On a Sunday afternoon, Kim and I sat together in our freshly painted living room. Lounging on the brown cloth couch that still smelled like new, my wife, who was equally fresh, threw her arm up against the cushions, leaned her head into her palm, and sighed. I didn't look up from my book, not yet.

"I told my mom today that I'm an atheist," she said, with a hint of chagrin on her face.

Still reading, I passively replied, "Oh, yeah?"

"She freaked, though she didn't let me see how much it bothered her. She said that I still believe in God, I just don't know that I do."
I smiled with the usual ambivalence I had toward any topic involving her mother.

"You're an atheist, right?" she segued.

Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I raise my eyebrow. "Did I say that?"

Kim nodded. "I remember being surprised, since you were raised Catholic."

"You were raised Baptist."

"I was, but stop avoiding the question," she huffed good-humouredly, dashing me on the arm.

I shifted in my seat and considered the question. "I can't say that I am. I don't know exactly what I believe, but I do believe there's something out there." I looked her in the eye, being serious. I tried to balance the seriousness of the moment against my natural inclination to smile, but I couldn't resist smirking.

****

That was three weeks ago. Now, I sit on the same couch, worn down by people paying twenty-second condolences. Most try to make conversation with me, but I have fewer words now than when Kim was still alive. I overhear someone nearby saying, "Is that the husband?"

****

Emptying out our mailbox of the week's neglected envelopes, I glanced at the front page of the newspaper before saying: "Leave it to the Leonard Ledger to consider crime and divorce as equally newsworthy subjects." Already engrossed in the headlines, I continued,  "Someone robbed Hal's Diner and the Mac's last night? Who does that?"

"Probably the same guy who robbed the LCBO last week," Kim replied.

"Why am I only hearing this now?"

"Because you hide in your cubicle all day, James, then hide in your books all evening."

"I talk to you."

"Yes, but when I actually have the pleasure of capturing your attention, I'd rather talk about things that actually affect us."

"You've got my attention now," I said. Kim accused me of having that mischievous grin on my face again. Then we made love.

****

Fighting back the tears, I sense someone sit down beside me. It's Kim's mother, Mrs. Miller, looking irritatingly calm and collected. "I can't believe so many people knew Kimmy," she says. "My daughter was lovely, but with you she was practically a recluse."

Biting the inside of my lip, I politely remain silent, staring at the beige toe of my sock. The best way to deal with Kim's mother, I've always found, is to ignore her completely and hope she chalks it up to my natural quietness.

****

"You just have to know how to talk to her," Kim stated. "If my mom says something out of line, just say so."

"I'm not going to be rude, Kim."

Kim scoffed. "I don't think you could be rude, James, even if you tried. Besides, that's not what I'm suggesting. It's called being assertive."

I don't reply, which seems to end the conversation, until Kim inquires, "What would you like for dinner, honey?"

"I don't care."

"Would you rather have chicken or beef?" she prods.

"It doesn't matter."

Kim stares at me and stamps her foot, exclaiming, "James! Have an opinion for once."

****

Suddenly, I realize that there is a commotion starting outside, and Mrs. Miller has left her seat to investigate, followed by the majority of strangers in the room. At first, I enjoy the solitude, until I hear one of the stragglers mumble, "It's that tabloid that calls itself a newspaper."

I saunter towards my front door, straining to hear what Mrs. Miller is saying to the reporter at the door. I can't make out her words, but when the reporter replies, I hear clearly: "The police are saying this was a random drive-by shooting, not related to anything political or religious. Do you agree with their conclusion?"

Without hesitation, Mrs. Miller responds, "It's not a coincidence that my daughter was shot leaving a church, Debbie. These were people trying to make a statement. I know, however, that Kim's faith was strong, and her death only makes God's message stronger."

The idea that she would try to make Kim a martyr floors me. Within seconds, I've made my way out the door and in front of the cameras. When I see the reporter and her crew turn towards me, however, I brake hard and stand there in silence, unprepared. I realize suddenly that I have no words, and quickly change from a speeding car into an ostrich looking for a place to bury his head.

"Mr. Blackwell, do you have anything to add to the statements of your mother-in-law?" The reporter holds out her microphone expectantly.

I can't say anything. Rather than stay and embarrass myself, I turn and rush into our bathroom, locking myself inside.

****

Kim traced the lines of my face and said, "I love you."

"Me?"

"Yes. I love your strength and your patience and your support."

"I thought I was too unsupportive."
Narrowing her eyes, she countered, "And I still love you, even though you can't take a compliment." Removing herself from my lap, she added, "And just for the record, you're very supportive of me when it's between you and me; I just need you to back me a little more in public. You don't have to agree with me to support me."
Seeing the doubt on my face, she concluded: "It can't hurt you to speak up once in a while."

****

My hot tears are gathering in the spaces between our brown speckled tiles. Wiping my face with my sleeve before I have to see myself, I stand and analyze my reflection in the mirror. A vein in my temple is throbbing, an outward manifestation of a migraine just begun. Though I've been crying, my face is stolid and covered in sharp lines: protruding brows, high cheekbones, and a prominent chin. I realize now that these were the lines Kim had been tracing. She knew every crease, but did she really know me? Did I let her in? Everything about my physique has always given the impression of inner strength; only my slightly dropping shoulders currently say otherwise.

So, I make a change. Moving first my left shoulder then my right, I pull my broad shoulders into alignment. Then, I soften the lines of my face, allowing the sorrow within to register clearly in every crevice. I realize that I appear older, weathered and somewhat wiser, just because of the emotion in my face. I hold this pose for sixty seconds, making sure my body does not revert to its prior comfort. Gradually, the throbbing in my temple decreases.

Kim was right: it can't hurt me to speak up.

Leaving the quiet and solitude of the bathroom behind, I walk steadily through the door, passing Mrs. Miller, and down the front stairs of my house. Kim's mom pursues me, inquiring after me, but I ignore her.
The camera crew is gathered on the street, the reporter, Debbie, recording some message I can't hear. Surely, she's wrapping up the story-Kim's story. As I approach, the cameraman makes a conspicuous jerking motion with his eyes, drawing Debbie's attention to my approach. She has her microphone ready. Just as I stop in front of her, Mrs. Miller catches up to me.

"I want to say something about my wife, about Kim," I begin, my voice steady and clear. Everyone has gathered to hear what the hermit has to say.
Turning to Mrs. Miller, I first absolve her of guilt, not fully knowing why. "I'm sure you mean well when it comes to your daughter, Mrs. Miller, but I have to speak up for Kim's sake." Then, talking directly into the camera, I say, "Kim was a lot of things: a beautiful woman, a wonderful wife, and a devoted daughter. She was also strong, patient, and opinionated. She was never afraid to say what was on her mind, even if someone didn't want to hear it. Kim had, no, has a beautiful spirit. There is no doubt in my mind that she is out there somewhere hearing all of our words today.
"For that reason, however, I need to clear up a misunderstanding. Kim was not at that church the other day to feed her faith, as it has been implied. Kim was an atheist-she told me so the other day. She was at that church to visit her mother, nothing more. I'm not saying this to cause injury to anyone, only to remain true to Kim's spirit, who I'm sure is proud right now that someone was willing to speak up for her, especially now that she can't."

With that, I turn and hurry into my house, leaving everyone, including Mrs. Miller, outside. Leaning against the inside of the door, breathing slowly to quiet my frantic heart, I promise that in a few days, once I've had time to grieve in peace, I will reemerge. I vow that people will know me, as much for Kim's sake as for my own.