My husband the Beatnik did not want to get married at all.
Why do we need a legal contract that compels us to be happy? was his common argument.
Whenever he said it I’d give him an enormous pantomime yawn.
When we’d been together fifteen years, he suggested a trip to the Hudson Valley for a weekend getaway.
In the very center of Grand Central Station he went suddenly down on one knee and tugged a blue Tiffany box from his pocket.
We stood frozen in time, all of New York hurrying by, their footsteps echoing off the cold marble.
They do what they can to communicate with us. It ain’t easy, since there’s a gulf between this world and that one.
Hot and cold. That’s how you know. A spot in the room that always makes your gooseflesh prickle up.
Sometimes there’ll be a smell. Cigarettes when nobody ‘s smoking, or a trace of perfume.
Worst is when they get hornets to build a nest. Then they stir them up, see. Get them riled so’s they come after you. You might be able to ignore the sound of chains in the attic, but nobody can ignore a hornet’s sting.
Dan’s Uncle Eddie set down his empty quart of bourbon and grinned around the fire at us boys. He jammed his hand into his pocket and produced a fistful of .45 cartridges.
“Guess how many I got here,” he said. “Go on.”
Jim guessed twenty, Dan eighteen. I said thirteen.
”Well, let’s see who’s right,” he said. He got to his feet, swayed a moment, then hurled the bullets into the fire. “Make sure you count all of ‘em.”
He walked into the darkness to his tent.
We sat stunned for a moment, disbelieving, then jumped up and dove for cover.
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