The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry

always taken care of us.
    In any marriage, there are times that the thrill of falling in love leaks into everyday life, into what has become mundane. And that’s what happened last month when I remembered the sweet spot of our romance, when I again saw him as I’d seen him in the beginning.
    Cooper had organized a baseball game to raise money for his philanthropy—Home Run, a foundation that manages inner-city baseball teams for young kids. Businessmen from the community jumped at the chance to play in Savannah’s historic 1926 Grayson Stadium. (More to the point, they opened their wallets to be a part of what Cooper had offered as a “big scene.”) The Sand Gnats—a local-class A baseball team—donated their time by offering team members to play in the game with the kids. It was there that I watched Cooper on the field and remembered how I fell in love: hard and fast with a man who made a girl feel she needed to be along for the ride.
    *   *   *
    At the studio this morning, music plays, as usual, from Max’s iPod speakers. Emmylou Harris sings “Boulder to Birmingham” softly, as it should be. Max and Francie sit with me at the long table and we talk over one another, as we often do, somehow hearing everything, until we simultaneously fall quiet. Max scribbles at the edge of the paper.
    We work on the Ten Good Ideas line and it feels like a magic potion, a palliative cure to Willa’s healing. We brainstorm about number seven— Be Patient —when Francie leans forward. “Don’t be mad, boss, but I have to ask. Did you ever find out exactly what happened?”
    â€œWith?”
    â€œThe accident.”
    â€œI already told you what happened.”
    â€œBut it’s not what happened,” Francie says. “She wasn’t drunk. She just wasn’t.”
    I don’t know how many times I can have this conversation—with Francie, with Cooper … with myself. “Look, Francie,” I say. I sound angry, but that’s not how I feel. “It’s just—”
    Max interrupts with a light touch on my shoulder. “It’ll all come together. These things take time.”
    Platitudes. I hate platitudes. They were everywhere in my childhood: small statements made to ease the uneasiness, make certain the uncertainty in an unpredictable world. Clichés, placebos: “All things work together for the good.” “Patience is a virtue.” “Love is all you need.” “God is enough.”
    â€œA dingle,” I say.
    â€œWhat?” Max looks up.
    â€œThat’s what Willa and I call those bullshit statements like ‘These things take time.’”
    He laughs beautifully. “Tell me about this.”
    It’s such a Max thing to say, and I forge ahead. “Well, Willa and I had a name for platitudes, because, of course, as children we didn’t know the word platitude. We called them ‘dingles.’ We still do.”
    â€œGo on,” he says.
    â€œIt happened one Saturday afternoon on a youth group camping trip. The boys were being crude, talking about taking dumps in the woods and how girls wouldn’t do it because dingles would get stuck on their butts unless they wiped with leaves, which we were all too prissy to do.
    â€œPoor Willa was the girl who innocently asked, ‘Exactly what is a dingle?’ The boys laughed, and she was crazy-red-faced embarrased. Then they told her, ‘It’s the little leftover poop that sticks to your butt.’”
    Max and Francie burst out laughing and Francie tosses a wad of paper across the table at me. “No way. God, I can see Willa as red as blood at that answer.”
    â€œShe was,” I say. “That night when we got home, hiding again under the bed, Willa was wallowing in the shame. I told her to forget it because the boys were crude and disgusting and had no idea what they were saying.