Too Much Happiness

better not to mention it. And since it was hard not to mention whatever happened to her-there being so little, most of the time-she phoned and cancelled her appointment. She said that she was going on a holiday. They were getting into summer, when holidays were the usual thing. With a friend, she said.
    “You aren’t wearing the jacket you had on last week.”
    “That wasn’t last week.”
    “Wasn’t it?”
    “It was three weeks ago. The weather’s hot now. This is lighter, but I don’t really need it. You don’t need a jacket at all.”
    He asked about her trip, what buses she’d had to take from Mildmay.
    She told him that she wasn’t living there anymore. She told him where she lived, and about the three buses.
    “That’s quite a trek for you. Do you like living in a bigger place?”
    “It’s easier to get work there.”
    “So you work?”
    She had told him last time about where she lived, the buses, where she worked.
    “I clean rooms in a motel,” she said. “I told you.”
    “Yes, yes. I forgot. I’m sorry. Do you ever think of going back to school? Night school?”
    She said she did think about it but never seriously enough to do anything. She said she didn’t mind the cleaning work.
    Then it seemed as if they could not think of anything more to say.
    He sighed. He said, “Sorry. Sorry. I guess I’m not used to conversation.”
    “So what do you do all the time?”
    “I guess I read quite a bit. Kind of meditate. Informally.”
    “Oh.”
    “I appreciate your coming here. It means a lot to me. But don’t think you have to keep it up. I mean, just when you want to. If something comes up, or if you feel like it-what I’m trying to say is, just the fact that you could come at all, that you even came once, that’s a bonus for me. Do you get what I mean?”
    She said yes, she thought so.
    He said that he didn’t want to interfere with her life.
    “You’re not,” she said.
    “Was that what you were going to say? I thought you were going to say something else.”
    In fact, she had almost said, What life?
    No, she said, not really, nothing else.
    “Good.”
    Three more weeks and she got a phone call. It was Mrs. Sands herself on the line, not one of the women in the office.
    “Oh, Doree. I thought you might not be back yet. From your holiday. So you are back?”
    “Yes,” Doree said, trying to think where she could say she had been.
    “But you hadn’t got around to arranging another appointment?”
    “No. Not yet.”
    “That’s okay. I was just checking. You are all right?”
    “I’m all right.”
    “Fine. Fine. You know where I am if you ever need me. Ever just want to have a talk.”
    “Yes.”
    “So take care.”
    She hadn’t mentioned Lloyd, hadn’t asked if the visits had continued. Well, of course, Doree had said that they weren’t going to. But Mrs. Sands was pretty good, usually, about sensing what was going on. Pretty good at holding off, too, when she understood that a question might not get her anywhere. Doree didn’t know what she would have said, if asked-whether she would have backtracked and told a lie or come out with the truth. She had gone back, in fact, the very next Sunday after he more or less told her it didn’t matter whether she came or not.
    He had a cold. He didn’t know how he got it.
    Maybe he had been coming down with it, he said, the last time he saw her, and that was why he’d been so morose.
    “Morose.” She seldom had anything to do, nowadays, with anyone who used a word like that, and it sounded strange to her. But he had always had a habit of using such words, and of course at one time they hadn’t struck her as they did now.
    “Do I seem like a different person to you?” he asked.
    “Well, you look different,” she said cautiously. “Don’t I?”
    “You look beautiful,” he said sadly.
    Something softened in her. But she fought against it.
    “Do you feel different?” he asked. “Do you feel like a different person?”
    She said she didn’t know. “Do you?”
    He said, “Altogether.”
    Later in the week a large envelope was given to her at work. It had been addressed to her care of the motel. It contained several sheets of paper, with writing on both sides. She didn’t think at first of its being from him-she somehow had the idea that people in prison were not allowed to write letters. But, of course, he was a different sort of prisoner. He was not a criminal; he was only criminally insane.
    There was no date