The Fives Run North-South by Dan Goodin

groceries. Perfectly good trunk in back, empty and all that, but probably not worth pointing out again. I reached down into the car; some canned goods had rolled out of their bags and onto the floor. Once there’d been a pack of lunch meat that had slipped under her seat where it had rested for a few weeks, making a funny smell she was sure came from the engine.
    “You happen to pick up any toothpaste?” I asked.
    She pretended not to hear me.
    I looped all the plastic grocery bags over my right forearm. Hated making trips. My record is ten bags hanging from my arm — one with milk — and all without dislocating my shoulder. Today’s grouping was much lighter, and I got it all in one trip without breaking a sweat. We went to the kitchen and started putting things away.
    “Saw Jess at the store,” she said.
    “She doing okay?”
    She didn’t answer, instead letting go a small chuckle. A chuckle that said: “Nice try. I know you don’t give a shit how Jess is doing, so stop trying to gain points by pretending to care.”
    I gave a nod to the marriage supreme court in the other room. Jess was the lady you see on the highway driving the largest SUV she could and talking on the phone, gesturing with her hand — the one who should be driving — as if the person on the other end was right in front of her instead of all those annoying vehicles and pedestrians. And with Jess, every other word was “I” or “me.” You could tell, because half her hand gestures were pointing back at herself. Even Suze — on a good day, which apparently was not today — would say to me that she had only so much stamina for her time with Jess.
    “But she’d be there for me if I needed her,” she’d say.
    “Meaning, if I died or something?” I once asked.
    “Or something.”
    I took care of the refrigerator stuff; Suze filled the pantry. Saw the bagels, but no cream cheese. She’d be upset in the morning. Made a mental note to slip out later for the toothpaste and her cream cheese. For your consideration, marriage supreme court!
    I stood back from the refrigerator and almost stepped on Suze’s feet. She was looking at me slumped a bit. She spread out her arms, and I leaned in for her hug. She squeezed me tightly, burying her forehead into my neck. I felt her take a deep breath.
    “Sorry,” she said.
    “For what?”
    “Just. Sorry.”
    I squeezed back. After a while, she turned and pulled the rest of the stuff out of the last bag. I reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a chunk of cheese to slice up for us. For a second a thought flashed through my mind. Back about eleven years ago. Me and Suze. A late - summer day on the boat dock at the lake, sitting back - to - back drinking beer and watching Pete swim. The filtered sun beams through the thick tree canopy overhead. Flies that popped from visible to invisible as they passed from light to shadow above us. Peter had just learned how to do a backflip.
    “Watch this one, Mom!”
    Still held his nose, but was gaining confidence.
    That was one of those days where you said to yourself: remember this!
    You need those. A collection of them. For these other times.

    Later that night we sat on the couch together. I flicked through the channels while beside me Suze pecked at her I - Pad .
    I wasn’t really paying much attention to the television; instead I was thinking about the house. We’d been in it almost twelve years. I know because Peter was seven then, the one and — thankfully — only year he’d wanted to be a boy scout. Rules say if you have an only son who wants to be a scout you have to be a scout master. And wear that shirt, being seen in public with a pretend - army - guy shirt. There was the camping. Where everyone smells like smoke and beans. Farting and snoring in nature. Sitting around the fire — too hot in front, too cold in back.
    So we bought a house. And I’m certain it wasn’t simply so I could distract him from scouting, but that’s what happened.