Spencerville

you have a good life, Keith?”
    “I did.”
    “I did, too, despite my marriage. I learned how to enjoy other things.”
    “You always found something good in any situation. I was always looking for the dark lining in the silver cloud.”
    “Not always. You acted more cynical than you were.”
    “You read me too well.”
    “Well enough.” Still barefoot, she walked to where he was sitting and lay down along the length of the trunk, her feet in his lap. “They’re cold.”
    He dried her feet with his handkerchief and rubbed them.
    “Feels good.”
    “How are we doing for time?”
    “Who cares?”
    “We do.”
    “Oh, we’re all right. I’m doing Saturday errands around town. He’s fishing up at Grey Lake in Michigan with his cronies. We have a hunting lodge there. He won’t be home until late afternoon.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “The only thing he enjoys more than bothering me is fishing and hunting with his friends.” She thought a moment and said, “God, I hate that place, but I’m glad he likes it. Keeps him away… we can be together when he’s there.”
    “Do you go with him?”
    “Sometimes.” She added,
“
The few times we went up there alone, without the kids or without company, he was another person. Not necessarily better, and not actually worse… just another person… quiet, distant, as if he’s… I don’t know… thinking of something. I don’t like to go up there with him alone, and I can usually get out of it.”
    “Okay, so what happened?”
    She closed her eyes and, as he massaged her feet and calves, she said. “Well, we had a little scene at dinner last night. First, about the dinner being burned.” She laughed. “I did it on purpose.”
    “You sound like fun to live with.”
    “No comment. Anyway, then he tried to trap me about dinner at Aunt Louise’s, then we got onto the subject of Wendy in a coed dorm, then we got to Keith Landry, the guy who fucked me for six years—quote, unquote—and who’s now living down the fucking road, then he tried to trap me again by asking if I’d seen you. I figured he already knew, so I told him I bumped into you at the post office.”
    Keith nodded and said, “Good thinking.”
    “Well, it didn’t improve his mood much. He’s still very angry and suspicious. That’s what I wanted to tell you. But I guess you know that.” She said, “He told me he came out to your place yesterday.”
    Keith didn’t reply.
    She took her feet out of his lap, sat up, and slid over beside him on the trunk. She took his hand. “I’m sorry. You don’t need this.”
    “Annie, when I got in my car in Washington and drove here, I knew where this was headed. And I also knew what I wanted here.”
    She squeezed his hand. “But you didn’t know the whole situation.”
    “The only thing I had to find out was how
you
felt.”
    “Keith, you knew. You had to know how I felt.”
    He smiled. “Your letters could have been read by your aunt and my aunt without a blush.”
    “
My
letters? You signed yours ‘Sincerely.’”
    “I did not.” He added. “I meant ‘Love.’”
    They sat for a while listening to the stream, the horse snorting, the rustle of the leaves and the birds. Finally, she said, “You understood, didn’t you, that I still loved you, and I was waiting for you?”
    “I understood. But I may never have come.”
    “I always knew you would.” She picked up a twig and scratched it around on the ground. She said, “But if you didn’t, then there was no one else.” She wiped her eyes, and, still looking at the ground, she took a deep breath and said, “Oh God… I thought you’d get killed, I thought you’d get married, I thought you’d stopped loving me.”
    “No.”
    “But why did you wait? Why?”
    “I don’t know… I mean, right after I left, we were both angry at something… then, before I went overseas, it occurred to me that I might get killed, or lose a leg or arm, or something…”
    “If I was your wife, I would have taken care of you. If I was your widow, I’d have honored your memory.”
    “Well, you didn’t need any of that. Then, when I got home… I don’t know… we couldn’t connect. Then you got married, and I hated you, then I hated myself, then the years just went by… the letters came, they didn’t come… you had children, you had a life… I could picture you here with friends and family… you never wrote much about your marriage…”
    “You never wrote a word about how you