Sunsets and Silencers

She Wanted Cancun

She danced. Across the ceramic tiles, to the wooden bowl they'd bought on that trip apple picking in the Shenandoah Valley. That bright red barn cum antique shop with its frosted windows and small army of scarecrows lining the road. The hand-painted sign in the window that John had found so amusing-New antiques made daily. Back again, to the cutting board. She danced with wet lettuce leaves dangling from her cupped hands, bright droplets of water drizzling the floor as her slippered feet whispered over the tiles in time to the soft music from the living room. What record had she put on? She had reached into the cherry cabinet containing John's collection and dropped one onto the turntable without even studying the jacket. The notes-jazzy, bright-filled the air. Scratchy, too, that tinny vinyl hiss. Who wants digital crap when you can have music that sounds like life? John's words.

She danced, glided back to the stove top, her young-again legs moving like those of a cross-country skier, all grace and smooth motion. The sirloin cubes she'd so carefully cut this morning sizzled in their marinade of red wine, soy, and sweet pepper. She dropped in a handful of cut mushrooms, fresh from the farmer's market. The thick meat aroma filled the kitchen. She swayed in it, smiled at the thought of this simple thing, preparing another meal to end another day. She twirled, felt the years spin from her like satellites into space. She was forty again, thirty, twenty, a breathless freshman sitting cross-legged on her bed while her roommate grilled her. What's his name? John? Did he kiss you?

She danced, waltzed back to the board. Sliced a few slivers of red onion. The music faded, four heartbeats of silence before the next song began. Something gentler, this one. Romantic. She trailed her open hands through the air and imagined wading through a warm lagoon. Ripples behind her fingers. Like in Cancun, that sleepy hotel where they'd honeymooned all those years ago. Before the resorts had arrived. And then their anniversary trip there twenty years later, the stunned shock they'd felt when they walked through the new hotel's cavernous lobby. No deserted refuge, no secluded nude beach, no getting lost on winding jungle paths. John's amused but bitter voice: What's the point of coming here when I can get all this crap back home? This could be anywhere. I wanted Cancun.

I wanted Cancun. Their phrase, their recurring joke brought back from the tropics. The waiter served an overcooked burger-I wanted Cancun. Attendance at a sub-par opera Damnit, I wanted Cancun. All of life's little trials and tribulations, newspapers in the flower garden and traffic on the Parkway and idiots in the White House-I wanted Cancun. How hard is that? She swayed back to the stove, gave the skillet a shake. The rice on
the back burner looked fluffy. The bread smelled close.

She glided to the pantry. She could see their backyard through the sliding glass door; beyond, in the field, a group of children played football. She watched them with one hand on the pantry's knob. She could hear their shrieks and laughter in her mind, their high, sparkling voices calling out: Throw to me! I'm open! How many years since those voices had filled their own yard? An impossible amount, too many to believe. One moment her teenage son was sitting at the table, devouring his dinner as if he hadn't seen food in weeks, and the next he was graduating from college, moving to New York, meeting some woman and settling down and announcing a baby on the way. Grandparents. They would be grandparents soon.

She pulled open the pantry door and picked out the oil, the vinegar, a bottle of Merlot from the rack on the floor. She twirled back to the table and set down the bottles. Straightened John's fork on his napkin. At the stove, she poked at the meat with her spatula. Satisfied, she switched off the burners, opened the oven, and pulled out the garlic bread. Inhaled its freshness.

"Dinner's ready!" Her voice new notes rising over the music. She pulled down a dish towel and lifted the skillet from its burner, spooned equal portions onto both plates. She brought the rice pot, bread, and butter to the table. Sprinkled red onion over the salad. Perfect. "John, dinner's ready." She walked to the living room, listened to the notes blend and shape together, then peered around the corner to the shabby recliner where he sat. His eyes stared ahead. His hands gripped the armrests. His robe sagged open over his thin knees, his pale white legs. She sighed and fixed a smile to her face. It would be a good day. She crossed the bamboo mat to the bay window they'd added six years ago. John's idea, to better enjoy the lake view. A flock of geese bobbed on the glittering water. She opened the cabinet and twisted the volume knob until the music was only a whisper. She crossed the room to John and knelt at his chair.

"Dinner's ready, John." She waited to see how today would end, whether his eyes would swim into focus, light up with recognition or remain distant. Come on, John, I wanted Cancun. She draped the dishtowel over her shoulder and lay her hands on his. "Honey."

He blinked. Shifted in the chair. Took a sudden, wheezing breath. His chin sagged to his chest. He licked his lips, seemed about to speak, wheezed again. She slid her hands under his arms. "Dinner's ready, honey."

She pulled and he, slowly, as if the chair pulled against him, rose. On his feet, he wobbled slightly on legs that seemed too thin to support him. She squeezed his hand and lead him to the kitchen. His slippered feet scraped the floor. She helped him into his seat at the head of the table. When she released him, he began a slow tilt to the left. She lurched forward to catch him, bent to his shoulder and kissed his cheek as she pulled him upright. She waited, ready to catch him again, but he seemed steady. She sat.

"I made your favorite." She uncovered the rice. "Remember when I used to make this in our apartment? It would smell for days, remember?" She dished two spoonfuls onto John's plate. Broke two pieces of bread and forked salad into their bowls. John watched. His eyes went from his plate to his bowl to the bottle of wine. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He licked his lips. "Looks good, Margie." His voice scratchy and hoarse.

"Pour some wine?" John nodded and reached for the bottle. He clawed at the corkscrew. It skittered away. He frowned and leaned toward it. The wine, forgotten in his other hand, tipped precariously.

"Let me, honey." John slumped in his chair. Margie pulled the bottle from his hand, retrieved the corkscrew. She opened the wine clumsily and poured two half glasses. "I'm getting better," she said. "Remember when I couldn't open one at all? Italy, remember that?"

John nodded. His eyes fluttered. Margie took his napkin, shook it open, and placed it in his lap. She squeezed his shoulder. "Eat, honey. Your food's getting cold."

She waited. John picked up his fork and bent to the table, so low that his chin almost rested on his plate. He poked three times at one square of meat before skewering it. His arm quivered as he raised the portion to his mouth. He chewed slowly. Picked up his wine glass. The red liquid splashed clear legs up the sides. He swallowed twice. Margie shut her eyes. She could hear, still, the faintest whisper of music in the living room. Like the quiet burble of a distant forest brook. She picked up her knife and fork. She ate.

Pete Pazimo has an MA in fiction from Johns Hopkins, where he was recognized as Most Outstanding Graduate and nominated for inclusion in Best New American Voices. He has been published previously in Monkeybicycle, jmww, Circle Magazine, and Detective Mystery Stories, and his short story "Fifty American" was a finalist in the Black Warrior Review's 2007 fiction competition.