Ill Will Read Free Page B

going to the grocery store,” Cordelia asked as she entered the kitchen and saw me unwrapping po-boys. She had been home long enough to have changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, opened a beer, and finished a third of it.
    “I work downtown. The only open grocery store is way uptown,” I said.
    “Oh, okay. Are you going to make it tomorrow? We’re running low on toilet paper,” she said, taking another swig of her beer.
    “Do you have some grocery store disability?” I snapped. “Is there a reason I’m the only one to go even though your work is half a city closer than mine is?”
    “You’re angry,” she ever-so-perceptively noticed.
    “I’m tired,” I said tersely. “I guess you haven’t noticed I’m working a lot of hours, sometimes more than you. And that I’m the only one who goes to the grocery store. And that—”
    “I’ve noticed,” she cut in.
    I got a beer out of the refrigerator and opened it.
    “I don’t guess you noticed when I took our car out to be serviced,” she said.
    “That was your car.”
    “That you were driving more than I was.”
    “It was two weeks ago,” I pointed out.
    “I had to drive out there in the morning, get Kathy to pick me up on her way to work and drop me back again in the evening to pick it up and I had blood on my clothes when I went back out there because I didn’t have time to change and—”
    “I was working that day. And I hate Metairie.”
    “It’s not my favorite place in the world.” In a softer tone she added, “I know. That’s why I went there.” For a moment we were both silent, “Please, Micky, let’s not fight.” And then very quietly added, as if to herself, “I can’t do this if we’re fighting.”
    Oh, no you don’t , I started to say. But didn’t—even I’m not that much of an asshole. This was her usual way out of the argument, to be too tired, too overwhelmed, too bruised and battered by what she’d been through in Katrina and what she faced afterward. I couldn’t call her on it because it was true. But it was true for me as well, just not as ragged and messy. I hadn’t been trapped in Charity Hospital for almost a week, waiting for rescue, helpless in the festering heat as patients who should have lived died. I had evacuated, watching my city and every part of my life torn apart on a TV screen. That was what we struggled with—we were all battered and no one was left whole to lean on.
    “We need to find a better balance,” I finally said. “I can’t do everything I did before.”
    “Let’s eat. Someone told me there’s a new store up on Carrollton, that it just opened. I’ll go after we’re done.”
    “And stick me with the dishes?” That got a wan smile from her. I was trying to be funny. “Let’s eat and then we can both go. A new grocery store on this side of Canal Street—even if it is up by City Park—is a good excuse for an outing.”
    “Thank you.” She didn’t move for a moment, the beer motionless in one hand, the other hand reaching for the sandwich wrapper, but still. “I’m sorry this is so hard. Please know that I love you.”
    I put down my beer, cupped her face in my hands. Something had happened today. I needed to find my better angel. “I know that. I’m sorry it’s hard, too.” I leaned in and gently kissed her. It was soft, a brief touch of comfort and love. Then I let go. “Should I microwave these? They’re better hot than cold.”
    She nodded and I did. We talked as we ate, small talk, the weather, who’d told her about the newly open store—“he said he screamed like a girl when he heard the news”—what to put on the grocery list—talking as if we needed to avoid silence.
    She let me drive.
    As we waited for the light at Claiborne and Esplanade, she said, “I had an appointment with Jennifer today.”
    “Jennifer?” I asked, trying to place the name.
    “A…specialist.”
    “Why?” I asked as the light changed and I shifted into first gear.
    “Probably