“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’m not here,” he said. He smiled. “I’m in Gaitlinburg. I’m meeting with Mr. Angelo Carmichael in Gaitlinburg.”
“Who’s Mr. Angelo Carmichael?”
“The Dairy Freeze man. We’re having lunch.”
For a moment Topsy just stood there. She was trying to think things out, think of everything, be logical. But she had trouble concentrating. Walter stood up. He was a handsome man. He opened the refrigerator. From the back he was a large handsome man. The only thing in the fridge was a bottle of wine. He took it out and looked at it as if he were surprised to find it there.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. He held the bottle out to her, like a waiter in a restaurant, so she could see the label. Only she couldn’t see it; she had trouble seeing anything. She sat down.
“Some wine?” Walter asked.
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for wine?”
Walter looked disappointed. He shrugged. “I guess so,” he said. “Maybe later.”
“Maybe,” Topsy said.
“Do you mind that I’m here?” he asked. He sat down beside her. Topsy didn’t answer. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Maybe I will have a little wine,” Topsy said. “Just a touch.”
The next day his car was there, and she turned around and drove home, but when she got there she realized she wanted to see him, so she drove back to the farmhouse. But his car was gone.
She didn’t think he’d be there the next day, and she was right. She started to sort through the pots and pans. After about half an hour she heard a noise upstairs. It sounded like a bird. She stopped and listened, but she didn’t hear anything.
“Walter?” she called.
The noise again: an owl.
She went upstairs and found Walter in the back bedroom, in bed, apparently naked. She stood in the doorway.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” she asked.
“Waiting for you?”
“You’re a married man, Walter,” she said. “What would your wife think of you now?”
“I don’t think Virginia is thinking of me now.”
“What if she were?”
He looked down at the sheet sloped over his stomach and legs. “She’d think I looked silly,” he said.
“She’d be right,” Topsy said. She went downstairs.
In a little while he came down. She had spread the pots and pans all across the kitchen floor, and he stopped at the door, looking at the display.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t embarrass me,” said Topsy. “You embarrassed yourself.”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” said Topsy. “I do.”
He picked his way through the maze of pots and sat at the table. “I’ve never been unfaithful,” he said.
“Do you want a medal?”
“No,” he said. “Just so you know. I mean, I’m not a Don Juan.”
Topsy smiled. “I didn’t think you were.”
“Have you ever been unfaithful?”
“I’m not married,” said Topsy.
“I mean when you were.”
“It’s none of your business,” said Topsy.
“That means yes,” said Walter. “What about since … well, since he died? Have you had … affairs?”
“I don’t think one has affairs in Norwell.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I’m sure I would.”
Walter stood up. “Well, I guess I better go.”
“I suppose so,” said Topsy.
“I guess I shouldn’t come back, either.”
“It would probably be better.”
“O.K.,” said Walter. He put his topcoat on, picked up his keys. “Good-bye,” he said.
Topsy nodded good-bye.
He got his car out of the garage and drove away. Topsy returned to the pots and pans, scrubbing their heat-stained copper bottoms, but after a while she went upstairs, up into the room. He had made the bed, but badly. Men can’t make beds, Topsy thought. She started to remake it, and realized the sheets were still warm from him. She put her hand, palm down, on the bottom sheet. She felt as if she were doing something dangerous. She was standing like that, touching the warm spot, when she heard a car in the driveway. She looked out the window and saw Walter come in the back door. He made owl noises. She stayed still, knowing he would find her.
He did. She stood by the bed, and he stood in the doorway.
“I’m back,” he said.
“I see,” she said. “I was just … making the bed.” But she wasn’t making the bed. She was standing there, looking at him.
“Are you glad I came back?” he asked.
Topsy waited a moment. She couldn’t speak, so she nodded yes.
“Good,” he said. He came closer, touched her hair. “Well?” he said.
“Wait,” said Topsy. “There have got to be rules,”
He took his hand away. “Of course,” he said. “Rules. What rules? Tell me.”
Topsy tried to think of rules. What would good rules be? “Well,” she began. “We can stop whenever we want. Either of us. We can just say ‘Stop’ and it will be over.”
“O.K.,” said Walter. “Sure.”
“And we both have to remember that you’re married. That that comes first. That I don’t want you to leave your wife. Is that understood?”
Walter nodded.
“And this is between us. Just us. This is private.”
“Of course,” said Walter. He sat down on the bed. “Sit down,” he said.
“Wait,” said Topsy. “I’m still thinking.” For a moment neither of them said anything. “I guess that’s all,” said Topsy. “Can you think of anything else?”
Walter shook his head. “I can’t think of anything,” he said.
They never made plans. They never called each other. They’d just go, and if the other person showed—well, then. Whoever got there first turned on the electric space heater and waited. If it was Topsy waiting, she continued her bazaar work: cleaning out closets, washing sheets, rummaging in the bookshelves.
They made love and ate sandwiches and drank coffee or wine and talked. As it got colder, they spent more time in bed and less in the kitchen. They listened to squirrels in the attic. They made love.
Walter often fell asleep, and if he did it was Topsy’s responsibility to wake him at three o’clock. One afternoon she was lying in bed between warmth from the space heater and warmth from Walter. She had her eyes closed and was making an effort to stay awake, although she wanted very much to sleep simultaneously with Walter. She could feel him dreaming, his big body pressed against her, his mouth wet at the back of her neck, and she felt that if she slipped into sleep she would find herself in his dream: something about a beach, hot sand, hot sun, water, sky, and birds clamoring in trees. After a while she felt the pressure of his body relax, and she knew he was awake.
“Did you have a good sleep?” she asked.
He answered by pulling her closer. She could feel sweat along her back where his stomach had rested, sweat their bodies had created together. She leaned out of the bed and turned down the space heater. She watched its coils fade from orange to red, heard its ping ping ping, and felt a sudden tremor of happiness, of the world stretching out all around her, curved and occurring.
“I’m all hot,” she said.
He wasn’t talking yet. She tried to turn toward him, but he pressed himself harder against her. He wrapped his arms around her, and moved against her, slowly.
“I’m sweating,” she said.
He kissed her back, and licked her spine. His tongue felt cool. She tried again to turn and this time he let her. The blankets slipped away from her and he tried to cover her again but she said, “No. I’m hot.”
Even the windows were sweating. Topsy got out of bed and opened one. She turned the heater off. Sh
e stood looking out, feeling the cold air on her face. She watched the cornstalks rearrange themselves as something—a dog?—walked through them. Darkness was spilling into the sky from some rip near the horizon.
“Come back to bed,” Walter said.
“It’s late,” she said. “You should go.”
“Come back,” he said. “I have time.”
“Where are you today?” she asked. “What’s your excuse for not being at work?”
“You,” he said. “Come here. Please.”
“Is that what you told Gladys?” Gladys was Walter’s secretary.
“Yes,” said Walter. “And I told Virginia I wouldn’t be home for dinner because I’d be in bed with you.”
“What did Virginia say?”
Walter didn’t answer. Topsy turned away from the window. He was looking at the ceiling. “What would Virginia think of that?” she asked.
“She wouldn’t like it,” he said. He looked at her. “Virginia … loves me.”
“Do you love her?”
“In a way,” he said. “In our way, yes.”
“What way is that?”
“It’s hard to describe,” he said.
She came and sat on the bed.
“I’m cold,” he said.
She went back over and closed the window. The thing was a dog—she saw it emerge from the corn and run through the trees toward Norwell Estates. Someone was calling it. Dinnertime. “Did you love … what was his name?” Walter asked.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“Karl,” she said. “For a while, yes. And then, no.”
“Did you hate him?”
“No,” she said.
“That’s good,” he said. “Sometimes I think Virginia hates me.”
“Sometimes she probably does.”
“I never hate her. I feel sorry for her, but I don’t hate her.”
“Why do you feel sorry for her?”
Walter thought for a moment. “Because,” he said. “It’s a little pathetic. I mean all her good deeds. The Foodmobile and the Morning Doves—”
“What are the Morning Doves?”
“They call up senior citizens every morning to make sure they didn’t die overnight. Because of what happened with Bertha Knox.” Bertha Knox had been dead for quite a while when the gas man found her in the basement.
“What’s pathetic about good deeds?”
“Nothing. I mean, I think it’s great how much she does. I’m very proud of her.”
“But you said it was pathetic.”
“Oh, forget it,” said Walter. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Topsy came back and sat on the bed. “Sometimes I forget I was married. Isn’t that terrible?”
“What do you mean, forget?”
“I just forget. I forget all about Karl. Like it never happened. It’s very important when it’s happening, but when it’s over, it’s surprising how little … effect it has.”
“Did you like being married?”
“Of course. I mean, it was nice, raising a family.”
“That would be nice,” said Walter.
“Why don’t … you and Virginia?”
“We’ve tried,” said Walter. “It’s very difficult. Both times Virginia got pregnant she miscarried. And I guess we feel a little too old for it now.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-two,” said Walter. “Virginia is thirty-eight.”
“That’s not too old,” said Topsy. “I was forty-two when I got Kittery and Dominick.”
“But you didn’t give birth to them,” said Walter.
“No,” said Topsy. “Ellen did that.” They were quiet a moment, and then Topsy stood up and turned on the light. “Turn it off,” Walter said. “Lie down with me.”
“No,” said Topsy. “It’s time to go home.”
“Come lie down. For just a little while. I’m sad.”
Topsy turned off the light. In the wake of illumination the room seemed darker than it had before. “Why are you sad?” she asked.
Walter thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said.
Tiny Peterson, the junk man, came with his truck and moved everything Topsy had deemed salable to the Sunnipee Hall. Then he came back and took away what was left: That was the junk. There had been a lot of it, and Topsy knew there was no reason to save it for the rummage sale in May. She had learned from experience that there are some things no one will buy, things in this world—often fine things—that are superfluous. That make the mistake of becoming unowned.
A few nights later she and Walter had dinner together in the emptied farmhouse. Virginia was visiting her niece in Dayton. In the darkness of the kitchen everything was black and white except for the red sheen of wine in the glasses on the table.
“This was a bad idea,” Topsy said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
“What?”
“Well, I feel funny about coming here now,” Topsy said. She picked up a wineglass and looked at it. “Now that there’s no work to do.”
“There’s still work to do,” Walter said. “Our private work.”
“No,” said Topsy. “I don’t feel right about it anymore.”
“You mean, it’s all right to have an affair if it’s accompanied by church-work and not O.K. if it’s not?”
“No,” said Topsy. “I just mean being here.”
“But this is the perfect place. You know it is.”
“Well, we can’t come here forever. Eventually someone will buy it, won’t they?”
“Not if I can help it,” said Walter.
“Well, I didn’t really mean the place, anyway,” Topsy said.
“What did you mean?” Walter stood up. He took the glass of wine from her and drank from it.
“I meant … us. I think we should think about ending it.”
“Why?”
“What do you think? What do you think about ending it?”
“I don’t want to end it,” said Walter. He leaned against the sink. “Do you?”
“I think it might be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Well, because. Because I’m starting to depend on it. I’m starting to depend on you.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t like it. It’s not what I wanted. I didn’t want to get attached.”
“Are you?”
Topsy looked across the kitchen at him. He was just a dark figure in the shadows, but she could picture him. “I think I am,” she said.
“So am I,” he said.
“Then we should end it,” she said. “Remember the rule?”
“What rule?”
“That you’re married. That we wouldn’t … get fond of each other.”
“But we were always fond of each other. Right from the start. At least I was of you.” He drank the rest of the wine and put the glass in the sink, then came over and sat next to her. “Why can’t we just keep going and see what happens?”
“No,” she said. “It will only get worse.”
“So let it get worse.”
“I don’t want it to get worse,” Topsy said. “I want to end it now.”
He stood up. “I thought you weren’t scared. You told me you weren’t easily scared.”
Topsy shrugged. “I guess I was wrong,” she said.
Two weeks later, Topsy stood behind the cashier’s table at the Winter Bazaar and watched Walter Doyle walk up and down the aisles. He arrived at the cashier’s with a tackle box full of lures and weights.
“Those are twenty-five cents apiece,” Topsy said.
“Do I get a discount if I buy them all?”
“I guess so,” said Topsy.
“How about five dollars?”
“You want the box, too?”
“Of course,” said Walter.
“Five dollars for the contents, and five dollars for the box. Ten for it all.”
“This box isn’t worth
five dollars,” said Walter. “Not even brand-new.”
“Eight dollars, then,” Topsy said. “For everything.”
“O.K.,” said Walter. He gave her a ten-dollar bill.
“Do you want your change? Any amount over your purchase price is a tax-deductible contribution.”
“I’ll take my change,” said Walter.
Topsy gave him two tired dollar bills.
“You’ve got quite a crowd,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“We need buyers.”
“Virginia’s coming this afternoon. She’s a buyer. Is that coffee free?”
“A nickel.”
“What about a free cup for purchases eight dollars and over?”
“It’s a nickel, Walter.”
Walter extracted a dime from his pants pocket. “Keep the change,” he said. “That’s tax-deductible, right?”
Topsy poured him a cup of coffee.
“Are cream and sugar extra?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” said Topsy.
Walter drank his coffee and watched Topsy fill a tray of paper cups with juice. She arranged all the cups with their edges touching, and then poured the juice down the rows in one long swoop, filling each cup perfectly, spilling none.
“Looks like you’ve done that before,” Walter said.
“Just one of my many talents,” said Topsy.
“Do you have a lost-and-found?” asked Walter.
“What did you lose?”
“A … glove.”
“There’s a box in the kitchen,” Topsy said. “But I haven’t seen any men’s gloves.”
“Could we look?”
“It’s in the kitchen. Go ahead.”
“Come with me.”
“I have to stay here.”
“You could get someone to cover for you, couldn’t you?”
“I don’t see the point. I’m sure you can find your own glove. If you did, indeed, lose it.”
“‘Indeed’?”
“What?”
“Since when do you say, ‘did, indeed’?” Topsy shrugged. She drank a glass of juice. “Since now,” she said.
“As a matter fact, I didn’t, indeed, lose a glove.”
“I thought not.”
“You thought not?”
“Stop it, Walter.”
“Well, why are you talking like that?”
Far-Flung Page 16
