Love Conquers All

J.K. has a photograph in his desk drawer at work. It looks like it could have been taken in the nineteenth century, with one of those huge wooden box cameras. In the picture, six men are maneuvering a casket down the front steps of a church. Passersby are caught in the act of turning to watch the progression; their bodies are slightly fuzzy with the suddenness of their movement. In the doorway of the church is a bereaved face. It looks as white and lifeless as wax, except for the eyes. The eyes are deep wells of rage and pain set above the hollowed cheeks. The eyes almost don't look human.

The photograph is three years old. The casket contains the body of J.K.'s wife. The face in the doorway is J.K.'s. It almost scares him to look at his face in the picture, but, though he's not sure why, sometimes he needs to.

He got married again three months ago. His wife's name is Denise Marie, but now when people tease her they call her D.M. From the beginning everyone considered it an unlikely friendship. For one thing, there are eight years between them. Everyone assumes it's more, because Denise seems younger than twenty-nine and J.K. looks older than thirty-seven. He knows Denise never would have married him if it weren't for the baby. There wouldn't be a baby if they hadn't had so much to drink New Year's Eve--he winces when he thinks about it.

"Well, I don't run away from my responsibilities," he said when she told him she was pregnant, and two weeks later they got married in the front of the church, where his first wife's funeral had been. Only J.K.'s sister guessed the truth, and she didn't say anything, but he saw the look in her eyes. It didn't change anything, though; his family loves Denise, and she loves them, just as she loves everybody.

J.K.'s phone rings, and he wades out of the stream of his thoughts and picks it up. He listens, blurts out a few questions, then grabs his coat and walks quickly to his car. He drives through the city with a feeling of unreality, and when he parks, and the hospital building looms in front of him, it's as though he is observing himself act out a drama. Denise is in the emergency room, in a little cubicle marked OB/GYN. She is resting on a stretcher, blankets tucked up under her chin. J.K. thinks how strange it is to see her so still. Always her face is animated, talking, laughing, smiling, but now it looks drawn and expressionless. As he walks toward her, she opens her eyes.

"I lost the baby, J.K.," she says, and it hurts to hear his name spoken in such a tight, anguished voice. He feels a crushing swell of guilt and misery. "I'm sorry," he says finally. The words sound illiterate and inadequate.

"It's not your fault," she answers. Slowly she extends her hand through the rail of the stretcher, seeking his. As he clasps it, a doctor strides in. The doctor tells them there will be minor surgery, and Denise will stay overnight in the hospital. There is no reason, he says, they can't try for children again. Denise presses her lips together and looks away.

J.K. waits in the operating room lounge for two hours, then walks with the orderlies as they wheel Denise to her room. She dozes and wakes fitfully, muttering long sentences he can't understand. At 8:30, visiting hours are over, and J.K. goes home. When he leaves the hospital, it is sleeting, and he feels the tiny ice pellets peppering his head. Before he gets in the car he dusts his hair with his hands, and a shower of sparkling crystals descends around him. He drives home slowly through the silent, shrouded streets, thinking that it's the sounds of Denise that have made his life feel different: her car radio thumping when she parks in front of their rowhouse, her laughter, the clinking of utensils when she makes dinner, her singing little pieces of songs as she works. Now the house seems too still. He can't stand being in the bedroom alone, so he goes down and lies, still dressed, on the couch.

In the morning he brings Denise home. Her eyes look tired, her face wan. She climbs into the car with an effort, and they sit silent as he drives. Overnight the sleet has stopped, and now the streets are merely wet. Up in the sky, the sun weaves through a lucent veil of clouds. J.K. doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. He thinks about how his mother says that God never puts more of a burden on you than you can bear. Maybe in some strange way it was supposed to be, that he and Denise were sent to each other. They wouldn't have married if she hadn't gotten pregnant, but the two of them can bear burdens together a lot better than either one alone. He wonders what will happen now. He guesses she'll want to leave, and he thinks that life will be drab without her.

Denise turns and looks at J.K. in profile. He has a big nose, and his hair is gray at the temples. In her mind's eye she sees his wide, deep smile, the way his blue eyes twinkle when he laughs; those are the things she likes about him. Now there is something in the rigid way he's holding himself that makes her chest ache. She knows the question will have to be asked. "J.K.?" she says softly.

"Hmm?" He doesn't take his eyes off the road, maneuvering around a bakery truck.

She steels herself. "Are you going to divorce me, now that there's no baby?" she asks.

For a moment J.K.'s eyes flash over to hers, and suddenly the whole world seems to revolve in a tight circle around their blue color. His hands grip the wheel tighter. "Do you want a divorce?" he asks back.

They have been friends for almost two years. He only married her because of the baby, she knows that. They are a mismatch, she knows that too. But life can be hard, and she'd rather face it with J.K. than without him. "No," she says.

J.K. keeps driving for a moment. Then he says, "I don't either." They are at the stop sign at the end of their block, and he reaches over and squeezes her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers.

He walks her slowly up to the door of the rowhouse. Their across-the-street neighbors, two elderly sisters and a poodle, watch from a front window. J.K. knows that when the sisters find out what happened, they will come over with casseroles and offer to sit with Denise. They have been his neighbors for fifteen years, and Denise does their grocery shopping for them all the time.

He helps Denise upstairs and into the back bedroom, the quietest one, and puts her to bed, drawing the covers up close to her face. "Thanks, J.K.," she says tiredly, sinking back into the pillow. J.K. looks into her face for a moment. It makes him want to protect her, she looks so frail and grim. He leans down, and gently, so lightly he almost misses, kisses her cheek.

"Get some sleep," he says. "You'll feel better when you've had some sleep."

He closes the door behind him, but she can hear the steps creaking as he goes downstairs. She's chilly, and she feels empty and dull inside. She stares at the narrow strips of sunlight that wax and wane between the slats of the venetian blind, remembering the time she had a wart removed from her little finger. For weeks afterward, the finger was cold and numb, but eventually the feeling came back. She has lived enough to know the feeling will come back this time too. Through the thick walls of the rowhouse, she hears a plane flying overhead. Suddenly she has the sensation of having returned home from a long journey. She doesn't want to move, afraid she might dislodge the curious calm. So, with the imprint of J.K.'s kiss still tingling on her cheek, she closes her eyes and falls asleep.