“The Emergency” by Karen Moulding
--page 4

         It was what the pamphlets called an Al-Anon “slip.” I knew I was supposed to apologize, but I couldn’t figure out how. In bed that night he laid flat on his back, as if zoning out, staring into space during the day like a zombie, wasn’t enough; he had to assume the position of a mummy at night as well. I turned on my side and clutched the comforter at my chest, careful not to touch his body with mine. And I didn’t have the courage to speak.
         In the morning, when he awoke first, I didn’t feign sleep as I’d been doing the past days. I got up, but couldn’t meet his eye when we bumped elbows getting clothes from the dresser, when he squeezed by me in the kitchen to go pee, and then I squeezed by him to brush my teeth. I almost said it when he was making coffee. But somehow I knew, bringing it up at all would start the game again. He’d blame me for the case, and (rightfully) for my meddling, and it would take his attention off of himself, again cast me as the scapegoat, and that would be no good for either of us.
         When his coat was on and he’d opened the door, on his way to tutor, I said to his back, “I hope you have a good day and I love you.” Then I darted quickly into the bedroom.
         I tore a piece of paper from my Latin notebook before I put it in my pack for class. “Eugene,” I wrote. “I’m sorry for trying to alarm you about Courtney yesterday. And I’m sorry I called her to meddle. It was wrong of me. I apologize. Love, Grace.”
         I left it on the kitchen counter, put on my parka and gloves, and then ran down the stairs, to be sure I wouldn’t be late for Latin.

~

         On Wednesday morning I stepped into the kitchen, naked, still rubbing my eyes, as Eugene was filling the kettle at the kitchen sink. He turned off the faucet when he saw me, put the kettle on the stove. “Morning,” he said, just as I stepped behind him on my way to pee.
         And even with all that had just happened, I wanted to say, “We could get Courtney today. I’ll bet Marion will let us have an extra day or two since you missed your week.”
         But I didn’t.
         “Thanks for making coffee,” I said, then slid into the bathroom.
         As I had yesterday after Latin, I went to the library first, not stopping in the U.C., and I opened the Al-Anon pamphlets. I read them over and over, underlining parts I knew I needed. “Learned not to do for another what he could... We learned not to nag, belittle or scold...” Then I worked on my thesis, until, again, I could see my reflection in the night-backed window glass.
         Thursday, Eugene stepped out of the bathroom just as I was heading down the stairs. As if on cue, before I knew, and I think before he knew, it would happen, he leaned down, and I stretched up, and our mouths came together for a quick peck. Then his forehead wrinkled, and he turned toward the kitchen, and I blushed and continued down the stairs.

~

         I could tell he wanted me to ask, on Friday morning, if we’d be getting Courtney from school for his week. It was the switch-off day again.
         “Have a good day in the library,” he said, even though I was only half-way dressed, pulling my jeans up over my tights. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”
         I forced myself not to answer, not to ask, not to accept this transparent invitation to fight about it, to deflect us both from knowing that this was his decision, not mine.
         “You have a good day too,” I said, when I was dressed and in the kitchen. And somehow in saying it, I felt it. “The library closes at nine on Fridays. I’ll see you then.”
         His jaw dropped. And I left.

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