michaelcooper THE WIFE OF THE DEAD

michaelcooper THE WIFE OF THE DEAD On a cloudless day Bo Keane filled his
kitchen with smoke. He watched the sun
create planes in the haze as it slanted through
the window to his right. The sun was caught,
reflected in the specks of the counter top much
like the orange around the pupils in his oth­
erwise blue eyes. Bo stamped his cigarette out
before walking into Pasco, Washington's crisp
autumn morning.
His tongue stumbled, felt slightly larger
than normal, hitting most hurdles.
The underwire of her bra broke the surface
of the fabric, jutting into her ribs as she
turned to put the glasses in their place, one
at a time. The wire was like a child's thumb
saying mom.
"La pinche Migra, siempre la Ifnea es .. ."
Rosa Keane cursed the INS as they returned
to their apartment. Frank, her husband, had wanted to see what the hold up was on
her green card. He slapped his back pocket to see if his wallet was still there, looked
to the heavily painted hardwood floor. "Rosa, es chido. You'll get yer green card. Es el
gobierno. It's just slow. Jus' chill, rranquila, y'know." He put his hands on her shoul­
ders, looked into her black hair. She turned with a fistful of papers, hugged him. He
pulled her hair down, which caused her face to tum up. She slowly blinked her eyes
and said, "Besame. You are leaving me for a week."
The apartment was crowded, filled with light, sound and smoke. Frank Keane, Bo's
nephew, didn't want to come to the party, but Jesse insisted. They had driven from
Seattle to Guadalajara in Jesse's beat up, brown pickup. Both were surprised they had
made it. Frank began broken conversations in a pidgin Spanish-English. His tongue
stumbled, felt slightly larger than normal, hitting most hurdles. Tequila helped, but
only in that the alcohol gave the confidence to speak, not the ability. As he reached
for his glass of tequila and Squirt, Frank brush~d hands, a frozen moment with Rosa
Garda Cortes. They began talking in broken English, broken Spanish. The kind of
talking that involves the face, gestures, pointing fingers. Rosa knew of a Fidel y Pablo
show. She said she wanted to dance. After Frank borrowed Jesse's pickup, he came
back in with a smile on his face, asked Jesse for all the pesos he had on him. Frank
was taking her out for the night.
Silver-haired Jack Keane looked hard through the window into Puget Sound. He
had worked past six, Frank still hadn't called. Water was crashing into the sea wall,
some fifty yards down the slope. He had put off painting his vacation house on Whid­
bey Island all summer. The prospect of spending a week alone with his son added
extra weight. He turned from the window and tapped his index finger hard on the
tabletop. Jack picked up the tumbler, swallowed the last finger of his scotch. He was
careful to remember a coaster.
In Seattle, Naomi Keane squinted into the surface of the glass. She wetted her
thumb, rubbed the barely noticeable watermark. Satisfied, she dried the plate and set
it with the rest. She glanced at the clock, just above a picture of her son Frank smil­
ing broadly. Jack, her husband, wasn't home yet, not the only thing bothering her.
Out on Whidbey, Tommy Bones and Lawrence passed whiskey back and forth,
chasing the pulls with gulps of Schlitz. Orange fire lapped the night. They were fresh
back from Iraq, cutting a footpath down to Puget Sound on Jack Keane's property.
25 michae lcooper Lawrence grew up in the same Magnolia neighborhood as Frank. He was counting on
his fingers the people he wished would die over there. Tommy Bones' face was blank.
He had woken up three days previous, sweating and choking his wife. He couldn't
shake the image. Lawrence had called that morning inviting him to the island. Work
and sweat would help them forget. And alcohol. The bottle arrived in Tommy Bones'
hand; he pulled and sprayed whiskey into the fire, causing a flare up. His deep set eyes
deepened, he smiled for no
particular reason. Kicking
dirt in the fire, Tommy
Bones turned, said over
his shoulder, "I'm goin'
to Langley fer smokes."
It was not an invitation.
The beer cans he hadn't
squashed were kicked
aside.
Naomi lig htly chewed her
fi ngernail not biti ng all the
way through, but bending it.
She no longer wore polish.
The crisp snap of celery
pleased Naomi. Mixed
with the peanut butter she sucked off her finger, Naomi was satisfied. She thought of
smoking, which she hadn't done in 28 years, since getting pregnant with Frank. Step­
ping onto the deck in need of staining, Naomi lightly chewed her fingernail not bit­
ing all the way through, but bending it. She no longer wore polish. The phone rang.
Naomi considered not answering. The phone persisted. She answered, "Yes?" Naomi
dropped the phone, splitting it in two.
On the day Rosa received her green card and a separate letter informing her it
would take three more weeks to receive her green card, her hands held her sobbing
red face. She cleaved to Naomi, who had driven directly to Rosa's apartment. It took
her three blocks to remember her headlights. Snapshots flashed across both of the
women's minds. Like a flashflood through an arroyo, the tears hit Naomi's face . Rosa
lifted her head, looked at what she left on Naomi's sky blue shirt and mouthed, why?
Bo Keane stood between two poplars. He looked south out over the west end of
Pasco, the former flood plain of the Columbia River. Along the ridgeline of Jump Off
Joe, white windmills twisted slowly in a soft breeze. A cigarette hung in Bo's mouth,
each breath of wind threatened the lingering ash, defying gravity, a crooked gray fin­
ger. He didn't notice, just breathed through the cigarette, took a drink from his beer
can, then exhaled smoke. Something felt wrong.
West Sage moor Road, north of Pasco, runs east-west. West being the Columbia
River and east being Eltopia along Highway 395.
Naomi rolled down the windows, told Rosa to breathe deep as they passed between
the perpendicular rows of grapes. Naomi's tight grip loosened as she turned onto
Cottonwood, heading north. Her hands sparkled with sweat. Rosa watched the land
change as the road went from asphalt to gravel, dust trailing behind. They passed
through bare potato fields, chewed by diggers, and tattered cornfields. The yellow­
gray land was preparing for winter. Clouds rose on the horizon.
Up on the plateau, the orchards were planted. The cherries and apples, picked.
Fists of green leaves quivered in the wind. Naomi saw the gravel driveway to her
parents' old place. As she passed, the quick shot down the tree-lined lane didn't allow
enough time for the house to be seen. She didn't need to see it. She also didn't feel
the need to tell Rosa. They were coming to see Bo Keane, tell him what happened.
Bo turned the corner of his house as the car came to a dusty rest. "Well, hell, looks
like I got me some comp'ny," he said, picked a flake of white paint off the house. Bo
dropped his cigarette, crushed it into the gravel, smoothed his canvas work pants.
With crossed arms, he leaned against his old white truck, smiled a look of unfinished
business. Naomi and Rosa stepped out of either side of the car. Neither knew whether
to smile. They turned to each other, waited. Rosa smiled broad, showing her teeth
and Naomi smiled back, the first time in a week.
"Been a long time Naomi, what brings you to these parts? Someone die?"
Naomi felt the wind leave her. She answered in a quiet, firm voice, "Yes, Bo."
"Hmmm. You gonna introduce me to yer friend? Or do I gotta guess?"
With the three of them seated in the kitchen, the place felt full. A dusty silence
had settled. The frayed edges of Bo's dark flannel shirt became more defined next to
Naomi's sharp black jacket. She hadn't taken it off yet. The tension thickened until
the sudden whistle of the kettle. Bo was making tea. The whistle cleared the air, a
passing storm. Motes of dim country music sifted in from the next room.
As Bo poured steaming tea into three cups he asked, "You gonna tell me how
it happened?"
"You are unbelievable. You haven't changed, except-"
"Except what?"
She surveyed from his stubble to his stomach hanging over his belt, a patch of
black hair on white soft skin. I think you've let yourself go, Bo. I mean, living here by
yourself. How often do you shave?"
He rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger, cast a glance down, "Well,
Dad always said you gotta build a good shed over yer tools." Bo sat down; the chair
issued a stiff sigh. He could always make her laugh. Rosa smiled, not knowing exactly
26 •
michaelcooper all covered in cheese; I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed . It rolled onto the
table and onto the floor; I watched my poor meatball roll out through the door.
what he meant. Her dark eyes darted between the two of them. Rosa drank the tea,
burnt her mouth, just wanting something to do.
"Well Bo," Naomi sighed, "Jack and
Frank went out to Whidbey to paint our
vacation house. They got a late start," her
voice faltered, Rosa squeezed her left
hand, blinked lacework wrinkles and
resumed, "One of Frank's old friends
from Magnolia was up there working­
Rosa, her hands clasped, said, "I dinnot know Naomi's parents live here."
"They don't. They're dead." Bo dragged on his cigarette, scratched his neck, blew
smoke towards the ceiling. "Naomi grew up 'bout four miles down the road. Her dad
grew apples too."
"She dinnot tell me she lived here."
"Sounds 'bout right," he sighed, "Naomi left; she never looked back. So did Jack. I
haven't seen my brother since, well, since Frank was born. What's that? Twenty-?"
"Twenty-eight. He will have twenty-nine years in December." Rosa's black-brown
eyes clouded over, tears trapped in her eyelashes.
"I never knew 'em." Bo stood up, arched his back, rubbed his drum-tight stomach.
"Less you'n me take a walk," he said.
Before leaving out the kitchen door, Bo grabbed two beers. He wordlessly offered
the can to Rosa. She accepted. They opened their beers with matching clacks. Bo
watched Rosa drink, shyly swallow. He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand, led her out into the orchard behind the house.
The trees were all knobby knees from yearly pruning. Walking on trampled grass
between the rows, Rosa noticed the fallen apples. One busted apple lay covered with
sluggish wasps. Their black and yellow bodies crawled over each other, the flesh of
the apple. Rosa turned toward Bo.
"Naomi me dijo que hablas Espana!."
"What? I don't know a word yer sayin'. Sounds nice though." He winked.
"Naomi tol' me you speak Spanish."
"Well, yes, un poquito. So, where you from again?"
"Soy de Guadalajara. Urn, Mexico."
"Hmmm." His gaze shifted from her black-brown eyes to the dark circles, bags
beneath like carved sadness.
He gritted his teeth,
examined the wet ring
on the tabletop and
looked at Rosa . Then to
Naomi, whose blonde
hair had started the slow
turn to gray like dying
grass will do.
his friend-they were drunk and the
friend, he crossed the center line. He hit
them head on. They didn't have time
to brake. They didn't have time to .. ."
Naomi's voice trailed off. She watched
the window shake in the wind.
"Coulda been worse I spose." Bo
studied the tea's dark surface, blowing
the thin film, slurped a quick sip, still
too hot. "They die instantly?" He gritted
his teeth, examined the wet ring on the
tabletop and looked at Rosa. Then to
Naomi, whose blonde hair had started
the slow turn to gray like dying grass
will do.
Naomi stood up. The wooden chair legs screeched on the linoleum. Her voice
creaked out through her teeth, "Yes Bo, it was instantaneous. Really Bo, I can't believe
you. Don't you feel? They were your flesh and blood and you carryon like, like you're
made of stone."
"It's concrete Naomi, not stone. My bones are rebar. Lissen," Bo reached out and
grabbed her two hands in his. She felt the rough scrape of calluses. He closed his eyes,
remembered, passed over her stomach on his way to her face, caught between a smile
and a wince. Their blue eyes locked cold flames.
Naomi started before he could finish, "You should have left Bo; Jack did. I know,
you couldn't, but . .." she let his hands fall limp. She felt something like a bee sting
in her right hand, massaged it with the left. She walked towards the door, turned and
said, "I'm going to visit my parents." The door shuttered in the frame before Bo could
respond, "Say hi to mine too."
Rosa was left biting her lower lip. Bo lit a cigarette, not bothering to ask if she
After they had finished their beers, Bo crushed them with his boot, then put the
cans in his flannel pocket. Bo began telling Rosa, "Me and Jack were always compe­
tin'," as a man with a white sweatshirt, gloves and canvas pants the same washed out
orange as Bo's appeared between the trees to their right.
"Hola Senor Keane. lC6mo esta?" He removed the right glove and extended
his hand.
"lQue onda Silverio? Oh, te presento Rosa. Mi, uh, nueva amiga." He cleared his
throat, hawked and spit, lit a cigarette. Bo moved his open hand, palm up between
them. "Silverio runs my farm. Es el jefe." He 's the boss.
"Mucho gusto." Rosa held her hands at her hips, stared at Bo.
minded. Tires tore loose gravel in the driveway. Bo sang softly, On top of 01' Smokey,
27 michaelcooper "I jus' wish these dams would break, jus' break wide open. The river's all choked up like a strangled snake with all these dams." "Hola Rosa, mucho gusto." He nodded, continued, cepero, no soy el jefe. Senor
Keane es el jefe." Silverio lifted off his hat, ran his short-fingered hand over his black
short cropped hair, replaced his hat. He smoothed his coarse mustache.
"Escucha Silverio: llamame Bo. Okay. Tu eres el jefe, yo soy solamente el dueno."
Bo dragged on his cigarette, rubbed the back of his neck, scratched his rough jaw line.
"Okay?"
"Okay. Bueno, Bo, es viernes y los hombres se se gustarfa salir por el fin de semana."
"Esta bien. lHan terminado el trabajo por el dfa?"
"sr."
"Sf, sim6n. Sale."
"Hasta Lunes Senor Keane."
"Luego Senor Vasquez."
They shook hands. Silverio smiled at Rosa, his eyes brighter than normal.
He walked back into the trees.
"Tu puedes hablar espanol, Bo." She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes.
"Sf, un poquito." He winked, showed half his teeth, snuffed out his cigarette. With
his pocketknife Bo cleaned his fingernails.
They shuffled to the edge of the orchard, continued toward the bluff. Rosa noticed
a trail snaking between sagebrush and bunchgrass. The muted gray, greens and yel­
lows mirrored their silent approach. Knuckles of cacti held the ground, waited for
water. They stopped near the edge of the bluff.
Looking out over the Columbia River and dry basin below, a bowl formed by the
Rattlesnake hills to the south, the Yakima Ridge to the west and the Saddle Moun­
tains to the north, Bo said, "The weather comes from the west."
A bit startled and hugging herself, Rosa responded, "lC6mo?"
"El tiempo viene del oeste," he motioned with his right hand as if dragging the
oncoming clouds. The wind had tom them ragged. Beneath the gauzy clouds a thin
ribbon of yellow-orange announced the sunset. "I like to come here this time a day,"
the wind wetting his eyes.
They stood overlooking the Hanford Reservation. Bo looked down, studied the
vague gray buildings, slowly shook his head. "You don't talk much do ya?"
"No. Me gusta escuchar," Rosa added, "I like this place."
"Well ... te gusta escuchar ... okay, I come here to think. I watch the sunset. I like
how the hills tum purple and with the orange and pink and red; it's always nice up
here. This was my parent's place; they liked comin' up her in the evenin's. My par­
ents, they uh, they were down-winders. Back when they first moved here, the coolin'
towers down there released radioactive steam. Toxic clouds of iodine. The wind car­
ried 'em east, all the way ta Idaho. They both got leukemia. That's blood cancer.
We thought it was the flu first, but then they didn't get any better, they stopped
eatin'. I watched 'em waste away. Both of'em. All by myself. Jack-he took Naomi
and left. He turned his back on us," finished in a whisper, "They ended up dyin' 'bout
three months apart."
Bo cupped his hands against the wind to light a cigarette, looked hard to the north
and the bend in the Columbia below the Wahluke Slope, the shrub steppe leaning
over the last free flowing stretch of the river, the Hanford Reach. He bit the cigarette
filter with his front teeth, sighed and sucked, creating a sharp whistle. Bo turned back
toward the Hanford Reservation. "I jus' wish these dams would break, jus' break wide
open. The river's all choked up like a strangled snake with all these dams. I jus' want
Grand Coulee to break open 'n' wash out Wanapum and Priest Rapids, jus' dam after
dam, washing this place away. Wipe the slate clean. I can't. I mean, they poisoned us,
they made the plutonium, they made ... the bomb, Fat Man; I jus' can't," he choked
on his words, turned his back to Rosa, looking north. He shuddered. Rosa's eyes filled
and spilled over. She knew Bo would come to Seattle.
Naomi Keane crept through the kitchen door. The hinges whined. Her first step
creaked the floorboards, sent a familiar shiver. She decided to quit her shoes and pad
silently upstairs. Bo was asleep on the couch where he used to wait, his boots resting
on the cushions. Naomi froze, squinted in the faint blue night.
She sat down and untied the boots slowly to not wake him, placed them neatly
side by side. The sleeping house settled; Bo adjusted muscle and bone. His stock­
ing feet were warm to the touch. Naomi pulled the quilt off the back of the couch
onto Bo. She shared some as well. He smelled like earth and smoke, reminded her of
home. Naomi put her fingernail to her mouth, bit through and tore it off. She leaned
forward and put the nail on the coffee table.
In the still, silent room, Naomi said, "I could never tell you this when you were
awake. Frank was your son." The words were a long time coming. She felt satisfied,
closed her eyes to sleep. Bo's voice, rough as his hands, said, "I know." She lay at his
feet until the morning, rose up before one could know another.
28