Eye. Arm. Lea. Heart.

40 40 Eye. Arm. Leg. Heart. Rebecca Barry It was his liver, hardened by 5,000 gallons of eighty-proof gin, that finally killed Harlin Wilder. The sharp pang of loneliness Harlin’s first wife Janine felt when she heard this news surprised her. Her marriage to Harlin, which had lasted barely eight months, had ended more than a decade ago, and Janine had long since put that time behind her. Still, when Harlin’s lawyer Jake Grimaldi drove out to her house to tell her Harlin was gone, Janine sat down at her kitchen table and put her head in her hands. Jake, who was a polite man, took a flask of whiskey out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. “I thought you would want to know,” he said. Janine felt the booze go down and remembered how much she’d loved whiskey, which she hadn’t had since she’d become a nurse and given up hard liquor. She looked at the barn across the street, sagging in the middle as if it understood her. Harlin had remained in her memory as one of those fantastic alcoholics who never died, one of those flukes of nature that just kept on drinking long after the joggers and vegans died of heart attacks. And here was Jake Grimaldi, a drinker himself whom Janine had known since high school, a man she thought might have given in years ago, sitting in her kitchen alive and well and telling her that Harlin was gone. “I represented him in court just this year,” Jake said. “His wife was suing him because he took all her money to start up a petting zoo.” Janine laughed and took one of his cigarettes. “He got drunk one day and decided he was going to start this zoo out at his dad’s old place. He took Charlene’s money out of her savings and spent it all on fencing supplies and animal feed.” “And beer for all the people he was going to hire,” Janine said. Jake smiled. “Naturally,” he said. “Including you,” Janine said. She meant to laugh when she said 41 this, but then she began to cry. She had loved Harlin, and he had loved her, and even though that time had passed, she remembered his voice and his hands, and the way he couldn’t get enough of her skin. Jake pulled a cocktail napkin out of his pocket and checked it for phone numbers, and, seeing none, handed it to Janine. When he put his arm around her shoulders, Janine smelled good whiskey and cigarettes, a smell she’d always liked on a man. She breathed it in from his jacket before she pulled away. The funeral was the next morning, Jake said, downtown at the funeral home on State Street. “You going?” Janine guessed the answer even before Jake shook his head. The funeral would be full of his clients, and Jake, who she knew saw a little of himself in each one, wouldn’t want to be closer to their lives than he already was. “No,” he said. “But Freddie Wilder was out last night telling everyone it was going to be a big party.” Janine laughed and blew her nose. “I bet he was.” One of her dogs started scratching at the door, and Janine got up to let him in. “It was nice of you to come all the way out here to tell me about it,” Janine said. “It was on my way back from the jail,” Jake said. Then, “You look good.” “Thank you,” she said, running some water for the dog. “You should call me tomorrow, if you’re in town.” It was a pass and Janine knew it, and for a minute she thought about reminding him that she was living with a cabinetmaker named Troy. But then she decided not to. It was rare these days that anyone, even Troy, looked at her the way Jake was now, like she was a single, delicious, ripe piece of fruit. “You’re sweet to try, Jake Grimaldi,” she said. “Nothing sweet about it,” said Jake. The funeral was at 11:00...