Jonathan Abernathy You Are Kind by Molly McGhee

Author:Molly McGhee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Astra Publishing House

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THERE IS A VERSION OF Abernathy’s life, maybe, where instead of leaving, he puts on his suit before getting back into bed. In this version, he and Rhoda wake in the morning together. In this other morning, Rhoda turns to face him, wearing his clothes. Her eyes are crusty. Her voice is hoarse. She lets out an “Oh God,” and laughs. She is embarrassed. He turns to her, in his dream suit, crinkling.

They hold eye contact.

The moment is broken when she says, “That thing is hideous,” and he says, “I know.”

Just like that, it is over. They don’t talk about her son. What’s worse, to always bring up the memory or to never bring up the memory? At least now they would know. Now they would know they can trust each other. Now they could begin.

“Are you feeling better?” he would ask, as he stands and begins to dress.

She would shrug.

She would say in a joking voice—a voice full of bravado and cheer—that sometimes she feels like life is crushing her and she won’t make it out alive.

The two of them would then laugh about this, because it’s true.

After a moment’s pause, Abernathy would tell her (in a voice that she can pretend not to hear, if she wishes to pretend) that seeing her that upset made him feel both too small and too big and, at the same time, not at all big enough. He didn’t know what to say or how to feel. He was starting to think he was bad at feeling.

It would be a stupid confession to make. But he would reason, that she showed him hers, it would only be fair for him to show her his, no matter how feeble and limp.

Rhoda might look at him across the torn quilt, on this other morning, and reach for him, and pull him back onto the bed, wrapping him close.

“Yeah,” she might say into his chest, “Same,” but it would be something better, something more Rhoda-y. Something both witty, and distant, and clever. Something that would be personal only in the conversation they were having beneath the conversation taking place.

And maybe Abernathy would, in that moment, feel unselfconscious enough to tilt her chin up and move closer. Closer. Until she presses the stupid visor button on his stupid suit. He would want her to choose to. He would want her to reach in.

It would be the dumbest first kiss of all time, but it would be theirs.

The kiss would tell her without telling her that he sees her, he’s with her, he has no answers, either, but he likes it when they are in the same place.

This is, however, not what Jonathan Abernathy does.

THAT NIGHT THE walk away from his house is long, and meandering. He passes a series of small tenement houses, a dollar store, and an ugly food chain and then there it is, right in front of him, winking at him like it knew he was destined to arrive there all along: the Archival Office lights are on.

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