PART 9 – The Conversation I Had Never Managed to Finish While We Were Married

By late summer, Faron had mostly stopped calling.

I still saw him now and then in town.

Once he passed me at the hardware store and looked the other way.

Another time he stood at a gas pump while I filled my car.

Neither of us spoke.

Then one Wednesday, Mara called.

“Faron has asked whether you'd be willing to discuss some of the household items he left behind.”

“Through the lawyers?”

“Yes. We can arrange an exchange or a written agreement, depending on what the decree says.”

He had left a box of documents and two old fishing poles in the basement.

I had no interest in keeping them.

But I wasn't going to invite him over alone.

Mara arranged a time for him to collect the specific items with a neutral person present.

Peg volunteered.

We set the boxes on the porch before he arrived.

Faron came in a pickup borrowed from Danny.

He looked thinner than he had at the sports show.

He wore the same fishing shirt he'd worn at the courthouse.

Peg stood beside the porch rail holding a glass of water.

“Boxes are right there,” she said.

Faron glanced at me.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

“About the boxes?”

“No.”

Peg started to move.

I shook my head.

“Stay close.”

She stepped down into the yard, far enough to give us some space but near enough that I wasn't alone.

Faron rubbed his jaw.

“I don't know how things got this bad.”

I looked at the porch step the carpenter had repaired.

“I do.”

He sighed.

“I know I wasn't perfect.”

“That isn't what I needed to hear.”

“What do you want me to say?”

A few days after the porch conversation, I walked through the house and noticed how many things had belonged to our ordinary life together. The clock above the stove was a wedding present. The couch had been paid for in installments when we first moved in. The curtain rods were ones Faron installed years earlier. I wasn't going to erase every trace of him from the walls.

I changed what needed changing. I washed the slipcovers and moved a chair closer to the window where I liked to read. I gave away a broken lamp. I bought a secondhand shelf for the cookbooks. None of these things settled the past. They simply made the rooms better suited to the person who lived there now. I liked being able to walk into the kitchen and recognize it as mine without pretending the years before the divorce had never happened.

“I want you to understand that I paid for things you never asked if I could afford.”

He shifted his feet.

“I was going through a hard time.”

“For eleven years?”

He opened his mouth, then looked down.

The wind moved the paper label taped to the top box.

I could hear Peg's shoes crunch on the gravel.

“I told myself it was temporary,” he said.

“So did I.”

“I thought you'd speak up if it was too much.”

“I tried. You called me cheap.”

He gave a small, tired shrug.

“I was embarrassed my business failed.”

“I was sorry it failed. I wasn't ashamed of you for failing.”

He stared at me.

“But I became ashamed of how you treated me afterward.”

During the basement cleanup, I found the folding table we'd used at our wedding reception. Its legs were stiff with rust, but the top was still sound. I wiped it down and set it near the wall. I remembered decorating that reception hall with paper flowers because we couldn't afford fresh arrangements. We hadn't minded. We were excited about starting a home.

I called the local donation center about a chair I no longer needed. The volunteer explained their pickup schedule, and I made an appointment. Clearing the room gave me space for a reading lamp beside the window. It was a practical change, not a message to Faron. I simply wanted a comfortable place to sit.

That memory led me to a box of cards from friends who attended the wedding. Some people had moved away. Others had died. I read a few messages and then put them back carefully. The cards told me that people had once wished us well. They didn't prove the marriage should have lasted forever. I could honor the beginning without pretending the ending had been fair.

At lunch the next day, Peg asked whether Faron had collected everything. I told her Mara was still confirming what should happen with the remaining boxes. Peg offered to help carry things if needed. I thanked her, but said I wanted to wait until the arrangements were clear. For once I wasn't rushing to clear a space simply because Faron might become impatient.

That evening, I cooked cabbage rolls using my mother's recipe. I made enough for several meals and froze the extras. The work kept my hands busy while I thought through the practical questions. When the timer rang, I turned off the oven, sat down, and ate. The meal was good, even with nobody there to praise it.

That sentence took more strength than I expected.

I had rehearsed it while peeling potatoes, while driving to work, while taking the trash out.

Now that I had said it, I felt exhausted.

Faron leaned against his pickup.

“I never thought you'd actually divorce me.”

“You moved out.”

“I needed space.”

“You took the television and left me the mortgage.”

He looked away.

“Fine. I handled it badly.”

I waited.

But he didn't say what he planned to change.

He didn't offer to contribute to the debt.

He didn't apologize for threatening my job.

Instead he said, “Mom misses talking to you.”

I nearly laughed.

“She can call me herself if she wants to talk without asking for money.”

He lifted the first box.

“Everything has to be about money now, I guess.”

“No. That's what I've been trying to tell you.”

He put the box in the truck bed.

Peg came up the walk when he reached for the second.

“Anything else?” she asked.

Faron shook his head.

He lifted the fishing poles and closed the tailgate.

Before leaving, he said, “You used to make coconut cream pie.”

“I still do.”

He glanced toward the house.

“I always liked it.”

“I know.”

He waited as if the memory itself might persuade me to invite him inside.

I didn't.

After his truck disappeared, Peg sat on the porch beside me.

“You okay?”

“More than I expected.”

“You want to cry?”

“Maybe later.”

We sat without talking until the porch light came on.

That night I made a small coconut cream pie.

I cut one slice and set it on a plate.

I ate it at my kitchen table with my own fork.

I didn't photograph it for Faron.

I didn't send him a message.

The pie tasted like something from another lifetime.

It also tasted good now.

For days after Faron's visit, I found myself thinking about what he had said about his business. He had been ashamed to fail. I understood that. My father lost work when I was young and came home quiet for weeks. But he still washed the dishes, drove my mother to appointments, and looked for another job. We had eaten inexpensive dinners together, and nobody pretended the trouble wasn't real.

Faron had handled shame differently. He bought things and told stories about future success. He said a new set of tools would bring in work. Then a truck accessory. Then fishing gear because he needed to relax. I didn't object because each purchase seemed to promise that the old man I loved was coming back. Eventually the purchases became the only promise I could see.

I tried to remember the last time Faron had asked whether I was worried. Perhaps he had asked once and I had said I was fine. That possibility bothered me. I hadn't been blameless in the way we talked. I hid bills and avoided arguments. I said yes when I wanted to say no. But I couldn't take responsibility for the threats he made after the divorce or the laughter on the courthouse steps. Those choices belonged to him.

I called Ruth and told her the conversation hadn't been as terrible as I feared. She asked if he had apologized. I described what he'd said. “Sounds like he explained himself,” she replied. “That's not always the same thing.” I thought about it. An explanation could help me understand what happened without giving me a reason to return to the same arrangement.

Ruth told me about a time she had borrowed money from her daughter after an unexpected car repair. She wrote out a repayment plan before accepting it. Her daughter said it wasn't necessary, but Ruth insisted. She wanted both of them to understand what the help meant. “Love is easier when everybody knows where the line is,” she said. I wrote that in my notebook after we hung up.

The following Saturday I cleaned out the basement. There were boxes of Faron's old magazines and a broken lamp. I called Mara's office to ask whether the remaining items were covered by our agreement before disposing of anything that might belong to him. Her assistant advised me to make an inventory and wait for guidance. I took photographs and labeled the boxes. It was dull work, but dull was better than another avoidable fight.

I finished the day by washing the windows in the kitchen. The glass had held a haze I hadn't noticed. The late sunlight came through more clearly afterward. I put the clean curtains back and made supper. It was tempting to turn every household task into a symbol of my independence. Mostly, though, I was simply glad the windows were clean and the basement floor was easier to walk across.

That evening I saw an old advertisement for the sports show in a local newsletter. A picture of a bass boat filled half the page. I looked at it for a moment, then turned the page. There was a notice about a winter food drive. I wrote down the date because Peg's diner usually donated soup. I wanted to help again.