Day 80
The apartment was silent when Caitlyn let herself in.
This was to be expected; it was lunch time, and Jon preferred not to waste gas coming home during his break. Caitlyn had herself just gotten out of class. She had walked the familiar paths feeling like an intruder; it had been an effort to keep herself from skulking. From shuttered windows she felt accusing eyes burning her skin. Or was it her own guilt she felt?
For the most part, the place was as she'd left it; certainly Jon hadn't changed the locks or anything, or else she wouldn't've been able to get back in. Everything was a little dustier and dirtier, but she supposed that was to be expected. Her harps had not been touched, which didn't surprise her; Jon was about as knowledgeable about harps as Stephen Hawking. There were dishes drying on the dishrack—ugh, why did he always insist on having the glasses in
front
? Some nonsense about how they went into the cabinet first. The fridge contained nothing but a half-eaten box of pizza. There was a blanket and pillow on that terrible hammock-couch: why had he been sleeping out here? There was a perfectly good bed in the bedroom; she should know, she had slept in it for most of her life. Why had he stayed out here? Without really understanding how she got there, she found herself stretched out on the couch, her head where his head would be, her feet (near) where his feet would be. Yes, it was just as uncomfortable as she remembered.
The pillow smelled like his hair.
Suddenly she had to concentrate hard to keep her composure. She sat up again, forcing herself to be still.
Come on, girl. It's just... It's nothing. It's nothing. You'll get over him. He'll be a memory.
In theory, she had a letter she was going to put on the counter, where he would see it; in theory, she would leave that and then get out. Now she didn't want to move. She had bought this blanket for Jon, for no other reason than that he'd mentioned he wanted a fuzzy blanket. It was the color of steel wool and surprisingly soft to the touch. Everything here had some memory, some significance. This was the coffee table they'd seen for sale on a sidewalk—it was a sheet of pure glass balanced on gilded stilts—and that they'd haggled over for a good-natured half-hour, and then had to figure out how to wrestle home with only the space in Jon's Celica at their disposal. Those were her harps; no need to mention what they meant to her. And if she looked, she could still find the faint blotch they had left making love on New Year's Eve, which no amount of scrubbing could remove. It was subtle enough that no one had yet noticed it, but it was there.
How could she leave here? This was her home. But how could she stay? Her memories with Jon were what made it special; but was there room in her life for him anymore? More pertinently, was there room in
his
life for
her
—and all the values she brought with her?
I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do.
Sound sent her jumping out of her introspection. It was the familiar grate, click, snap of a key opening the deadbolt. But it was 12:43 PM, and Jon was at work; who the heck else would have a key? Was she about to meet a paramour of his? Had someone stolen his keys? Would—
Jon Stanford walked through the door.
For a moment there was dead silence as they stared at each other.
Jon could feel his heart thundering. He had not slept well since the day she left and to his tired eyes she was the most beautiful thing in the world. He wondered for a moment if he were hallucinating. The curve of her cheek; the dark innocence of her eyes; the flow of her hair—he felt like a man dying of thirst, finally given the water of life.
Why on earth had he decided to come home for lunch today? What bizarre instinct or prescience had prompted this?
"Uh... I..." she said. "I wasn't... I was just coming in to... To get some things."
"...Oh," said Jon. He wanted to ask why she was sitting wrapped in his blanket, but he didn't trust his voice at the moment.
"I didn't think you'd..."
"I, umm. I. I could go back."
This sounded lame even to his own ears; the awkwardness of it cost them another minute of fumbled silence.
"I guess... Next time I should, umm, call, or—"
"No, no, it's, it's, um. It's fine. I mean, you live here too. I wouldn't..."
He saw her expression sadden: after all, she
didn't
live here anymore. He wished he knew what to say to her. Wrapped in the blanket, pale against the dark grey of the winter clouds, there was a haunting vulnerability on her face, in her posture; she had never looked more beautiful to him. He wanted to go to her and draw her into the circle of his arms. He
wanted
her to live here again... But would she?
As he watched, Caitlyn visibly pulled herself together. "Umm. Thank you for the backpack, by the way. It's made life... A lot easier."
Jon shrugged. "It wasn't my idea. When Meredith and the others came..."
"You could've withheld it."
"What would be the point in that?" he said. Petty revenge was an empty pleasure to him.
"Umm, well then. I... mostly came about the harps," she said. "They... Because we were forced to buy them from my parents, and did so with money from a joint account, there is a sticky legal question about the ownership. We need to decide... About them, and also the money in the account."
"You can have them back," he said. "And we'll split the funds." The harps were worth nothing to him; there was nothing he could do with them. And having them gone would be another reminder he didn't have to deal with. "I don't... I'm not in the business of causing problems for you, Caitlyn."
"Okay," she said. He was wearing the black dress shirt she had always liked, with the wide pointed collars; it brought out the coloring in his eyes and hair, the breadth of his shoulders, strength of his jaw. Everyone looked good in black, but she had always thought he wore it better than most. Certainly better than that that fop Aidan. She never wanted to look away; she clung to the sight of him like a drowning woman. "I'm not going to take your salary from you, Jon. Whatever you've earned since we moved in together, you get to keep. If you could assemble—"
"It doesn't matter to me," he said. "I won't... I'll probably give up the apartment. It's too empty with... with one person. And why waste money on this when I could, you know, move home and... It doesn't matter to me. You'll need the money more than I will, you have to move out on your own now." It was that darned nobility of his, the one which could almost make her believe that chivalry had not died. It was one of the things about him she loved best.
"I... I'm not... I'm not moving out, Jon," she said.
She could see his face fall, and she realized he must think she had returned willingly to her parents. Which of course was true, but her parents had changed now. So had she. He thought she was willingly jailing herself again, when nothing could be further from the truth.
But what was the point of saying it? It didn't matter; not anymore.
"Well," he said. "Still. We'll split it half and half."
"No, that's not fair to—"
"It
doesn't matter
," he snapped. "Caitlyn, the money... doesn't matter."
Suddenly she understood: for him, the money was all about her. He didn't earn it because he needed it, which was completely accurate; she'd rarely known anyone as frugal, as content within himself. He earned it to support her—her, and all she represented. Would he quit his job after this? She hoped not: the thought of him lolling aimlessly around his parents' house filled her with sadness. Let him keep some direction, some momentum in his life. Let him find some meaning. Now that the only meaning that mattered to him had been stripped away.
"Jon, the money doesn't matter to me either," she said. After all, she felt the same way: under her parents, her needs were fulfilled. Money was a tool to buy a future with... And now that she had none, what good was it?
Jon jerked his head. "Well, fine, then, we'll give the whole darn thing to the poor. Fuck. Why's it always have to be such a battle with you?"
Because I don't want you to be alone,
she thought.
Because I don't want to have taken everything from you. I have to leave you something. I love you. I have to leave you something.
"Do you... Do you really mean it?"
"Mean what?" He felt instantly contrite. What a thoughtless thing to say—why hadn't he been watching his tongue? This was no longer the sort of relationship where he could just blurt out whatever was on his mind. Not anymore it wasn't.
"About... Giving to the poor?"
Jon tossed a hand. "Well, if
we
can't use it, we might as well give it to someone who can." Wasn't it Thoreau who had said, 'Simplify, simplify'? Surely this counted.
"That's... That's a very Christian thing to do," Caitlyn said. Her large eyes seemed to draw at him.
