Ghouljaw and Other Stories by Clint Smith Page A

about calling Uncle Jasper. He might know what to do. I still might call him, but right now I need to clean up the mess around here. I thought about leaving this document for him. Maybe if he finds it (and can’t find me) he could clean it up a little bit, turn it into something that makes more sense to someone who reads it.
    I’ve locked the door to the bedroom upstairs. The sounds are the worst in there. I have no doubt they’re in the mattress. But before I do anything else, there’s one more chore I have to accomplish. One more promise to keep. After I write this I’m going out to the cemetery. Do me a favor. If you happen to drive by the cemetery, check in on Julie’s grave. If there’s a cluster of fresh flowers in front of her tombstone, then everything’s okay. If not, and you’re reading this, then something’s happened here. And I probably deserve it.

Retrograde

    As the weatherman on the eleven o’clock news begins delivering his forecast, Wayne Webber, stretched out on his side in bed, stares at the television and contemplates two things—one: how magnificent and unpredictable sex with Bridgette used to be; and two: how fortunate and grateful he is that his wife, Nancy, never discovered his indiscretion. Indiscretions —the plural, he corrects himself, opting to inculpate himself for each illicit instance rather than the affair in its brief entirety.
    Wayne vacantly listens to her now, Nancy, in the bathroom getting ready for bed—the steady hiss of running water hypnotically braiding itself with noise from the television. According to the cheery meteorologist, a low-pressure system has stalled out and is circulating over the region, the cold front’s retrogressive condition will apparently trigger a week-long stretch of rain. Thinking his wife might like to know, Wayne says, “It doesn’t sound like you’ll—”
    “It doesn’t sound like I’ll have to water the plants for the next few days,” says Nancy, her toneless, almost vacant voice reverberating inside the white-tiled walls of the bathroom. Wayne shuts his mouth, the side of his face remains nestled the pillow’s cushy indentation. She’d been doing that a lot lately—cutting him off, interrupting him mid-thought to unapologetically complete his sentences. Synchronistic things like that, Wayne reminds himself, should be a noble inevitability after over twenty years together. Which one was it?—familiarity or proximity that bred contempt? Wayne couldn’t recall, but acknowledged the bygone sentiment.
    Wayne hears Nancy turn off the running water and waits for the predictable pill-rattle of her medication as she shakes it from the bottle. Then comes the brief, closing squeak of the mirrored medicine cabinet.
    There’s a lengthy, perhaps thoughtful, stretch of silence before the rectangle of light from the bathroom door is extinguished with a snap, and save for the mercury coruscation from the television, the room is dark now.
    The bed frame creaks as Nancy crawls in next to Wayne, mattress springs yawning as the slim figure slides in toward her husband. Wayne doesn’t budge and continues facing the TV as Nancy slips her fingers into his gray-threaded hair, her slender fingers massaging his scalp. He feels her breath on the nape of his neck, the gentle pressure of her breasts against his upper back. Nancy places her lips next to his whisker-stubbled cheek and whispers, “I love you, sweetheart.” Wayne closes his eyes, ignoring the forecast, wondering if they might try tonight—wondering if she might summon the inspiration to instigate physical affection toward him—wondering if she might reach over his shoulder, her hand moving across his chest, down his sternum, her lithe fingers finding him, slowly stroking him.
    On nights like this Wayne sometimes wonders how different things might have been—how different their marriage might have been—if Nancy had just maintained this sort of sensuality. And though part of him