Spider Web by Earlene Fowler

happened last night affected him at all.
    “I’m meeting Isaac at the folk art museum today,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table and picking up a glass of orange juice.
    “About his book?” he said, not turning around.
    “Yes, and I still need your interview.” We didn’t discuss what had happened last night. I learned early in our marriage how defensive Gabe was about his nightmares, how much they embarrassed him. His strategy? Pretend they never happen. If I brought it up, he’d change the subject or just walk away.
    He poured oatmeal into two ceramic bowls. “What’s the subject again?”
    “Home. What it means to you. Where you feel at home. Just whatever you want to say about home.”
    He set the coffeepot on a wooden hot pad between us. “Do I have to write it down?” His expression was pained, like a schoolboy being told he had a report due on a book he didn’t want to read.
    I sipped my orange juice. “No, I’ll ask the questions and write it down. It will be easy. Then Isaac wants to take your photo. He’s trying to get a variety of San Celina citizens.”
    “We’ll see,” Gabe said, sitting across from me.
    I kept sneaking glances when he bent his head to read the newspaper, wishing I could offer comfort, some words to make him feel better. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. “Are you okay?”
    He looked up from the paper, gazing at me from over his gold wirerimmed reading glasses. “I’m fine. Why?”
    Was he serious? I twirled my spoon in my oatmeal, my appetite gone.
    “Who’s Carlos?”
    His expression froze. The clink of my spoon against the side of my bowl seemed magnified in the quiet kitchen. I had broken our unspoken rule—never ask about Vietnam.
    “Guy in ’Nam,” he said.
    “A friend... ?”
    “He was killed.”
    “Do you . . .”
    “I apologize for last night.” He folded the paper and set it next to his plate. “It won’t happen again.”
    “It’s okay,” I said, instinctively touching the tender spot on my chest. He couldn’t guarantee that, but saying so would be pointless. “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight, or do you want me to cook?”
    He looked down at the newspaper. The headline proclaimed “Sniper Attacks Police Cruiser!”
    “A little dramatic,” I said, pointing to the paper. Right now, even talking about the sniper seemed less of a minefield than his bad dreams.
    Gabe shrugged. “I’m not sure what my schedule is today. Everything is blown to heck with this sniper out there.”
    “How about I call you at work later? I don’t know how much running around I’ll be doing with Isaac, so I might not have time to cook.”
    “That’s fine.” He stood up, slipped on his suit jacket.
    I went to him, straightened the already perfect Windsor knot of his black and gray diamond necktie. Did he realize that he telegraphed his emotions in his tie choice? No color today, as if any hint of color or brightness might reveal his uneven emotions. “You are unarguably the most handsome man in San Celina.”
    “Tiny pond,” he said, not cracking a smile.
    “You’d be the handsomest man even if we lived in New York City.” He brushed a kiss across my lips. “Te amo.” He held my gaze, his pupils like smooth black stones in an icy ocean. “Thank you.” He seemed to swallow the word. The shame in his eyes shredded my heart.
    I touched his cool cheek. “ De nada , Chief.”
    After taking Scout for a walk, I headed for work. Isaac’s red Subaru Outback station wagon was already in the museum parking lot. I found him in the co-op charming the artists who’d come in early to finish pieces they would sell at the festival this weekend.
    “Hey, Pops,” I said, stretching up to give him a hug. He stood six foot four without his hiking boots and smelled clean and fresh, like just-cut alfalfa. His long cotton-ball-colored braid rivaled Dove’s in length, reaching past his waist. “Did you take your photos of the folk art museum?” His plan had