Page 22

Story: Lookin’ for Love

twenty-one f

New Life?

T he only thing “new” about our house was us. Built in the early 1800s, the stone cottage sat across from the Delaware River on the road leading from Yardley to Washington’s Crossing State Park. I’m sure passersby thought the house was “charming.” To me, it was anything but charming.

Mouse droppings, cobwebs, and dead horseflies told me who’d been inhabiting the place for the last twenty years. Was sending us here Helen’s perverted punishment for me not living up to her expectations?

It didn’t take a genius to detect the disappointment on my face. Jack brushed a stray cobweb from my hair and hugged me.

“Hey, it’s not that bad. A little soap and water, and it’ll be home sweet home.”

“You’re okay living like this?”

“Have a little faith, Ava.”

“I left my faith back in New Jersey. Come on, let’s get this place cleaned up before we bring our stuff in.”

“Okay, but first—” Jack pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit up. “Welcome to your new home, Mrs. Novak.”

Mentally, I added one more check mark to my never-ending list of bad decisions.

We spent two nights at a local motel while we, or rather I, scrubbed, dusted, and washed windows. Jack drove to the nearest phone booth to tell his buddies where he’d be conducting business.

I was grateful for the time alone and the mind-numbing work. It took me away from the mess I’d made of my life. To my surprise, once all traces of the insect world were gone, I fell in love with the wide plank floors, the wavy glass windowpanes, and the rustic setting. I chose to ignore the dingy wallpaper, the metal tub, farm sink, and the lack of water pressure. Instead, I reflected on stories the walls could tell—stories of love, tragedy, birth, and death. Our story would now be added to the anthology.

As the days turned cool, we snuggled in front of the living room fireplace. I hated to leave the comfort of home for the club scene in Trenton, but we needed money. Jack made a few dollars selling pot and had done nothing to find a real job.

“Deer season opens in a week. If I snag a deer, we’ll eat for a year. I’ll look for a job after that,” he promised.

The last thing I wanted to be was a nagging wife, so I kept quiet. Instead, I took him to the nearest sporting goods store and bought him a new rifle, waterproof camo jacket, and plenty of thermal underwear to keep him warm while he stalked his prey. I worried about him handling a gun when he was high, but he assured me he knew what he was doing.

The season hadn’t yet ended when Jack burst into the house. “I got me a deer. Told you I’d do it!”

He grabbed me and danced me around the kitchen. “Hope you like deer meat.”

I’d eaten deer once as a child and remembered it as tough and sinewy.

“Sure,” I lied. “Where is it?”

“I’m getting it butchered. And you know what the best is? I’m getting the head mounted! We can hang it over the fireplace.”

You expect me to sit here staring at a dead deer?

“Doesn’t that cost a lot?” I asked.

“I was thinking maybe you could give it to me for Christmas.”

What have I gotten myself into?

On Christmas morning I called North Carolina to wish Tommy and Lee a Merry Christmas. They thanked me for the gifts I sent, but their words were cool and detached. Day by day, year by year, I sensed the distance between us growing.

I had nothing left to do but help Jack hang the deer head above the fireplace.

Normal people would hang a family portrait. We’ve got a dead deer.

I turned my attention to the pot of chili I’d made for a late-day holiday party. Jack provided the grass. Our friends brought the cocaine. It was after three in the morning before everyone left. I whispered a good night to our deer head and fell into bed.