I stood at the bottom of the stairs and took a long deep breath. Thirty-four steps. After thirty-four steps I could stop and rest awhile. Just in time too because my arms were beginning to feel like pieces of chewed gum. I was holding a heavy cardboard box. Across the top was written “Sky Average.” Don’t ask what it meant because the contents of the box were Hugh’s. Already that morning I’d taken “Pontus Harmon.” “Tarzan Hotel.” “Ugly Voila,” and now “Sky Average” up to the room he would use as a study. The first time I’d seen him writing those strange phrases onto boxes in New York, I’d looked at them, at Hugh, then at the boxes again.

“Am I missing something? How do you know what’s inside?”

He capped the thick marking pen he was using and slid it into his back pocket. “I’m a mood packer. Free form. Things go in a box that connect with each other, but leave enough room for surprise when I open it again and discover what’s there.”

“So what does ‘Tarzan Hotel’ mean?”

“I made it as a kid. I took a Buster Brown shoe box, cut it up, and painted it. I was seven. I made it into a hotel for some of my favorite toys.”

“And you kept it all these years?”

“No.” He looked at me and shrugged.

“Sooo, the Tarzan Hotel isn’t in your Tarzan Hotel box?”

“No.”

“Hugh, I think we’ve left the highway here. Should I put it into four-wheel drive?”

“No. Hand me that tape, willya? The Tarzan Hotel was where I kept favorite things. So inside this box are some of my favorite things. My pocketknife collection, fountain pens, some great books. That novel you gave me – The Story of Harold. Other stuff too, but I didn’t write it down so I’ll be surprised later.”

“You’re a strange fellow, but I like you.”

Hugh had made packing up my apartment bearable. I had never liked moving. Who does? But his company and unbroken enthusiasm made the work tolerable and sometimes even fun. Frequently I would get manic and feel we had to have everything done/packed/finished in this or that period of time. He was much more relaxed about it and that mood calmed me down. Often he came to me holding some object—a lamp, a figure, a pair of German binoculars—and wanted to know the story behind the thing. He wasn’t snooping or asking me to disclose any secrets; he wanted to know me through the things I owned. Frequently I found myself telling him in long detail the story behind them and, in doing so, relaxing and pleasantly reliving past times. When both of us were exhausted and dirty, we would take a bath together and then go out for a meal. Invariably we lingered at the table talking about what life would be like in Crane’s View. And not only that. We talked endlessly about what life would be like together. One night after dinner he took a slip of paper out of his pocket and read a poem to me. I kept the paper and had it framed. I must have said the poem to myself hundreds of times over the years:

Hefting the box marked “Sky Average,” I began climbing. I couldn’t see a thing with it full in my arms, so I had to count steps as I went. I’d found that counting backward somehow made the climb easier. At step sixteen, Hugh called out from above. I kept going and had reached seven when he called again.

“Wait a minute!”

I heard his footsteps, and then the box was lifted out of my arms. Immediately I felt dizzy and almost fell backward. Grabbing the banister, I steadied myself. Hugh was climbing with the box and didn’t see what had happened. Just as well. It was the second dizzy spell I’d had that morning and it was disconcerting. We’d been working too hard.

Three days before, we’d rented a yellow Ryder truck and filled it with our belongings. When we were done, we stood on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building and looked inside. Hugh said it was unsettling to see all the possessions of two lifetimes stacked neatly in the back of a not-so-large truck. I kissed his shoulder for being diplomatic. Uptown in Charlotte’s apartment he had a whole other lifetime of belongings, which undoubtedly would have filled several trucks, but he’d made no mention of that. He was taking a lot to Crane’s View, but not so much when I knew what he could have taken.

When Charlotte heard we were moving out of the city, she flew into a flaming rage. From that day on, she did everything possible to make Hugh’s life miserable. She was good at it. In their last civil conversation before the lawyers started circling the remains, she hit him with everything she had where it hurt most. What about their marriage, his responsibilities, their children? Did he realize what this would do to them? How could he? Was he so selfish? Did he care about three other people’s lives?

“Miranda?” he stood at the top of the staircase with his hands in his pockets, looking at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I was thinking about you and Charlotte.”

His face hardened. “Thinking what?”

“I was thinking there’s no way I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for coming here with me.”

“You don’t have to thank me; just love me.”

“I’m so afraid I’ll do it wrong, Hugh. Sometimes it feels like my heart is breaking loose because I want this to work so much. How do you love someone the right way?”

“Use plenty of butter.” He pulled his T-shirt out of his pants and over his head. He dropped it on the floor, watching me the whole time. “And no margarine. Some people try to cheat by using margarine, but you can always taste the difference.” He undid his belt and slid his jeans down.

“I thought we were supposed to be unpacking.” I crossed my arms, then dropped them to my sides.

“We are, but you asked how to love someone the right way. I’m telling you.”

“Use butter.” I began unbuttoning my shirt.

“Right.” He stood in white Jockey shorts with his hands on his hips. He wiggled a finger at me to climb the rest of the stairs to him. My shirt was open by the time I reached him. He slid his hands over my breasts. “Women will always win because they have breasts. It doesn’t matter how big they are, just the fact you have them means you’ll always win.” He pulled me slowly down to the floor.

The wood on my back was cold. I arched up into him. “Men have cocks.”

“Cocks are dumb.” He kissed my throat. “Too obvious. Breasts are art.”

I put my hand over his mouth. Slid my fingers back and forth over his tongue, then slid them out and wiped the wet across his cheek. It glistened. I kissed it. The phone rang. I put my hand between his legs and whispered, “’We’re not home right now, but leave a message. We’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve come.’”