A Cool, Dry Place

I walk around the house slowly, memorizing each detail, running my hands along the walls, tracing each crack in the floor with my toes. Yves is Best American Erotica 2004 Cover business-like and distant as he re-makes our bed, fetches a few groceries for my mother, hides our passports in the lining of his suitcase. My mother watches us but we are all silent. I don’t think any of us can bear to hear the sound of each other’s voices and I don’t think we know why. Finally, a few minutes past midnight, it is time. My mother clasps Yves’ hands between hers, smaller, more brittle. She urges him to take care of me, take care of himself. His voice cracks as he assures her that he will, that the three of us won’t be apart long. She embraces me tightly, so tightly that again my arms tingle but I say nothing. I hold her, kissing the top of her head, promising to write as soon as we arrive in Miami, promising to write every single day, promising to send for her as soon as possible. I make so many promises I cannot promise to keep.

And then, we are gone. My mother does not stand in the doorway, waving, as she might were this a movie. We do not look back and we do not cry. Yves carries our suitcases and quickly we make our way to a deserted beach where there are perhaps thirty others, looking as scared as Yves and Mammoth Cover I. There is a boat—large, and far sturdier than I had imagined, for which I am thankful. I have been plagued by nightmares of a boat made from weak and rotting wood, leaking and sinking into the sea, the only thing left behind, the hollow echo of screams. Yves greets a few of his friends, but stays by my side. “We’re moving on up,” I quip, and Yves laughs, loudly. I see the priest Yves promised would bless this journey. He is only a few years older than us, so to me, he appears painfully young. He has only a small knapsack and a Bible so worn it looks like the pages might fall apart at the lightest touch. His voice is quiet and calm as he ushers us onto the boat. Below deck there are several small cabins, and Yves seems to instinctively know which one is ours.

At this m Shameless Cover oment, I realize that Yves has spent a great deal of money to arrange this passage for us. I know he has his secrets but I am momentarily irritated that he has kept something this important from me. He stands near the small bed, his arms shyly crossed over his chest and I see an expression on his face I don’t think I have ever seen before. He is proud, eyes watery, chin jutting forward. And I know that I will never regret this decision, no matter what happens to us because I have waited my entire life to see my husband like this. In many ways, I am seeing him for the first time.