All the Time in the World by E. L. Doctorow

change. They need me less and less. They have their friends, their practices. I carpool. They come home and stay in their rooms with their games. You work late. I’m alone in this house a lot.
    We should go to the theater more. A night in town. Or you like opera. I’ll do opera as long as it isn’t Richard fucking Wagner.
    That’s not what I’m saying.
    You chose the suburbs, you know. I work to pay off the mortgage. The three tuitions. The two car payments.
    I’m not blaming you. Could we turn on the light a moment?
    What’s the matter?
    There’s no moon. In the dark, it feels like a tomb.

    THIS IS VERY EMBARRASSING .
    What were you doing there at three in the morning?
    Sleeping. That’s all. I wasn’t bothering anyone.
    Yeah, well, the cops are touchy these days. People sleeping in their cars.
    It used to be a ball field. I played softball there as a boy.
    Well, it’s the mall now.
    You don’t mind that I gave them your name?
    Not at all. I like being known as a criminal associate. Why didn’t you just check into the local Marriott?
    I was trying to save money. The weather is clement. I thought, Why not?
    Clement. Yes, it’s definitely clement.
    Is it the habit of the police to go around impounding cars? Because if they think I’m a drug dealer, or something like that, they will find only books, my computer, luggage, clothes, and camping gear and a few private mementos that mean something only to me. Very unsettling, strangers digging around in my things. If I’d stayed at a hotel, I’d be on my way right now. I’m really sorry to impose on you.
    Well, what’s a neighbor for.
    That’s funny. I appreciate humor in this situation.
    I’m glad.
    But we’d be neighbors only if time had imploded. Actually, if time were to implode we’d be more than neighbors. We’d be living together, the past and the present moving through each other’s space.
    Like in a rooming house.
    If you wish, yes. As in a sort of rooming house.

    SO HE’S THERE . What—hitting on your wife?
    No, that won’t happen. It’s not what he’s about. I’m pretty sure.
    So what’s the problem?
    He comes on like some prissy fusspot poet, doesn’t have it together, drives a junk heap, claims to have quit his teaching job but was probably fired. And, with all of that, you know he’s a player.
    Yeah, I know people like that.
    His difficulties work in his favor. He gets what he wants.
    So what does he want from you?
    I’m not sure. It’s weird. The house? Like I’ve defaulted on the mortgage and he’s the banker come to repossess.
    So why’d you bring him home? He could sit in a Starbucks while they went through his car.
    Well, he called. And I hang up and there she is looking at me. And I’m suddenly into proving something to her. You see what’s happening? I can no longer be me, which is to say to the guy, I don’t know you. Who the fuck cares if you lived here or didn’t live here? They’ll give you back your damn car and you can leave. But no, he works it so that I have to prove something to my own wife—that I am capable of a charitable act.
    I guess you are.
    So, like, he’s now some new relative of ours. This touches on the basic fault line in our marriage. She’s naïve in principle—she forgives everybody everything. Always excusing people, finding a rationale for the shitty things they do. A clerk shortchanges her, she imagines he’s distracted and just made a mistake.
    Well, that’s a lovely quality.
    I know, I know. Her philosophy is if you trust people they will be trustworthy. Drives me crazy.
    So they’ll give him back his car and he’ll go.
    No. Not if I know her. She’ll drive him to pick it up. The day will have passed, and she’ll ask him to stay for dinner. And then she’ll insist that he shouldn’t be allowed to drive off in the night. And I will look at her and sit there and agree. And she will show him to the guest room. I’ll give you odds.
    You’re a bit overwrought. Have another.
    Why