Window of Opportunity

The crack in the window looked like a wobbly x. It was in that old bleary glass that would be a problem to replace. And the framing was old. She hadn’t broken it, but she would be the one to get it fixed, calling the local guy to fix it, the one who knew these antique houses.

Her husband had broken it. She could only imagine he was swatting at the fly like his life depended on it as it danced at the window confused as to why it couldn’t get out. Greens and ham hocks had been simmering. Her mother had always said that the smell of greens cooking on the stove drew flies. The back and forth of the screen door must have let it in. He had always been a little heavy handed, especially when he was excited or mad.

The kitchen had become steamy, smelling of kale and cooked onions. Crabakes had been fried, but the grease sat and mingled. Remnants of the boiled egg, celery and green peppers for the potato salad were trying to dominate. Whiffs of cornbread floated from the oven. The dish of pickled cucumber slices cut through. Teabags were cooling in the saucepan ready for the sweet water. After the room cooled she was going to finish off the cake with the chocolate that was melting on the stove. How anything could cool once this kitchen got heated was folly, but she was going to step away to change into crisp clothes.

He knew she liked to clean the dishes as she used them. ‘Clean as you go,’ was the motto, but she was a little off today and the sink was overflowing with used utensils. He could help. Nope, his heavy handedness, though tempered, would get the best of him. Clanging pots and clattering dishes would not do him any good.

He had calmed himself on the squeaky glider in the shade of the back porch awning with his bourbon in hand. He was trying to unmad himself over the window and his misdirected anger toward the fly. Had to finish his drink before he began to work on his attitude, though. That’s how it usually worked. By the end of the swallows of bourbon he would be willing to give it all some thought.

Why had she asked that? Bringing up old news. It was just a question, apparently one that had been bothering her, but she didn’t have to ask. Who asks that sort of thing? God, he was mad all over again. Another drink wouldn’t help. No, that would not do. He’d be humming into his greens as he chewed his supper and they would be talking louder to tune him out.

The aroma of the chocolate let him know that she was close to the end of her preparations. Mother and Sister would be here soon and he would be mellow enough to stomach them as he ate his Sunday meal. 

She was putting it on thick today with the homemade cake and cooked icing, ice cream in the freezer. No point in another drink, the after dinner sugar would sober him up anyway.

The cracked window caught his eye, drawing him back to the abated anger. There was nothing he could do but summon courage and tell the truth. What kind of truth though? The harsh reality or the ‘what had happened was’ version? He could blame it on somebody or cloak it as if someone else’s shenanigans that led him to it. It was old news that he had avoided giving words to, shut it down so that he almost forgot about it. But she brought it up and there it was, here they were.

Maybe he would slip away and buy flowers, red ones. No, passion was not what he needed to go for. Wildflowers? No, he didn't want to convey wildness. Calm pinks and yellows with pale whites and greens. If he weren’t so mellow right now he would get his ass to the grocery store and make it back in time. Flowers in a vase to greet the Mother and Sister would show her. Right. It would backfire and disclose he was apologizing for something.

He was sunk. No way to get around it. With the help of the afternoon breeze he napped through the before dinner chit-chat. He was glad he had the foresight to set the table earlier. He had ignored her preference for a formal place setting and went with the basic napkin, fork, knife, spoon, plate, tea glass. Swapping out the bourbon for sweet tea during dinner, he patiently remained jovial, responding to the prattle directed his way. He tried not to gobble the dessert. Offered after dinner drinks, took one himself since no one seemed to mind. Napped through the continuous conversation and good-byes and woke as they were actually moving past him, down the porch steps. 

Without a squeak or a sigh, she took the rocker next to him. They sat quietly for so long his guilt outweighed his desire for another drink. He almost opened his mouth with the harsh truth when she touched him with a finger, ran it over the back of his hand. He was speechless, dumbstruck more like. His mouth was opening and closing, he could almost hear himself almost talking. She was not going to get away with the calm, gentle, silent treatment. Dammit, he had something to say!

His heart pushed, “Well, go on, say it.” He smiled at the touch, then chuckled. She moved to hold his hand, interlocking their fingers. A heavy sigh. Was that him or was it her? He thought it was him, but maybe not. He was sleepy, but not sleepy enough to forget the evening bugs would soon be nipping about, so he stood, lifted her hand, waited for her to stand and be led in. 

They sat at the cafe table by the kitchen window, the stove light did little to  illumine them. The crack in the window hovered, prism like. In a ‘what had happened was’ tone that would set the tone, he began his truth.