The Other Hand

known, Lawrence. My conscience is about all I’ve got left.”
    Silence. His slow breath over the phone. “It’s okay to still love Andrew, you know. It’s okay with me, anyway.”
    “You think I still love him?”
    “I’m suggesting it. In case it helps.”
    I laughed—an almost inaudible exhalation of air.
    “Everybody’s trying to help me today. Even Charlie went to bed without the slightest fuss.”
    “It’s normal that people want to help. You’re suffering.”
    “Insufferable, is what I am. It amazes me that people like you still care about me.”
    “You’re being hard on yourself.”
    “Am I? I saw my husband’s coffin today, being shunted about on rollers. When are you going to take a look at yourself, if not on a day like this?”
    “Mmm,” said Lawrence.
    “Not many men would cut off a finger, would they Lawrence?”
    “What? No. I definitely don’t think I would.”
    My throat burned.
    “I expected too much of Andrew, didn’t I? Not just on the beach. I expected too much of life.”
    A long silence.
    “What did you expect of me?” said Lawrence.
    The question caught me unprepared and there was anger in his voice. My phone hand trembled.
    “You’re using the past tense,” I said. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
    “No?”
    “No. Please, no.”
    “Oh. I thought that’s what this call was about. I was thinking, That’s why she didn’t ask me to the funeral. Because this is the way you’d do, isn’t it, if you broke up with me? There’d be a preamble where you reminded me what a difficult person you are, and then you’d prove it.”
    “Please, Lawrence. That’s horrible.”
    “Oh God, I know. I’m sorry.”
    “Please don’t be angry with me. I’m phoning to ask your advice.”
    A pause. Then a laugh down the phone. Not bitter, but bleak.
    “You don’t ask for advice, Sarah.”
    “No?”
    “No. Not ever. Not about things that matter, anyway. You ask whether your tights look right with your shoes. You ask which bracelet suits your wrist. You’re not asking for input. You’re asking your admirers to prove they’re paying attention.”
    “Am I really that bad?”
    “Actually you’re worse. Because if I do ever tell you gold looks nice with your skin, you make a special point of wearing silver.”
    “Do I? I never even noticed. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. I love that you don’t even notice. There are plenty of women who care what one thinks of their jewelry.”
    I swirled my G&T and took a careful sip.
    “You’re trying to make me feel better about myself, aren’t you?”
    “I’m just saying you’re not the kind of woman you meet every day.”
    “And that’s praise, is it?”
    “It’s relative praise, yes. Now stop fishing.”
    I smiled, for the first time in a week I think.
    “We’ve never talked like this before, have we?” I said. “Talked honestly, I mean.”
    “You want the honest answer?”
    “Apparently not.”
    “I have talked honestly and you haven’t listened.”
    Around me the house was dark and silent. The only sound was the rattle of the ice cubes in my drink. When I spoke, my voice had a break in it.
    “I’m listening now, Lawrence. God knows I’m listening now.”
    A brief silence. Then another voice carried over the line. It was Lawrence’s wife Linda, shouting in the background: Who’s on the phone? And Lawrence shouted back: Just someone from work.
    Oh, Lawrence. As if one would throw in that “just,” if it really was someone from work. You would simply say, It’s work, wouldn’t you? I thought about Linda then, and how it must feel to have to share Lawrence with me. Her cold fury—not at the necessity of sharing, but at Lawrence’s naïveté in imagining that Linda didn’t absolutely know. I thought about how the deceit must have acquired a certain uneven symmetry in their couple. I imagined the drab and ordinary lover that Linda would have taken in revenge—in spite and in haste. Oh, it was too awful. Out of respect for Linda, I hung up.
    I steadied the hand that gripped my G&T and I looked over at Little Bee, sleeping. The memories from the beach swirled in my mind, inchoate, senseless, awful. I called Lawrence again.
    “Can you come over?”
    “I’d love to but I can’t tonight. Linda’s going out with a friend and I’ve got the kids.”
    “Can you get a babysitter?”
    I realized I sounded plaintive, and I cursed myself for it. Lawrence had picked up my tone too.
    “Darling?” he said. “You