t wantme. But he’d resisted, and he left. I couldn’t callhim after, even if I’d been brave enough to try, because no one thought to give me his number.
What would Serafina do?
I close my eyes as a tear slides down my cheek, the warmth surprising me. I thought I’d cried out all my tears over the past month, but they still sneak up on me.
I don’t like to imagine what she would do, in this hypothetical situation she’s never been in. I don’t like puppeteering the memory of her for my own comfort. While Rafa and Dad work and Mom and Carlo drink, I’m the one who has to hold her memory perfectly preserved inside me. No one knew her better than I, and no one deserves suffering more than I do.
It’s up to me to hold vigil for her—a fishwife waiting at the docks for a ship that’ll never come.
At least I don’t have to pretend tobeher all the time. Mom already canceled her classes and sent emails to the school, claiming grief on my behalf—not that I’d be able to perform to Serafina’s level. Everyone thought she was just some dumb, pretty girl, but she always got As in her science classes, and she pushed herself hard in ballet. I’m pretty sure Mom canceled everything as much in fear of me getting outed as of me embarrassing her by not doing as well as Serafina.
Church is out of the question, too. Serafina was a good, pious girl who went every Sunday. They’d recognize me in a heartbeat. The safest thing while we’re uncertain if there’s still a hit out for me is to stay in Dom’s penthouse unless there’s an emergency. Mom, especially, was serious about it, like I’d want to sneak out to go socializing around Chicago while pretending to be my sister.
I lie in bed for hours, watching the hue of light change from cool to warm on the ceiling and rubbing the smoothcotton of Dom’s bedsheets between my fingers. He must’ve changed out his sheets before he went on his camping trip, because his bed smells like fresh laundry and only faintly of him.
When my stomach starts gnawing on itself, I wait another hour and finally push myself out of bed. I pull my hair back into a ratty bun on the top of my head—I can’t remember the last time I haven’t spent at least half an hour styling it—and head downstairs. I pull the cold leftover focaccia out of the fridge, pick off the anchovies—I have no idea how Dom can tolerate extras of the salty little fish—and eat half. I drag the single, grey blanket off the couch and sit on the rug in the living room to watch doll-sized cars and people drifting through the streets far below.
Dom came home last night.
After crawling back into bed, overcome with exhaustion even though I did nothing all day—a lovely side-effect of grief, or so I’ve learned—I still couldn’t sleep. I lay under the blankets with my fingers interlaced across my belly and listened to the whispering sounds of his arrival in the guest room next to mine.
