In Loving Memory Of
Randy Nadeau
The Loop
“The rain dampened the drive-in and smeared each scene until only the sound was clear. He drew her out of the car to dance in the muck. Their bodies quickened in silver so slick the movie mirrored them. The light shattering with wet on car hoods clamored for them like flash bulbs as under the rain, they danced circles of mud. They live by the lake now, though illness separates her from the man she married. Each morning, her hair haloed gray around her head, her teeth still out for the night, her eyes seeking the rise in his chest, he sees her, says ‘You’re beautiful’ in slurred murmur only she can understand. No one spoke of this at the wedding, in the film, how she would learn to love him blurred beyond recognition. It has been a long time now, peeling away the onion husks to get to the whitened bulb. She cuts up his meat, mashes the potatoes, each morning greets him and the lake, even if it’s frozen. As she feeds him she hums a strip of music, her fingers dance with the fork. She softens the scene, recreates the rain, does not call this a choice. It is the echo of the rings on their hands. Sometimes, she takes him with both her hands and speaks loudly enough to fill their house. ‘Hey handsome, do you love me?’ she asks. He can barely talk anymore. The thin hairs on his face, his neck arching towards her, the man he is beneath a frozen surface all say, yes. He asks her without moving his mouth. She says ‘yes.’ These words have looped for years, become slender, fragile, unbroken. Few will remember this hushed talk. It sounds like the lake. It sounds like the rain.”
– Meaghan Reynolds
Randy Nadeau
