The River

The river is blue-black, the color of ink, and it reminds him of the calligraphy kit he bought for her last Christmas. She was an artist, of sorts, always trying this or that, anything that had to do with being creative. He'd never taken much interest in what she was working on, other than to supply the tools she needed or offer his opinion about one color versus another (but only when she asked, and always after much deliberation).

The art was her thing, and he felt like a bull in a china shop whenever confronted with her latest project. The paintings and clay pots and macramé were so outside of his realm that he was at a loss for words whenever he encountered one of her finished pieces. They began to appear everywhere throughout the house: on the bookshelves by the fireplace, on the mantel, on the bedside table. Her crocheting phase had been especially productive, and now there was a cozy for just about everything: tissue boxes, the toaster, the spare roll of paper on the back of the commode.

His eyes scan the banks of the river, grey-brown like a chocolate bar outside of its wrapper. The mud appears thick and uneven, dotted with rugged rocks and bits of bark and twigs. Overhanging trees have dropped brown, gold and orange leaves and the collection of colors and textures reminds him of one of her collages, when she was experimenting with mixed-media, the name of which he could never remember before. Now it comes easily, and he wonders why.

The tire tracks are gone. Filled in with mud and grit during the last heavy rain, just days ago. Sheriff Jackson warned him not to walk the river bank alone; men were known to get their boots so mired in the mud it took hours to extract them. So he doesn't get close to the water. He stands up the hill, where the grass is tall and green and rustles his pants legs with each breeze that blows. Here he can see the path she took, the place where grass lays flat and crushed, like its spirit has been broken.

With a deep sigh, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his corduroys. The water isn't as high as he expects, though he isn't sure what he expects anymore. From the roadway, where he had stood a week ago, watching firemen and Sheriff's deputies milling about, the ambulance parked a few yards off, lights and sirens silent, the water was more intimidating. But up close, the current doesn't seem as swift or the water as deep as he has imagined. It is almost serene, and he can see how inviting it would have been to an artist like her.

There was a painting of the river in their bedroom. Last spring she had taken an easel and her paints and had gone down to the water for several days in a row, returning in the evening with flushed cheeks and muddy shoes. She spoke of what she'd seen, how she hoped to capture it on the canvas, to tell the real story of the river. Her tone had been almost reverent, as he imagined Michelangelo had spoken of the Sistine Chapel. Had the water first called to her then?

He shifts his feet and bows his shoulders, bracing against the autumn chill. A few more weeks and the river will start to freeze, the banks clogging with flotsam as ice forces it from the water. Her timing had been right, he supposes, a chill racing through his body. The car never would have made it over the banks if she had waited much longer. He looks hard at the water, trying to picture the place she had gone in, the small compact car nearly disappearing below the surface.

He is grateful for the small things: her art, which is everywhere. The fisherman who saw everything and called 911. Sheriff Jackson, coming personally to pick him up from the shop. The church ladies and their endless casseroles and plates of roast turkey and baked ham. The neighbors who picked up his papers and mail while he tended to the unimaginable details. The letter, the short, sweet letter she had left in the top dresser of his bureau.

He wants to argue with her: Why didn't you tell me about your pain? Why did you have to be so damn kind and spare me the burden of your heartbreak? Why did you tell me it was okay that things happened as they did? I could have helped. I could have done more. I could have saved you. Instead, he just bends and picks up a rock, a hefty grey stone with smooth edges and an uneven surface that reminds him of the face of the moon.

Taking a few steps forward, he winds up and throws the rock toward the river. It pierces the blue-black surface with a satisfying splash, and he watches the ripples until they fade, carried downstream by a current as steady and strong as a beating heart.

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