Song of Silence. Cynthia Ruchti
Charlie had watched a WWII POW movie while she worked, then kissed her goodnight and headed to bed early, smelling of the pungent rub he used on aching muscles. The whole bedroom would smell like that. Another thing she should be used to by now. Not just used to. Grateful for. His muscles ached because he tried to do something nice for her.
She found another dot of paint on the granite countertop. Flick. Gone.
A wave of satisfaction worked its way to shore from far out to sea. She felt it nearing, but so much debris had washed up on the beach during the previous days’ tides, the wave diminished in intensity by the time it reached her. The room looked fresher than it had in a long time.
Charlie’s retirement health coverage meant the impact of her job loss threatened their savings plan more than their daily budget. Olivia and SamWise had weathered the unstable years and emerged as adult versions of the joy of their lives. Nobody was in the hospital, rehab, or jail. Not every family could say as much. She’d had nineteen years at a job she loved, pursuing a passion with an endless, pulsing rhythm. Her husband—who sometimes impersonated Captain Oblivious—loved her and showed it. What was wrong with her? Was she auditioning for the most ungrateful human on the planet?
For a second, a split second, she understood why a woman with leftover pain medication might take something to quiet the internal condemnation.
Instead—and because she had no leftovers—she turned out the kitchen light and went to bed.
***
“Lucy? Lucy.”
“What?”
“How long are you planning to sleep in?”
She drew the comforter over her shoulders. They could probably set the air conditioner temperature a little warmer and save electricity. “What time is it?”
“Eleven . . .”
“Eleven!” She threw the covers off with a snap like a mainsail in a stiff wind. “Why did you let me sleep so long?” Lucy sat on the edge of the bed, fighting to get her bearings.
“Eleven minutes after eight.”
“Charlie!” Lucy fell back into her nest of pillows.
“The muffler’s done. Can you drop me off at the shop so I can pick it up?”
“Now?” She scrubbed her hand through her hair.
He pulled off the work shirt he’d been wearing, sniffed it, then threw it into the hamper. “Did you have something else you needed to do?”
“Sleep?”
“Hon, you can do that anytime now that you’re . . .”
A song from the animated movie Frozen flashed through her mind. Couldn’t he let this go?
“Sorry I woke you, Lucy.” His eyebrows scrunched forward. “You used to be up by six.”
“I stayed up later than usual last night.”
“Oh.” He tugged a polo shirt over his head. “I guess I could call Martin or somebody to take me down there.”
“No, I’ll get up,” she said. It was the least she could do. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for the muffler place?”
“Once I get the car, I’m heading over to Silver Lake. A guy there has done some worm farming in the past. I’m going to pick his brain. Want to come?”
God help her, she’d reverted to her ugly self, and it wasn’t even eighty-thirty in the morning. All she could think about was how slim the pickings would be.
“Want to come along? That would be great. We can talk the whole way there and b—”
She closed the bathroom door and started the shower. “Sorry. Can’t hear you. Be out soon.”
How many prayers had God heard over the years? How many of them came from shower stalls? And how many were wordless like hers?
She toweled off, scrubbed several layers of enamel from her teeth, scrunched her hair, and slipped into the bedroom without letting too much of the humidity escape into the room. Charlie was elsewhere in the house, humming loudly enough for her to hear. Like an eight-year-old prepping for his best day ever.
She dressed quickly, fairly certain an ex-worm farmer was unlikely to be a fashion critic. Did that session in the shower mean nothing to you, Lucy? You’re profiling now? She formed an apology with no destination.
It seemed rude to humanity for her to go out of the house without under-eye concealer. So she took time for that and a minimum of other makeup before heading for the kitchen. Today, she would be grateful, patient, and optimistic. Grateful, patient, optimistic. She rehearsed all the way down the hall.
“Baked grapefruit okay with you?” Charlie asked. One of his few culinary specialties. She was . . . grateful. Genuinely. Maybe this was the day the darkness would lift.
“I’ll make coffee.”
“Done already.”
Usually, coffee warmed her insides after she drank it. Charlie’s thoughtfulness started the wave of warmth before she brought the mug to her lips. “Thanks, honey.”
“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do for my worm partner.”
To speak or not to speak? Did every marriage wrestle with that question 24/7? “About that, Charlie.” She sipped the coffee, mind racing, opening one door after another in her search for a suitable response. Doors were still banging shut when her husband slid a bowl with a caramelized grapefruit-half across the breakfast bar toward her. She stopped it before it slid over the edge. Could she stop herself soon enough?
“Oh, we’ll find a better name for you than worm partner,” Charlie said. “Executive Director of Wormology? Worm Princess? Secretary of Squirm?”
“Charlie!”
“What happened to your sense of humor, Luce? You should see the look on your face.”
She didn’t have to see it. She felt it. “I know you think you’ve found your life’s passion.”
“Which, I might add, you’ve suggested I needed for most of our married life.” He guzzled his coffee as if proving he could.
Lucy practiced her lung-filling and lung-emptying breathing warm-up. “You haven’t even talked to anybody about how that could work. If it could work. You don’t know if you’d enjoy raising worms. Or what the market’s like. Or how much it costs to get started.”
“And that’s why we’re going to meet that vermiculturist guy today after we pick up the Traverse.”
Vermiculture? That’s what it’s called? “Charlie, it’s the ‘we’ that’s a problem for me.”
He set his coffee mug on the granite, folded his arms across his chest, and made a thin, lipless line where his mouth should be. The line softened. His arms dropped to his sides. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he said, snatching his cap from the hook near the door, “but the ‘we’ has never been a problem for me.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll walk to the muffler shop. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
Not to speak. That was the correct answer. And yet . . .
“Charlie, I don’t mind going with you to the worm expert.”
“Sounded as if you were thrilled at the prospect. I must have misread you.” Sarcasm seemed so much harsher from Charlie than it did from anyone else. He removed his cap but didn’t put it back on the hook.
She lowered her voice. “This is your passion. Not mine. But you’re assuming we’ll do this together.”
“Would that be so horrible?”
Lucy