I pointed out to Suzy that that was the happiest day of his life, not hers. She seemed on the verge of replying, but after a few minutes, I realized she had fallen back asleep.
Over the years, that conversation had been buried beneath what happened a week later, when Suzy started distancing herself once again, no longer even looking at me, until finally I came home to a dark and empty house one afternoon and discovered that her suitcase was gone from the closet along with half her clothes.
I drove at once to Happy’s apartment, but Suzy was not there. Happy was as alarmed as I was. We went together to the flower shop, to the movie theaters, to every restaurant and shop in Chinatown that Suzy frequented and every spot on Fisherman’s Wharf where she might seek temporary refuge. Happy knew these places well and ended up doing the driving, leading me to sites and habits in Suzy’s life that I had not been part or remotely aware of, hushing me every time I lost my patience and cursed my crazy fucking wife in front of her.
We drove around the city until darkness fell and we had exhausted all our options. I wanted to quit then, too worn out and pissed off to care anymore about why she’d up and leave like this or why she’d been acting this way for so many weeks, so many years.
I remembered sitting in the darkness of the car with Happy, feeling as alone as I did now in the darkness of the cab. I finally asked her why Suzy would want to leave me, a question I already had many answers for. She said something about how women get this way at a certain age and maybe all Suzy needed was something new in her life.
Like a new husband? I asked her. Or maybe having a child would make her happy?
She shrugged and thought for a moment, her face contemplative and sad in a way I’d rarely seen. Who know what make somebody happy? she said. It usually not what you think, and it almost never what you want it to be.
That must have triggered something, because she sat up and said she had one last place we could check.
We found Suzy’s lone white Toyota in the parking lot of St. Mary’s, a mere three blocks from our house. Suzy and I walked there every Sunday morning, even in the rain.
Evening Mass must have ended hours before, though the church doors were still unlocked. Inside, we found no one. There was some light from chandeliers and votive candles along the walls, but at that hour the church was shrouded in dusk and silence.
Happy and I made our way down the aisle, hoping to find Suzy asleep in one of the pews. I suggested we go search the confessionals, but Happy stopped halfway up the aisle. I thought at first that she was pointing at the life-size crucifix above the darkened sanctuary. It took me a moment to see Suzy’s small figure below it, standing behind the altar as casually as she would at the kitchen sink at home. One hand kept coming up to her mouth, and as we quietly approached the sanctuary, I could see that she was chewing on something, that it was in fact the Body of Christ. She was picking the communion wafers out of the Eucharist bowl like they were potato chips. Behind her, the doors of the tabernacle stood open.
Happy and I reached the front pew, where Suzy had left her suitcase. She hadn’t noticed us yet. Her eyes were directed at the high arched ceiling of the church. Was there something up there along the shadowy rafters? Something beyond the shadows? If it was God she saw, her face showed no sign of revelation or communion. Each time she brought a wafer to her lips, she bit into it indifferently, chewing it as she would a stale cookie. The way her face caught the pale amber light from the chandeliers, she seemed at once beautiful to me and intolerably alien.
I was too baffled to do anything — to even want to do anything. Happy finally called out to her. When she turned to us, she seemed unsurprised by our presence — calm and clear headed. But then her eyes began to tear up. I remember, before the floodlights abruptly turned on, her saying something in Vietnamese to Happy. It sounded regretful, an apology perhaps, an admission.
A voice boomed behind us. The parish priest was stomping up the aisle in his cassock, shouting, What is this? What are you all doing up there?
He hurried past us and up the sanctuary steps and seized the Eucharist bowl from Suzy, covering it with his hand as he continued chastising all three of us, demanding that we leave the premises at once.
Happy took Suzy by the hand and rushed her out of the church as I stayed behind and tried my best to explain everything to the priest, who knew Suzy and me from Mass but seemed too furious to recognize us. By the time I came out to the parking lot, Suzy was sitting alone in her Toyota and Happy was insisting that I not talk to her, that I should drive home, cool off, and let her take care of everything.
An hour later, when Suzy walked into our bedroom with her suitcase and returned it to the closet, the sight of her instantly drained me of all the questions and bitter words I’d stored up. She peered at me from across the room, unsure if I would yell at her or ignore her. She finally approached the bed and without taking off her shoes crawled onto the sheets and burrowed into my arms, crying softly until we both fell asleep.
There would never be a right time to ask her. We immediately went on with our life together, ignoring what had happened. We started eating out and going to the movies more frequently and even took trips to the Redwoods and other parks that she had always wanted to visit. At my suggestion, we began renovating the entire town house, tearing down the rooms one by one and rebuilding each with our own hands, slowly and patiently and meticulously so we’d not only get it right but also leave ourselves more still to rebuild, to fix and improve. The marriage would end before the renovation was complete, but for four more years we fed off that silent and inexplicable need for each other. That was enough, at least for me.
I did ask Happy once if she found out why Suzy almost left me and how she had convinced her to come home. She would only say that Suzy never truly wanted to leave. I never thought to ask about what she’d been doing at the church. In my mind, she’d simply been trying to talk to a God who wasn’t answering — the only kind I’ve ever known.
I do remember looking through her empty suitcase the day after her return. Inside an inner pocket, I found a brand-new passport, issued that past week, and an envelope full of cash that must have taken her many months, perhaps years, to save.
THE CABDRIVER was still racing through the night a good fifteen miles over the speed limit. We passed shopping malls that straddled the highway, closed down for the night, then golf-course mansions and sprawling housing estates, then suddenly a lone casino, majestic and brilliant in the night, then more houses and condominiums, lit-up gas stations and cold commercial buildings and all those other badges of suburban peace.
The Strip had long vanished behind us, no sign of the pyramid light or anything.
I asked the driver how much longer we had to go. He said, “Five minutes max,” and nudged the gas pedal.
I checked the battery on the cell phone. It was still half full.
The wipers squealed across the windshield, startling me. In the yellow nimbus of the highway lights, you could see the snow flurries buzzing about like flies.
“Fucking snow in the desert,” the driver said, unimpressed. “Left Jersey to get away from this.” He didn’t seem to care if I was listening. “Betcha anything people gonna die tonight. People here can’t even drive in the rain.”