Away From Her by Alice Munro Page A

to consider upstairs.”
    He said he didn’t think that Fiona had been in bed that often.
    “No. But if she can’t keep up her strength, she will be. Right now she’s borderline.”
    He said that he had thought the second floor was for people whose minds were disturbed.
    “That too,” she said.
    He hadn’t remembered anything about Aubrey’s wife except the tartan suit he had seen her wearing in the parking lot. The tails of the jacket had flared open as she bent into the trunk of the car. He had got the impression of a trim waist and wide buttocks.
    She was not wearing the tartan suit today. Brown belted slacks and a pink sweater. He was right about the waist—the tight belt showed she made a point of it. It might have been better if she hadn’t, since she bulged out considerably above and below.
    She could be ten or twelve years younger than her husband. Her hair was short, curly, artificially reddened. She had blue eyes—a lighter blue than Fiona’s, a flat robin’s-egg or turquoise blue—slanted by a slight puffiness. And a good many wrinklesmade more noticeable by a walnut-stain makeup. Or perhaps that was her Florida tan.
    He said that he didn’t quite know how to introduce himself.
    “I used to see your husband at Meadowlake. I’m a regular visitor there myself.”
    “Yes,” said Aubrey’s wife, with an aggressive movement of her chin.
    “How is your husband doing?”
    The “doing” was added on at the last moment. Normally he would have said, “How is your husband?”
    “He’s okay,” she said.
    “My wife and he struck up quite a close friendship.”
    “I heard about that.”
    “So. I wanted to talk to you about something if you had a minute.”
    “My husband did not try to start anything with your wife, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said. “He did not molest her in any way. He isn’t capable of it and he wouldn’t anyway. From what I heard it was the other way round.”
    Grant said, “No. That isn’t it at all. I didn’t come here with any complaints about anything.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m sorry. I thought you did.”
    That was all she was going to give by way of apology. And she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded disappointed and confused.
    “You better come in, then,” she said. “It’s blowing cold in through the door. It’s not as warm out today as it looks.”
    So it was something of a victory for him even to get inside. He hadn’t realized it would be as hard as this. He had expected a different sort of wife. A flustered homebody, pleased by an unexpected visit and flattered by a confidential tone.
    She took him past the entrance to the living room, saying, “We’ll have to sit in the kitchen where I can hear Aubrey.” Grant caught sight of two layers of front-window curtains, both blue, one sheer and one silky, a matching blue sofa and a daunting pale carpet, various bright mirrors and ornaments.
    Fiona had a word for those sort of swooping curtains—she said it like a joke, though the women she’d picked it up from used it seriously. Any room that Fiona fixed up was bare and bright—she would have been astonished to see so much fancy stuff crowded into such a small space. He could not think what that word was.
    From a room off the kitchen—a sort of sunroom, though the blinds were drawn against the afternoon brightness—he could hear the sounds of television.
    Aubrey. The answer to Fiona’s prayers sat a few feet away, watching what sounded like a ball game. His wife looked in at him. She said, “You okay?” and partly closed the door.
    “You might as well have a cup of coffee,” she said to Grant.
    He said, “Thanks.”
    “My son got him on the sports channel a year ago Christmas, I don’t know what we’d do without it.”
    On the kitchen counters there were all sorts of contrivances and appliances—coffeemaker, food processor, knife sharpener, and some things Grant didn’t know the names or uses of. All looked new and