Unremarried Widow by Artis Henderson

the dusty sliding glass door. Inside, the trailer was empty. Thin carpet covered the floors and a fan sagged from the ceiling. I could see straight through to the back window that looked out on the hills beyond. The wooden planks of the porch creaked with our steps as we jumped down and pushed a path through the grass before circling around to the car.
    â€œDo you think we should call the number on the sign?” he said.
    â€œLet’s give it a try.”
    Miles called the real estate agent but got the agent’s voice mail instead. He left a message before we drove back to Killeen. We both had work on Monday, and then it was the middle of the week, and soon it was the next weekend. The agent never called back. In the weeks that followed I would find grass seeds stuck to the clothes we wore that day. Sometimes Miles would mention the place. But over time we forgot.
    Much later—in the wake of the war—I would dream of that house. Flat plains stretched behind the property, wide-open and empty, and in the distance sand hills rose up like dunes. In the dream I was lost. I tried to find my way through that vast stretch of sameness, a land without discernible pathways, and all the while I felt the house pressing at my back, its solidness there just over the rise.

2006

7
    In early March, Miles and I phoned home, first to my mother, then to Miles’s parents. I sat at the breakfast counter with my arms folded nervously in my lap and watched Miles as he spoke.
    â€œHello, Dad,” Miles said. “Is Mom there?”
    He stood beside my chair and reached a hand over to touch my arm.
    â€œGood, good,” he said. “Glad I got both of you there.”
    I gave him a small smile.
    â€œListen, we wanted to call and see if it would be all right if—if we—if we went ahead and got married. Before the wedding, I mean.”
    There was a long silence and I reached out to Miles.
    â€œWe were thinking, you know, to go ahead and get the administrative details out of the way. Get Artis her military ID. Get her on Tricare. We don’t want to have to mess with all that while I’m deployed.”
    I ran my thumb over the rough skin around his fingernail and inspected the folds of his knuckle. I was afraid to look at his face. Butwhen he started to talk again, I could hear the smile in his voice. I looked up and he nodded his head.
    â€œSure, sure,” he said. “She’s right here. I’ll put her on.”
    I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Is everything okay?”
    â€œNo worries,” he said.
    I held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
    Terry was on the other end.
    â€œHey, girl,” she said. “This is great news. We’re so happy for you.”
    â€œReally?” I said. “You guys are okay with this?”
    â€œSweetie, we just want you married.”
    Three months before our real wedding, Miles and I drove to the courthouse in Killeen, a squat building in red brick that was bland in the way of government offices everywhere. Miles came straight from the base, still in his uniform, and I wore jeans and my cowboy boots. When we approached the administrative window, the clerk behind the glass slid out a paper form.
    â€œYou’ll both need to sign this,” she said. “We’ll need thirty-two dollars for the ceremony and sixty-seven for the marriage license. No personal checks.”
    I looked over the form and signed with a pen tethered to the counter. I passed the page to Miles and he placed his signature next to mine. He slid the paper through the slot along with a money order. The clerk ran her eyes over the page.
    â€œHave a seat,” she said.
    We sat in plastic chairs bolted to the floor as the lights overhead reflected off the linoleum that ran the length of the hallway. After a time a door opened to the judicial office and a secretary in a pink sweater stepped out.
    â€œHenderson?” she said.
    Miles looked at