I asked Reba how Walt was doing. I never saw him anymore, not since the two of them became a couple. I was philosophical. I had lost a friend and gained a… Actually, I lost two friends.
Everyone was happy but me. “He’s fine,” Reba laughed into the phone. “He was just over here.”
“He’s always just over there.”
“I know. We went to the museum today. To get out of the apartment. It was wonderful. But the masks get to be too much. We had to come home and take them off.”
I’ll bet you did.
“Anyway, Valentine’s Day is this weekend, and I want you to talk with him.”
“With Walt? About what?”
“Talk some sense into him. He thinks we should get married.”
“He asked you?”
“No. But it’s coming. Women know these things, and I can tell it’s on his mind.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It’s terrible!” Reba cried. “Artists can’t get married. You know what Faulkner said?”
“What did Faulkner say?”
“The artist must be absolutely ruthless with those they love. You can judge them by their ruthlessness.”
“I’ll talk to Walt.”
I had to trick him first. When he’s not with Reba, he’s working. He owns a sign shop and business is excellent. Every business needs a Covid sign, every building, every office, everywhere. The machines for sign making require a feeder and a catcher. But workers often don’t show up. Then Walt has to feed a sheet into one end and run to the other. And I mean run. All this while answering a phone. He doesn’t do two jobs. He does five or six.
“I’m bringing lattes,” I told him. I could hear the whir of an embossing machine.
“Sorry, buddy. Gotta work.”
“I already bought them.”
“Well, I guess I got a few minutes.” He hung up.
I raced to Starbucks.
We sat in Walt’s cluttered office. I had to find a place for my cup. He grabbed a catalog and threw it on the floor. “There,” he said. Walt has fuzzy black hair. He is balding on top, and it sticks out on the sides. He’s short with bushy eyebrows, a bushy moustache, wide shoulders, a deep chest, with hair growing out of him everywhere. Reba thinks he’s gorgeous.
I cut to the chase. “How do you like your latte?”
“It’s good. Thanks.”
“Making money?”
“Hope so. I’m spending it.”
“Got any plans for Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes. But there’s a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I think Reba wants to get married.”
Lord, I thought, in a most prayerful way. How do I get myself into these things?
“She also wants a baby,” he said, then paused. “In some ways it seems easier.”
“In some ways it is.”
“I’m not against marriage. But what’s love? How does anyone know?”
Walt was right. People threw the word love around like confetti. I knew someone who talked all the time about how much he loved his wife. He loved her dearly. She worked two jobs, then cleaned the house, while he sat around reading old issues of Smithsonian Magazine. I’d love her too.
“Maybe I’m not the best person to ask,” I told him.
“You’re unhappy?” He looked at me, concerned.
“It’s just that I have a different take on the term, maybe.”
“You have a different take on everything.”
He must have seen something in my face.
“What is it, Mack?”
“Well…” I tried to explain. When I first got married, I really didn’t know my wife. And then she got pregnant right away. We lived in a tiny apartment, I struggled with work, and there was tension. I didn’t know her. I only knew her pregnant.
Then we had another right away. Surprise, surprise. I worked all the time. Finally, when the boys were older, we had a little time to ourselves. Not much. I began to understand my wife’s rhythms, her moods. After ten years we were able to take a vacation, just the two of us. I think that’s when I really felt this powerful thing. What the Hallmark cards are always talking about. It had been there the whole time. I just didn’t know it.
I thought it was a nice story. Walt, not so much. “Mack, I haven’t got ten years!”
Actually, he did.
“I can’t give you advice,” I said. “But if I could, I’d say talk it over. You and Reba may agree more than you think. I wish I had that talk with my wife, before we got married.”
“You do?”
I was smiling, thinking of something else.
“No.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com