My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher Read Free Book Online

envisioned Springbird—the one name that I've had
for months now, albeit only a screen name. She's short,
blond. She's perky, but when the perk fades, she's quick to
whine. But this is all imagination. Of course I won't find
her screen name in the book. I keep flipping forward. The
names come at me as I turn the pages—Markie, Allison,
Liz . . . I don't want to read another name, but I can't stop
myself either. The ache is deep in my chest.
    I hear myself say, "I don't want to be Artie Shoreman's
emotional needs manager."
    I sit down on the edge of the bed. I finish my drink and
look up at the ceiling where, above, Artie is sleeping
soundly, where Artie is dying. And it dawns on me that he
knows that I would never call up one of his sweethearts, that I haven't wanted to know anything about the three of
them from our marriage, the other ones from his past. I get
up and pace. "Artie, you son of a bitch. You don't think
I'll do it, do you? You think I'm just going to play my role
here. Forgive you. Be the good wife. Pretend nothing ever
happened. Go it alone. Be the bigger person."
    I open to the A's, let my finger cruise down to a name
with a red dot. Kathy Anderson. I take another drink. I
dial. It's long distance—one state away—after midnight.
The phone rings twice, and then the machine kicks in, a
woman's voice with New Agey wind chimes in the background.
I immediately hate the woman. After the beep, I
go ahead as planned. "Artie Shoreman is dying. Please call
to schedule your turn at his deathbed."
    I slam down the phone. But this feels strangely good. I
call the next number with a red dot. This time a woman
answers. I've obviously woken her up.
    "Artie Shoreman is dying. When would you like to
schedule your turn at his deathbed?"
    "Artie Shoreman? Tell him he can rot in hell for all I
care." This name has a red mark by her name—an almost
violent X—so the code is pretty easily broken, even by
someone in my drunken condition.
    "Understandable," I say. "Maybe next Thursday?"
    "What?"
    "Do you like elevators?"
    The phone goes dead.
    I smile. It doesn't make sense, but I can't stop smiling.
I turn to the B's. There it is: John Bessom. No red mark. A
number and address and a business name: Bessom's
Bedding Boutique. I run my fingers over the letters, wondering
what Artie's son would be like—what our son
might have been like if we'd had one. Does he look like
Artie? Brush his hair off his forehead in that rough gesture
like Artie? Does he own Bessom's Bedding
Boutique? Or does that belong to his mother? Her name
is here too—Rita Bessom. Did he offer to marry her?
    It's too much. I flip past the Bessoms, to the back
pages. I find another red dot—it's a large dot. Obviously
Artie let his red felt-tip pen sit there for a while, let his
mind wander. I pick up the phone, dial the number, look
out at the night sky, the fat moon.
    A machine picks up. The woman's voice is young and
jaded. "This is Elspa. You know what to do."
    But it strikes me then that I don't know what to do. I
don't have any idea what I'm doing. I don't say anything
at first. I just listen to the dull static, and then I say, "Artie
Shoreman is dying. Please call to schedule a time at his
deathbed." And then I pause. "Artie is dying."

Chapter Six
Forgiveness Doesn't Wear a Rolex Knockoff
    While I pour my coffee—hung over and
miserable—a new male nurse is arranging
a tray of soft foods and a number of
pills in little white paper cups the size of creamers—which
remind me of the creamers I used to drink and stack while
at fancy restaurants with my mother and her various husbands.
I believe I did this not only because I loved the
cream, but because it irritated my mother to no end.
Actually, Artie's #42 is about how I'll still sometimes pop
open a creamer in a restaurant and down it like a shot of
tequila, which struck him as charmingly odd and uninhibited.
The male nurse's hands are huge,