Chapter 13: The Closet Box

Brett's Saturday class ran until one, which gave me three hours in an empty house.

I drove home from the Hartwells' with Tony's face still in my head.

I didn't let myself picture it for long.

The hall closet held our winter coats, the vacuum, and a gray file box with TAXES written on the lid in Brett's boyish print.

I knelt on the floor and lifted the lid.

There were seven years of returns in labeled folders, and our mortgage papers, and the warranty for a dishwasher we no longer owned.

Behind the mortgage folder sat a plain white envelope with no label.

Inside was a single sheet, folded in thirds.

The letterhead said Riverside Men's Clinic, and the patient name was Brett Kessling.

I read it standing up, in my socks, with my back against the coats.

I have read a thousand lab reports in my life.

Under SEMEN ANALYSIS, every line carried the same note: within normal limits.

Count, motility, shape, volume.

The doctor had signed at the bottom, and had added by hand: No concerns. Good luck to you both.

The date at the top was in our second year.

I stared at it, and a thin, high noise started in my ears.

Then the front door opened.