do that.”
“You could.”
“You’d hate it if I was all over your territory. It’s one of the reasons why you left her, isn’t it? Because there wasn’t anything you didn’t do together and agree on?”
“That question can’t be answered. The way you’ve put it, I mean.”
“I don’t care if I’m childish,” she said. “I’m trapped in this horrible place with my wicked thoughts and a kid who always mixes up words and uses the wrong one, and no money of my own, and a job that’s just something to pass the time, and only you have the key to the wine cellar.”
A motorcycle passed by, the sound shaking the house. Then came another.
“Wine cellar?” he scoffed.
“Metaphorically speaking.”
“Okay,” he said. “This is you-know-what, that g word you never want me to say, and I’m not going to say it, I’m just going to give you a hug and hope you snap out of this mood very soon, even if it means you’re starkers on the porch, sipping your nonalcoholic drink that you pride yourself so much for drinking, as if I ever thought you were an alcoholic. So come here and we’ll embrace and even though I’m not saying you-know-what, you know that I’ll be back in three days, and that I love you.”
She ran into his arms. His travel bag was suspended from a padded strap over his shoulder; it swayed before steadying itself. If he had facial stubble and a tiny lock of dark hair falling over one eyebrow, he could be a Prada ad. Also, if he were twenty years younger. His black Nikes made him look less hip. The rounded toes were all wrong. Their son was still at his playdate. The house would be very empty when her husband left. She squeezed him tightly, mashed her nose against his shirt, which somehow smelled of its color: light, light green. A medium green shirt would have been unthinkable. Might as well wear loafers without socks. Or take out a membership at the Reading Room on the path above the beach—the Reading Room, where the joke was that there wasn’t a book in the entire place.
They disengaged. He raised a hand. She did the same. From under the bed, the cat poked out his head, then nearly flattened himself to crawl into the room. He walked in a half circle with his tail in the air, white tip flicking. They’d tied a bell to his collar, but the week before she’d found a dead bird in the yard.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs (or imagined them; they’d been newly carpeted), then the front door clicking shut. She waited to hear the garage door. Okay. She heard the car radio and the sound of gravel under the tires in the driveway, then only the wind that blew up. She went to the window and picked up the binoculars that sat there. She raised them to her eyes, already knowing how bright the pink of the sky would appear, how silver the bottoms of the tree leaves, pale as the underside of a turtle. A turtle some nasty boys flipped over so it would be incapacitated, as they laughed and pointed at its scaly legs clawing the air.
The cat startled her, brushing her leg. It was feeding time. A bit past it. “Feeling time,” she murmured, then did a double take and corrected herself: “Feeding time. Yes.” His eyes were all bright desire, but he wouldn’t utter a sound. You sometimes heard it other times, but only the most silent of demands was made for the nightly meal. The cat would claw the banister and his bell collar would tinkle if the request wasn’t promptly fulfilled.
Across the road was a scene she wouldn’t have noticed if the cat’s touch hadn’t made her lower the binoculars from the sky: a doe and her fawn, the mother hovering as the lanky-legged baby led the way, eating something hanging below the low leaves of a bush. The pair was listening, listening, but the doe was listening more keenly. Oh, how sad is it I have to pump myself up with my own importance? she wondered.
Suddenly conscious of her earrings, dangling pearls, she touched them lightly to still them. She
“You could.”
“You’d hate it if I was all over your territory. It’s one of the reasons why you left her, isn’t it? Because there wasn’t anything you didn’t do together and agree on?”
“That question can’t be answered. The way you’ve put it, I mean.”
“I don’t care if I’m childish,” she said. “I’m trapped in this horrible place with my wicked thoughts and a kid who always mixes up words and uses the wrong one, and no money of my own, and a job that’s just something to pass the time, and only you have the key to the wine cellar.”
A motorcycle passed by, the sound shaking the house. Then came another.
“Wine cellar?” he scoffed.
“Metaphorically speaking.”
“Okay,” he said. “This is you-know-what, that g word you never want me to say, and I’m not going to say it, I’m just going to give you a hug and hope you snap out of this mood very soon, even if it means you’re starkers on the porch, sipping your nonalcoholic drink that you pride yourself so much for drinking, as if I ever thought you were an alcoholic. So come here and we’ll embrace and even though I’m not saying you-know-what, you know that I’ll be back in three days, and that I love you.”
She ran into his arms. His travel bag was suspended from a padded strap over his shoulder; it swayed before steadying itself. If he had facial stubble and a tiny lock of dark hair falling over one eyebrow, he could be a Prada ad. Also, if he were twenty years younger. His black Nikes made him look less hip. The rounded toes were all wrong. Their son was still at his playdate. The house would be very empty when her husband left. She squeezed him tightly, mashed her nose against his shirt, which somehow smelled of its color: light, light green. A medium green shirt would have been unthinkable. Might as well wear loafers without socks. Or take out a membership at the Reading Room on the path above the beach—the Reading Room, where the joke was that there wasn’t a book in the entire place.
They disengaged. He raised a hand. She did the same. From under the bed, the cat poked out his head, then nearly flattened himself to crawl into the room. He walked in a half circle with his tail in the air, white tip flicking. They’d tied a bell to his collar, but the week before she’d found a dead bird in the yard.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs (or imagined them; they’d been newly carpeted), then the front door clicking shut. She waited to hear the garage door. Okay. She heard the car radio and the sound of gravel under the tires in the driveway, then only the wind that blew up. She went to the window and picked up the binoculars that sat there. She raised them to her eyes, already knowing how bright the pink of the sky would appear, how silver the bottoms of the tree leaves, pale as the underside of a turtle. A turtle some nasty boys flipped over so it would be incapacitated, as they laughed and pointed at its scaly legs clawing the air.
The cat startled her, brushing her leg. It was feeding time. A bit past it. “Feeling time,” she murmured, then did a double take and corrected herself: “Feeding time. Yes.” His eyes were all bright desire, but he wouldn’t utter a sound. You sometimes heard it other times, but only the most silent of demands was made for the nightly meal. The cat would claw the banister and his bell collar would tinkle if the request wasn’t promptly fulfilled.
Across the road was a scene she wouldn’t have noticed if the cat’s touch hadn’t made her lower the binoculars from the sky: a doe and her fawn, the mother hovering as the lanky-legged baby led the way, eating something hanging below the low leaves of a bush. The pair was listening, listening, but the doe was listening more keenly. Oh, how sad is it I have to pump myself up with my own importance? she wondered.
Suddenly conscious of her earrings, dangling pearls, she touched them lightly to still them. She
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