by Gabrielle Nigmond
2004
The first time Kevin farted in front of me, I had been driving him back to base at 0530. We had just finished having what I like to call “ice-pack-worthy” sex during his first overnight pass granted since basic training. Commanding officers liked to give overnight passes if you were training to become a nuclear submariner. According to Kevin, the suicide rate for the nuclear power program was the highest of all Navy programs. But Kevin seemed unfazed as he sat reclined in the passenger seat and accidentally squeaked a small toot.
“Excuse me,” he said, a little surprised at himself that it had slipped. Between qualification classes that included forms of math I’d never heard of and the up-all-night sex, our eyes were half open as I drove. Despite the exhaustion, I was elated.
I come from a family of farters. Disclaimer: not my older sister, Rachael, who would be mortified to be included in that statement. Our family needed all the laughs we could get after our Dad left and never returned.
I dropped out of college shortly after Kevin’s car fart to get married. We were nineteen-year-old lovers who promised to love until death do us part. The local sheriff signed our marriage license and gave a smile that said, “Sure, you’ll stay together” while actually saying, “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Morrill.”
We returned to Rachael’s and celebrated our newfound commitment by drinking copious amounts of lime margaritas and retelling the most embarrassing stories. After all, Kevin had a right to know what he married into.
“Tell that one about Mom in the grocery store,” Rachael slapped the table, barely able to get the words out.
“I don’t know,” I slurred. “Kevin may not be ready for that.”
“We just got married, so I think I’m ready for just about anything.” Kevin pointed towards the ceiling like a drunk Uncle at Christmas.
“Well, when we were kids,” I began, “our mom was grocery shopping at Food Lion. We were in the canned goods aisle, and she was looking at the selection of green beans.” At this point in the story, Rachael could barely control her laughter, knowing what was to come. “And she ripped a fart so loud and strong, I couldn’t open my mouth in shock. I was literally afraid that I’d somehow eat it, even being several feet away.”
“That’s not even the worst part! Tell him!” Rachael insisted, lifting her glass in mock celebration.
I continued, “Out from behind our mother, I see a man poke his head out, holding a can of black beans, looking disgusted and violated. He was frozen. He had been standing close, she hadn’t noticed him, so she farted on him.” The table erupted into laughter, and from that moment on, Kevin was given a license to fart whenever he wanted. We were family now.
2005
We moved into an apartment with three other Seaman and a futon for our marital bed. The boys clapped and hollered as Kevin carried me over the threshold and into the master suite.
“Make sure you guys get rooms set up. Inspections are scheduled at 1700,” Seaman Hill reminded the group.
“What’s with the inspectors?” I asked.
“Oh, they drop by for a surprise inspection once a month. They’ve found guys dead with no food in the house, who’d been sleeping on the floor. This is the Navy’s way of covering their ass,” Kevin responded.
Not my guys, I thought. Not this happy group of nerds who love to play video games and argue about quantum numbers in their spare time.
A week later, Kevin opened a letter from the bank while we hung out on our luxury futon.
“Oh my God!” tears immediately falling from his eyes.
“What?” I sat up, thinking something was terribly wrong.
Kevin turned and handed me the shiny red NAVY FEDERAL DEBIT card. “It’s your new name,” he choked. “You’re mine, woman.”
It was his words, not unfettered access to his bank account, that filled me with gratitude. In a world where my Dad bailed, I now belonged to Kevin. We made love with our tears dropping on naked bodies, skin on skin, clawing to be closer than even our flesh would allow. I ignored that the futon had no sheets and let the awkward nerdy boy and the abandoned girl transform into husband and wife. I fell asleep that night with Kevin still inside me. I woke to his fart, like a shofar in a synagogue. It became clear that this melodic fart flute would serenade me every morning of our marriage, and that was just fine with me.
2006
At Naval Station Groton, CT, Kevin once again carried me over the threshold of our assigned base housing. It was lavish and only required residents to release the US government for lead paint and asbestos. A month after reporting in, Kevin walked through the door with a look on his face that confused me.
“What are you doing home?” The boys had been working overtime finishing their checklists to qualify for their assigned submarines. The commanding officers of the USS Dallas (SSN 700) could not be bribed with boxes of cigarettes and gift cards to local wine and beer stores. Those would only work during deployment, so newly minted Petty Officer Kevin Morrill had twelve-to-sixteen-hour work days.
“One of the nuclear guys put a gun to his head and shot himself.”
“Oh my God, why? Are you okay?” I started inspecting him for traces of blood. I frantically scanned him to ensure he wasn’t hurt. Selfishly, I kept thanking God – not my guy. Mine is happy.
“I was off the boat when it happened, but he did it in the engine room. So, now we have to wait.”
“For what?”
“You have to have a Top-Secret SCI clearance to be in the engine room of a nuclear sub. We’re waiting for someone from the base or Electric Boat to take him off and scrub the room.”
It would be three days until they found someone with a high enough clearance to remove the body.
Finding someone else willing to scrub the brain splatter off the engine room would take an additional day.
During the years stationed in Groton, I tried to keep our home happy, but outside the Iraq war amped up and more and more soldiers were needed, trained or not.
“It’s my turn,” Kevin said, handing me the envelope that read, in bold red letters, PETTY OFFICER MORRILL TEMPORARY ORDERS.
“I’m a brain, Morrill, not a goddamn soldier,” Paul, another volun-told nuclear, said when they opened orders. They were due to ship out in ten days. Two days later, Paul shot himself. I thanked my lucky stars. Kevin came from a family of soldiers who felt a sense of duty, and this inherited patriotism kept him steadfast. He wanted to go.
I did what any wife would do when faced with the reality that her husband was going to war. I dressed up as Britney Spears and prepared to give the most epic strip performance of a lifetime. Go big or go home. I pouted my lips, ran my hands over my body, and lip-synced “Baby one more time” with the gravitas of placing my hand upon a Bible. I studied his familiar body as I touched him: a 6′ 2 frame sitting on tree-trunk legs, the vast expanse of his chest, his hands at least twice the size of mine. Pulling his grey sweatpants down by the ankles, I bobbed my head up and down enthusiastically to the beat. The music was pumping when a sound befitting a trumpet orchestra escaped my husband’s bottom. The thunderous pfft went directly into my face with a strong wind; even Beyonce could appreciate it. We snorted with laughter holding our stomachs and cheeks.
“I guess the moment’s over?” he asked.
“Yeah, babe, the moment…passed.”
2007
Kevin deployed to California for combat training the next day. He never arrived in Iraq but was sent home, temporarily blind from the pepper spray training. After months of treatment, his sight returned, but Kevin never returned to me. He felt robbed of duty to his family legacy and, most importantly, his comrades. Some soldiers had been over there for eighteen months waiting to be replaced. Kevin was blind and full of shame. The Navy placed him on medical hold, removed his submarine orders, and prevented him from attaching to a carrier even after his sight returned. The guilt of being alive, unharmed, and unable to do his job sent him spiraling into depression. There was nothing I could say, no dances to perform, or hilarious stories to tell.
2008-2010
Soon the windows couldn’t be opened, and the blinds had to remain permanently closed. It wasn’t that the light hurt Kevin’s eyes so much as its cheer offended him. Social engagements were canceled, and friends found other friends to be with.
“Come to bed,” I’d beckon in my most sultry voice.
“Not now,” he said.
Kevin sank deeper into a depression until no more farts were shared because we slept in separate beds. Seven years after we married I broke my promise and filed for divorce.
2011
I was pregnant by someone else within months of our divorce; tequila is a powerful substance. Upon hearing of my predicament, Kevin called to tell me, “You can always come home, Wife,” to which I responded, “You’re not my home anymore.”
I wanted to tell him that when I packed our house, I put it in a storage unit. The boxes of clothes were stacked in one corner, decorations and photographs in the other. At the center stood our striped, green couches, stained with our morning coffee and evening lovemaking. I put the coffee table in front of the sofas and the lamp on the side table nearby. It almost looked like home. Several times a month, I’d hold my pregnant belly and sit in our makeshift living room, crying over the life I still wanted. A life with him.
Kevin never remarried. He maintained he already had a wife. Instead, he spent his time moving to Texas and partying hard. I wouldn’t have recognized his tired voice if not for “Hi Wife, how are you?” Where was the straight-laced Navy sailor who had never touched a drug while enlisted? Despite our physical distance, we never stopped speaking. We checked in for birthdays, major life events, and always on our anniversary.
2020
I received a phone call from Kevin’s mother.
“Kevin’s dead. He died in his sleep at his apartment.” The agony of a mother’s voice never leaves. Later, I would find out Kevin had a combination of drugs and alcohol in his blood. I was so angry at myself. We had been so young, and I hadn’t known how to help someone so full of sadness. I kept hearing “he’s dead” and it sounded like an accusation. I should have been stronger back then. I should have known more. Does God recognize divorce? Will Kevin be waiting for me in the end, leaning against the gates of heaven with a smirk and a “Hi, Wife”?
I know he died in Texas, alone in his apartment. But when I dream of Kevin, which I often do, he’s not there. He’s lying on our futon with no sheets, and I’ve crawled into bed. I face him and grab his face with my hands. He dies in my arms, a wife with her husband. There are no sounds to wake up to in the morning.–
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Gabrielle Nigmond is an MFA student at VCU and a graduate of UVA. When she’s not writing, Gabrielle can be found raising her two boys, Valentino and Magnus, at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
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