By Tracy Pitts
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“The Bus deals with queer death, but not in the “bury your gays” sense. It has mild descriptions of a traffic accident that kills a character, but nothing detailed. Grief of a loved one is also covered.” -Tracy Pitts
This morning I make my breakfast in silence. I toast some bread. I boil an egg because my wife always says I need more protein. I sit down at the table across from her, and we don’t talk as we eat. This has become the norm lately, although I can’t remember doing anything to make her angry with me. She looks pale and a little sick, like she hasn’t been sleeping well, and although I am dying to ask if she’s alright, I know that she won’t respond to me. We haven’t had a conversation in a while. How long has this been going on? I can’t seem to get a grip on time, but I am frustrated by the silence. Sometimes I bang things around while I’m getting ready, just to elicit a response from her. It doesn’t make her speak, but sometimes she jumps at the sudden noise when I knock the frying pan off the counter or slam a cabinet door closed. She looks startled when I make too much noise. I have never been violent with her. I wouldn’t dream of it, but her reaction makes me feel like a terrible wife anyway. I turn a page of the newspaper that is lying flat on the table in front of me. Lydia looks up abruptly when I do, and I bite back a snarky comment. “Is my reading annoying you?” finds its home just behind my clenched teeth and settles there, tasting bitter. I don’t want to start an argument before work. We both have long days ahead of us, and I see no reason to start it off with bad feelings. Besides, my head is already beginning to hurt. Coffee dribbles from the coffeemaker with a loud gurgle and the alarm on Lydia’s phone sounds off. “God damnit,” she swears, jumping almost clear out of her seat. I would laugh if I were in the mood. She always sets alarms for when she has to wake up, when she should be leaving for work, and when she should leave work to come back home. She is terrified of breaking her strict punctuality. I used to find it endearing, but this morning I realize that it’s beginning to get under my skin. She shuts off the alarm and slips on her shoes. She always wears sensible pumps, choosing to dress the part for work. She’s an accountant, and the fact that I don’t dress more professionally drives her crazy. I tell her that everyone in my office wears jeans anyway, and that I don’t feel comfortable in the skirt suits she always wears. Besides, working in IT means I have to crawl around under desks to fix computers sometimes. Lydia argues in return that women have had a hard enough time fighting for an equal place in the workforce, and that I should at least look like I am trying. I tell her that I will dress nicer when I get to take the car instead of the bus, where there is no telling what I may get on my clothes. It’s one of the few things we truly argue about, until the recent silent treatment. Lydia’s phone rings and she puts it on speaker while she pours way too much creamer into her coffee. It’s her mother, and I almost leave the room. I don’t want to hear that woman’s voice first thing in the morning, but her words freeze me in my tracks. “Lydia, darling, what are you doing up?” “You called me, Mom,” Lydia replies, stirring her coffee with a spoon. It’s more cream and sugar than coffee now. “To make sure you were taking it easy.” “I have to go to work, Mom. The world didn’t stop spinning when…when…” she breaks off, tossing her spoon into the sink with a loud clatter that makes me jump for once. “Darling, don’t you think they can spare you for a few days? Given the circumstances?” “No, Mom, I’d rather be at work right now anyway. It’s too quiet here,” she stares right through me as she says this, and my jaw drops. I’ve seen her passive aggressive side before, but this is taking things to a new level. Whatever I did must be truly awful. Lydia excuses herself from the call and crosses over to shut off the radio. It’s a heavy, old fashioned thing that we found at a thrift store, but we prefer it to the bright images on the television in the mornings. Just as she reaches for the knob, a reporter begins talking about a bus accident that happened along the route I take to work. I am thinking to myself that maybe I shouldn’t take the bus to work today after all when Lydia switches it off abruptly. “Why do they keep replaying that report, Maggie?” she exclaims. Her voice cracks and she slams her hand down on top of the radio, making me jump for the second time that morning. I am about to respond, but she doesn’t even look at me as she picks up her handbag and leaves the house, slamming the door behind her. * I make breakfast this morning, but I can’t taste it. I boil an egg, but I let it go too long and the texture is rubbery. The toast I make burns to the point that I can scrape the blackened parts off with a knife. Between the egg and the burnt toast, the smell is horrendous, and the fire alarm goes off just as I am pulling the charred toast from the smoking appliance. I can hardly hear the radio over the screaming smoke alarm, but I think it is playing some report about a bus crash. I will probably have to walk to work this morning on top of ruining my breakfast. It’s shaping up to be a really great day. I move to shut off the alarm but stop in my tracks when I realize that I can’t remember where it is. Lydia comes skidding into the room, her eyes wide with panic as she searches for the source of the burning smell. She stops the fire alarm and I’m grateful—my head was beginning to pound from the noise. Lydia approaches the counter cautiously. It’s obvious that nothing is actually on fire, but the burning smell still permeates the air. I’m about to point out my ruined breakfast and lament that I don’t have time to remake it. Maybe if I look pathetic enough Lydia will sympathize with me and we can talk. I’m really getting tired of the silence. Before I can speak, she rips the toaster’s cord out of the wall. I stare, wanting to tell her off for being so reckless with the appliances. Between her mother hating me and my own parents being gone for many years already, we didn’t have the easiest start to our life together. A few years ago, even buying something as simple as a toaster was a big deal for us. She doesn’t give me the chance to say anything. I am surprised when she turns and yanks the radio’s cord out of the wall as well. She stalks out of the room, toward the bedroom. I don’t think she wants me to follow her. I can hear her crying. * I try to make breakfast this morning, but I drop every utensil I pick up. Lydia had already left for work when I woke up, so she isn’t here to be critical of my clumsiness. When we were first married, she found it endearing and laughed at me good-naturedly, but it feels like she’s always angry with me now. I have seen more tears from her lately than in our whole seven years of marriage, and that’s saying a lot. She is the weepy type, especially during sad movies. Or romantic movies. Or when she sees cute animal photos online. She doesn’t even want to watch movies anymore. The few times I’ve tried to put something on for us, she switches it off. She leaves the radio going at all hours, and I’ve heard several reports about bus accidents now. I’m beginning to think that the bus company should be sued. Maybe I should take up cycling. It’s past time for me to leave for work myself. I’m going to be late, that’s for sure, but I can’t seem to do anything right, and I just want to lay back down. I’m not feeling very good. I’ve had the same headache for the past few days, and it’s only getting worse. I had migraines in college, but they slacked off as I got older. I hope they’re not coming back. I pick up the phone to call work. My fingers feel huge on the buttons, and I drop the phone twice. I finally set it on the table, pressing the speaker button once I manage to get through. “Hey Anne,” I say when the secretary answers the phone. “Can you tell Fiona that I’m not going to make it in today? I’m feeling under the weather.” “Hello?” Anne’s voice comes through from the other end of the line. “Hello?” “Anne, can you hear me?” I ask, raising my voice a little. “It’s Maggie.” The connection sounds scratchy and my voice echoes, as though we’re trying to communicate through a tunnel. “Is anyone there?” Anne asks. After another moment of silence, she gives up, and I hear a click as she hangs up. * I make breakfast this morning, but Lydia ignores it. I try to offer her toast as she walks by me, but she acts like I don’t even exist. She’s in a hurry, I guess, and maybe I’ve done something else wrong. God, I never know what I’ve done wrong anymore, but there’s always something. It makes me wonder if we will ever get back to the way we were. She grabs a protein bar and rushes out the door without saying goodbye. * I’m ready to make breakfast this morning, but the smell of food is already in the air when I wake. Lydia and I are breakfast people, normally, but this smells better than anything we ever cook. She really must have pulled out all the stops. Maybe she has decided it’s time to resolve this tension between us. I sit up and pull my housecoat on over my pajamas. I don’t wear much to bed, but neither does she. I would just walk out to the kitchen in my nightclothes, but there is a chill in the house that I can’t quite seem to shake. It makes me want to crawl back under the covers. Even after I put on my slippers, I can feel how cold the floor is. The cold only gets worse as I pad toward the kitchen. I cross my arms over my chest and shiver. Lydia is cold natured, so I don’t understand why she hasn’t turned up the heat. However, when I pass the thermostat in the hallway it reads seventy degrees. Why am I so cold? Usually I’m the one who is quick to overheat, breaking a sweat when she lays across me at night, soaking up my body heat. That is, back when she used to sleep against me. I don’t remember the last time we touched. When I enter the kitchen, I stop short, stunned. There are people in my house. They are people I know, or at least, people I think I know. Their faces are familiar, but their names feel like how a dream slips away as soon as you wake up. They are all dressed in dark colors, and food is laid out on every available countertop. Lydia is standing in the midst of them with a handkerchief pressed against her face. I can tell that she has been crying, but I can’t fathom what about. It’s too early in the morning for her to be this upset. She is surrounded by people, and I begin to recognize a few of them, slowly. I see her mother, hovering around her like a moth to a light. A surge of annoyance rushes through me and I look away. I also see my boss, Fiona, standing by one of the counters, speaking idly with someone I don’t yet remember. “Babe, what happened?” I ask, moving through the small crowd around my wife. They draw away like they’ve been shocked, but I ignore them. The more I take in the scene around me, the more I fear the worst. Someone important to us must have passed. Lydia shivers and draws into herself as I approach. Her reaction takes me aback. “Are you cold?” Lydia’s mother asks, moving past me as though I don’t even exist. My annoyance builds. She had big dreams for her daughter, and they did not include a working-class wife. She doesn’t like me any more than I like her. “Lydia, darling, what can I do?” My wife shakes her head. A sob makes her small frame shake, and she takes a step back from her mother. The radio is playing softly in the background like it does every morning. It sounds like it’s tuned to the eighties station we always listen to. Some of my wife’s favorite songs are from the eighties, and I love it even though I tease her about being born a decade too late. It seems like my wife doesn’t want my comfort any more than her mother’s, and I back away from the scene playing out in front of me. I bump into the table that the radio is sitting on. Someone has placed a dish of banana pudding on the table, and it falls with a crash. Shards of fancy glassware scatter everywhere, and someone stifles a scream. “I got it,” Lydia’s mother says. She seems relieved to step away from the daughter whose grief she can’t fix. She finds where we keep the broom tucked away behind a door and begins sweeping up the glass. Someone else rushes for a wet towel and I take the moment of distraction to get a good look at my wife, who is still standing with her arms folded. Her gaze is vacant, like her body is here but there’s nothing happening behind her eyes. I shiver. Something is seriously wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is. My brain feels full of fog, and the song on the radio sounds tinny, which makes my skin crawl. The music fades out and a news report comes on. “Investigation is still underway on the bus accident that happened on Mill Street this past Monday morning,” it says. The reporter’s voice sounds flat and far away. I recall the way Anne’s voice sounded on the phone the other day. “Eleven people were injured with five fatalities. Lack of vehicle maintenance is suspected but cannot be proven at this—” “Turn it off!” Lydia shrieks from across the room. Her hands clap over her ears, but someone has already cut the radio off. All eyes turn to Lydia in the silence, and my ears ring in the aftermath of her scream. I can feel the familiar beginnings of a headache beginning in my temples. Suddenly, Lydia gags into her handkerchief and runs from the room, her mother right on her heels. There’s a long, awkward pause in her absence. No one expected such an outburst from my normally soft-spoken wife. “I can’t believe they’re still playing that report,” one of the guests says quietly, breaking the awkwardness in the room. “It’s been almost a week.” “It really is a shame about her wife,” someone else pipes up, and head nods travel around the room. “They can’t even have an open casket. Her head…” “Maggie really was good to her. I don’t know what she’ll do now.” There is a ripple of murmured agreement through the small crowd and then the room falls silent. I freeze. I look around the room at the group of people and then my gaze falls on the mirror above the fireplace. I can only see myself from the shoulders up, but the comment from before runs through my mind. “They can’t even have an open casket. Her head . . .” * I make breakfast this morning. I boil an egg and toast some bread. I sit down at the table across from Lydia. We don’t talk. We don’t touch. She reads the paper and sips her coffee. The radio plays softly in the background. Her eyes are red rimmed, and I track every detail with my gaze. I take in the way she eats, the way she drinks, the way her brown hair falls over her shoulders just so. She is mine, and I am hers. The final decade of my life was dedicated to learning everything I can about her, and now I have an unlimited amount of time. I watch her now like I will for the rest of her life. In silence.
Tracy Pitts can best be described by the stickers on her favorite notebook: Neurodivergent, queer, nerd. She thinks it’s something of an adventure to be a queer creator living in the deep south, but she thrives on adventure and weirdness. During the day, she works in education, helping children learn in a non-traditional setting. She has set very intentional fires in her place of work, and still hopes they won’t notice how badly she has managed to stain the carpet behind her desk. She fits writing in wherever she can, somehow becoming a morning person after 30 years of thinking it could never happen. Go figure.
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