But the bridge would be there waiting for him, its arms outstretched. He didn’t need to make an appointment. He’d chosen today for a specific reason, but later would work, too, or tomorrow. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He wanted it to. He wanted everything to matter, but nothing did. Grief had swung open a door in his heart he hadn’t known was there, and it’d slammed closed behind him. He’d been on the other side for three years. Too long. Locked away, unable to escape, tackled and held down by the darkness that wouldn’t let him go. Jumping from the bridge meant a chance to soar before the free fall. As he climbed over the railing, he’d been cold, wet, and alone; Tallie had shown up warm. And it was Tallie who got an eggplant from the fridge and pulled a handful of campari tomatoes from a box on the counter.
(A green cruet of olive oil, a tall brown, pepper grinder, a white ceramic saltcellar labeled SEL in raised capital letters. Dark and light wooden spoons in a fat mason jar. A viney plant hanging from a hook in the ceiling. There is a small dent in the floor, front of the sink—a tiny divot a hallux can dip into.)
“Everyone likes pasta, right? It’s comforting,” she said.
“I do like pasta.”
“So you want to chop?”
“I’m a strange man in your kitchen, and you want me to take the knife?” he asked. He couldn’t not ask. What was happening?
“I’ve been reading your vibes ever since I stopped my car, and I can’t convince myself completely that you have violent energy. I’ve been trying to feel it, but I can’t. I tried to force myself to feel it, but I can’t. You seem like a kitten to me, honestly,” she said.
Christine had told him that before. Not the kitten part—he wasn’t sure how he felt about that—but she’d said he was a gentle spirit. And he’d assumed she was disappointed in him because of it. A dark macho signal he wasn’t giving off but should’ve. Like he was some sort of phenomenon the weather radar couldn’t pick up, leaving her flummoxed. Remarks like that felt like criticisms coming from women, but Tallie’s hippie comment about vibes intrigued him.
“Reading my vibes?” he asked.
She pointed to the knife, and he picked it up, began slicing the onion as she filled a big pot with water and salted it before going into the cabinet for a box of rigatoni.
“It’s a gift I have. People with violent energy give off this kind of dark green smoke. It tastes bitter. I can tell. And your jacket, your backpack…they’re dark green, but they don’t match your energy. Your energy is like…a lilac puff,” she said, standing like a flamingo, leaning against the counter in her kitchen.
“And this energy radar’s so strong…you feel comfortable giving a suicidal man a knife.”
“Apparently so.”
They were quiet, looking at each other. His eyes began burning from the onions. She got a tea light from the drawer, lit it for him, put it down.
(A wide drawer full of tea lights and pens, pencils, a spool of gold thread with a needle poking from the top of it, a roll of masking tape, a tape measure, a deck of cards, a neat stack of bright Post-its. Her countertops: pale bamboo. In the corner, up against the fog-colored backsplash: a small crystal bowl of change and a pair of yellow earrings, two closed safety pins.)
“It’s unscented. It’ll help your eyes. Technically, we were supposed to light it before you started chopping, but what the hell,” she said and laughed.
“It definitely sets a mood,” Emmett said. He glanced at the flame, kept chopping.
“I’ll count it as a win!”
“So…a lilac puff,” he said and nodded.
“No denying it,” she said.
“What color is your ex-husband’s energy?”
“Slut red.”
“Slut red,” he repeated.
He’d say he wanted to go for a walk after dinner to clear his head. He could go to the bridge, jump at night. Much less of a chance some person who could read energy colors would see him and try to stop him. His last meal: rigatoni alla Norma. He slid the onions to one side of the cutting board and rinsed the eggplant under the running sink water. Chopped.
“You’re good with the knife,” she said. “I’ve never chopped an onion that quickly and perfectly in my life.”
“Do you mind if I have a glass of wine?” he asked.
“Well…you probably shouldn’t, since you weren’t feeling so well earlier.”
“Thanks for the concern. I really do appreciate it. I think it’ll help relax me, honestly.”
“Have you ever had a problem with alcohol? I’m sorry, but I feel like I should ask.”
“I understand. And no, I haven’t. I promise.”
“Maybe we could have just a little,” she said, getting out a bottle of red.
“How long were you married?” he asked.
“Almost ten and a half years.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Almost a year,” she said.
Emmett thanked her as she poured two glasses and set his in front of him. She went over to the cabinet by the stove, pulled out a big pan, and turned the burner on next to the pasta water. He kept chopping as she added a glug of olive oil to the pan. He paused, drank some wine. He never drank wine anymore; it silked down his throat like a ribbon.
“Did you and your ex-husband live in this house together?” he asked.
“Yes. But it’s mine. I lived here alone before. He moved in when we got married…and then he moved out.”
“Simple enough,” he said.
“I should probably salt the eggplant to make sure it’s not bitter,” she said.
“We don’t need it. Rarely is an eggplant bitter enough to need salting.”
“Settled. I’ll take your word for it.”
“Do you like living alone? You don’t get scared?” he asked as he finished chopping.
(A knife block by the stove. One wide white-curtained window in her kitchen, another on the door leading to the deck. The back light comes through. Large arch-top window in the living room, the streetlamp light comes through.)
The olive oil pan was hot, waiting. He went to it, used the knife to slip the eggplant cubes and onions into it. They bubbled. Sizzled.
“Okay, now tomatoes,” she said, holding out her hand for the knife. He turned the handle so it was facing her, handed it over slowly. “I have a gun. And a security system,” she added.
“And these two ferocious attack cats,” he said, looking down at them winding their way between his legs. He was careful not to move too much, didn’t want to spook them. He leaned against the counter drinking his wine.
When his eyes met Tallie’s, he was thinking he could still be dead by morning if he wanted. Could she tell?
It’d be easy.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Exactly,” she said. She began chopping the tomatoes as he tended the stove. He turned up the burner on the water, added a lot more sea salt, covered it with the lid.
“It’s good for a woman to have a gun,” he said. “Now I have to ask. Do you have violent energy? Can you read your own? I don’t know how it works.”
“You’d have to check with my ex-husband about that one,” she said.