The Taste of Salt by Martha Southgate Read Free Book Online Page B

the way you did tonight and played with the kids and all. But will you talk to me?”
    He still didn’t look at her. He used to gaze at her so hard she thought he was trying to see her soul. He used to gaze at her so hard that she sometimes had to turn her head away; she couldn’t stand it. Being loved that much. It made her blush. It made her nervous. It made her so happy. And now he wouldn’t look at her at all. She got up and turned offthe television and stood in front of him. “Ray, please, please talk to me. I see how you’re trying. I don’t care, I don’t care about what happened last night. I don’t think any less of you, but I gotta know that we’re in this together. I gotta know that you’re still my husband.” She paused. “That you still love me.”
    â€œI love you, Sarah. I do.” He sighed from the very soles of his feet. “But I know I’m not helping you. I know …” He paused. “I know that I’m drinking too much. You think I felt like a man after last night? No. No, I know I’m not right. And I’m gonna try to get right and do right by you all. I swear I am. I swear it.”
    She went to him and embraced him, just like she did the first time they were ever together. She could feel all of him enter into her arms. He picked her up like she was a feather—after having two kids!—and carried her to their room, and they made love and this time it was perfect. It was so so sweet. If she’d known what was to come, she would have treasured it more. She would have held it to her heart like the jewel it was. But she didn’t know. How could you know something like that? How could you hold on to something like that? You couldn’t.

Five
    When I was eight, nine, ten, I was in love with my father. Of course I was. That’s what girls do. And despite all the hard times, there are some good days to remember. That’s what makes the bad ones harder to accept. I always thought that if I could just do the right thing, if I could just say some magic words I didn’t know, that I could make the good days stay, maybe even multiply. That’s what people always think. That’s what’s so hard to let go of.
    When I was eight, nine, ten, my world was my block and the few blocks around it. I went to school and sat through reading and perked up at math and came home. I stroked our cat, Purrface, and cleaned out the litter box. I played Barbies with my friend Deena from across the street. I collected leaf samples from our front yard and classified themby size. I rode bikes with Tick. He had learned to ride when he was four by tilting his tricycle over onto two wheels. He used to spend hours—even at that age—falling and getting up, falling and getting up. And then finally he got up and stayed right and sailed all the way to the corner tilted over like a circus clown. My mother and father were sitting out on the porch when he got the hang of it. I don’t think I’d ever seen them laugh so hard. And the next day, my father came home from work with a new red two-wheeler for Tick. We barely ever got him off it after that. As long as there wasn’t a foot or two of snow on the ground, he was out furiously riding, riding, riding. Like he was chasing something—or something was chasing him. I could never keep up.
    C LEVELAND DOESN’T HAVE AN aquarium anymore, but when I was a kid, there was a pretty good-sized one. It was on its last legs during my childhood—it closed in 1986 when I was twelve. But it was there. I don’t remember what the outside of the building looked like. It must have been big. I remember only a feeling of size and of coolness and darkness and mystery. It smelled kind of musty but there was a pleasant hum in the air, the sound of all that water being aerated, the shouts of children on field trips and families out together. It was my very favorite place, but