that?”
“No,” he said. “She didn’t want to hurt my feelings. But I could tell.”
Alison knew what Charlie was doing—chiding her for being gone (though he’d encouraged it), suggesting that if she’d stayed home none of this would have happened, and letting her know that she was needed and loved, all at the same time. They often spoke in this kind of code, by way of discussing the children. Anecdotes were crafted with an instructive purpose, like Bible stories, and meant to be interpreted on several levels. At an elemental level, these stories were a way of connecting when they felt most alienated from each other. There was always something to say about Annie and Noah. And they both knew that they were the only two people in the world who could sustain this degree of minute interest in them.
Alison nodded slowly. “Well, I’m going upstairs.”
“I’ll lock up,” he said. “Be there in a minute.”
When Charlie opened the bedroom door she pretended to be asleep. In the darkness she could hear every sound of his undressing: the muffled clink of his buckle and the whoosh of his belt as he pulled it off, the soft buzz as he unzipped his pants. He hopped on one foot to take off a sock. He drew in his breath and mumbled, “Fuck,” and she had to stop herself from sitting up to ask what was the matter. It might be something physical, like hitting his shin. Then again, it might be something else.
The bed groaned slightly as he eased onto his side. He sat there for a moment, then glanced over at her. “Alison,” he said. It wasn’t quite a whisper. She stayed still. He pulled down the covers and slid in.
Even from the other side of the bed, she could feel him. He emanated heat like some large animal, a dog or a bear. When he was asleep she thought of him like that: as a big slumbering mammal. But he wasn’t asleep now. She could hear his shallow breathing. “Al,” he said, and touched her arm.
A marriage hinges on these moments. Does she answer, or does she lie still? All Alison could feel was an overwhelming dread. She did not want to know what he had to say. She remained quiet; the moment passed, and she drifted into sleep.
part two
Confusion is perfect sight and perfect mystery at the same time.
—JANE SMILEY, The Age of Grief
Chapter One
February 2009
“Welcome back, Mr. Downing. Will you be paying in cash today?”
Charlie was stunned: he’d only been to this small Midtown hotel four or five times in the past two months, but the desk clerk not only recognized him; but he also remembered his alias and preferred form of payment. “Uh—yes. Thanks.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted four fifties, laid them on the counter.
The clerk took the crisp bills with a deep nod. “Room 1121, as usual?”
It was the cheapest room in the hotel—as cramped and dark as a closet—but it suited their needs. “Yes.”
The clerk handed Charlie two key cards. “Have a nice day, sir.”
Slipping the cards in his back pocket, Charlie glanced toward the revolving door in the foyer. No sign of her yet. She’d said she might be a little late; she was meeting with her agent several blocks away to discuss details of her upcoming book party. He didn’t mind; he was happy enough to have a moment. To anticipate. He settled into a boxlike white leather chair and closed his eyes.
Charlie didn’t know how, exactly, but for the time being he seemed to have figured out how to make it all work. The key was concentration. As long as he was fully engaged in the activity of the moment—working on an account, meeting Claire at the hotel, coming home to see his family—he was amazed to find that he could pull it off.
He felt a strange kinship with those men you see on Dateline who have hidden lives that their families only learn about after they die. He’d always wondered how they did it, how they found the time and summoned the energy to deceive so many people. Now he knew. It didn’t take much
“No,” he said. “She didn’t want to hurt my feelings. But I could tell.”
Alison knew what Charlie was doing—chiding her for being gone (though he’d encouraged it), suggesting that if she’d stayed home none of this would have happened, and letting her know that she was needed and loved, all at the same time. They often spoke in this kind of code, by way of discussing the children. Anecdotes were crafted with an instructive purpose, like Bible stories, and meant to be interpreted on several levels. At an elemental level, these stories were a way of connecting when they felt most alienated from each other. There was always something to say about Annie and Noah. And they both knew that they were the only two people in the world who could sustain this degree of minute interest in them.
Alison nodded slowly. “Well, I’m going upstairs.”
“I’ll lock up,” he said. “Be there in a minute.”
When Charlie opened the bedroom door she pretended to be asleep. In the darkness she could hear every sound of his undressing: the muffled clink of his buckle and the whoosh of his belt as he pulled it off, the soft buzz as he unzipped his pants. He hopped on one foot to take off a sock. He drew in his breath and mumbled, “Fuck,” and she had to stop herself from sitting up to ask what was the matter. It might be something physical, like hitting his shin. Then again, it might be something else.
The bed groaned slightly as he eased onto his side. He sat there for a moment, then glanced over at her. “Alison,” he said. It wasn’t quite a whisper. She stayed still. He pulled down the covers and slid in.
Even from the other side of the bed, she could feel him. He emanated heat like some large animal, a dog or a bear. When he was asleep she thought of him like that: as a big slumbering mammal. But he wasn’t asleep now. She could hear his shallow breathing. “Al,” he said, and touched her arm.
A marriage hinges on these moments. Does she answer, or does she lie still? All Alison could feel was an overwhelming dread. She did not want to know what he had to say. She remained quiet; the moment passed, and she drifted into sleep.
part two
Confusion is perfect sight and perfect mystery at the same time.
—JANE SMILEY, The Age of Grief
Chapter One
February 2009
“Welcome back, Mr. Downing. Will you be paying in cash today?”
Charlie was stunned: he’d only been to this small Midtown hotel four or five times in the past two months, but the desk clerk not only recognized him; but he also remembered his alias and preferred form of payment. “Uh—yes. Thanks.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted four fifties, laid them on the counter.
The clerk took the crisp bills with a deep nod. “Room 1121, as usual?”
It was the cheapest room in the hotel—as cramped and dark as a closet—but it suited their needs. “Yes.”
The clerk handed Charlie two key cards. “Have a nice day, sir.”
Slipping the cards in his back pocket, Charlie glanced toward the revolving door in the foyer. No sign of her yet. She’d said she might be a little late; she was meeting with her agent several blocks away to discuss details of her upcoming book party. He didn’t mind; he was happy enough to have a moment. To anticipate. He settled into a boxlike white leather chair and closed his eyes.
Charlie didn’t know how, exactly, but for the time being he seemed to have figured out how to make it all work. The key was concentration. As long as he was fully engaged in the activity of the moment—working on an account, meeting Claire at the hotel, coming home to see his family—he was amazed to find that he could pull it off.
He felt a strange kinship with those men you see on Dateline who have hidden lives that their families only learn about after they die. He’d always wondered how they did it, how they found the time and summoned the energy to deceive so many people. Now he knew. It didn’t take much
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