What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories

she meant. "Spotting," he said again, very quietly.
    "Oh, dear," Edith Packer said, picking up some cards and sorting through them.
    "I think we should go home," he said.
    She kept sorting through the cards. "No, let's stay," she said. "It's just the spotting, is all."
    He touched her hand.
    "We'll stay," she said. "It'll be all right."
    "This is the worst bingo night in history," James Packer said.
    THEY played the Blackout game, James watching the man in denim. The fellow was still at it, still playing a card he hadn't paid for. From time to time, James checked how Edith was doing. But there was no way of telling. She held her lips pursed together. It could mean anything—resolve, worry, pain. Or maybe she just liked having her lips that way for this particular game.
    He had three numbers to go on one card and five numbers on another, and no chance at all on a third card when the girl with the man in denim began shrieking: "Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! I have a bingo!"
    The fellow clapped and shouted with her. "She's got a bingo! She's got a bingo, folks! A bingo!"
    The fellow in denim kept clapping.
    It was the woman on the stage herself who went to the
    After the Denim
    girl's table to check her card against the master list. She said, "This young woman has a bingo, and that's a ninety-eight-dollar jackpot! Let's give her a round of applause, people! It's a bingo here! A Blackout!"
    Edith clapped along with the rest. But James kept his hands on the table.
    The fellow in denim hugged the girl when the woman from the stage handed over the cash.
    "They'll use it to buy drugs," James said.
    THEY stayed for the rest of the games. They stayed until the last game was played. It was a game called the Progressive, the jackpot increasing from week to week if no one bingoed before so many numbers were called.
    James put his money down and played his cards with no hope of winning. He waited for the fellow in denim to call "Bingo!"
    But no one won, and the jackpot would be carried over to the following week, the prize bigger than ever.
    "That's bingo for tonight!" the woman on the stage proclaimed. "Thank you all for coming. God bless you and good night."
    The Packers filed out of the assembly hall along with the rest, somehow managing to fall in behind the fellow in denim and his girl. They saw the girl pat her pocket. They saw the girl put her arm around the fellow's waist.
    "Let those people get ahead of us," James said into Edith's ear. "I can't stand to look at them."
    Edith said nothing in reply. But she hung back a little to give the couple time to move ahead.
    Outside, the wind was up. James thought sure he could
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    hear the surf over the sound of engines starting.
    He saw the couple stop at the van. Of course. He should have put two and two together.
    "The dumbbell," James Packer said.
    EDITH went into the bathroom and shut the door. James took off his windbreaker and put it down on the back of the sofa. He turned on the TV and took up his place and waited.
    After a time, Edith came out of the bathroom. James concentrated his attention on the TV. Edith went to the kitchen and ran water. James heard her turn off the faucet. Edith came to the room and said, "I guess I'll have to see Dr. Crawford in the morning. I guess there really is something happening down there."
    "The lousy luck," James said.
    She stood there shaking her head. She covered her eyes and leaned into him when he came to put his arms around her.
    "Edith, dearest Edith," James Packer said.
    He felt awkward and terrified. He stood with his arms more or less holding his wife.
    She reached for his face and kissed his lips, and then she said good night.
    H E went to the refrigerator. He stood in front of the open door and drank tomato juice while he studied everything inside. Cold air blew out at him. He looked at the little packages and the containers of foodstuffs on the shelves, a chicken covered in plastic wrap, the neat, protected exhibits.
    After the Denim
    He shut the door and spit the last of the juice into the sink. Then he rinsed his mouth and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He carried it into the living room. He sat down in front of the TV and lit a cigarette. He understood that it took only one lunatic and a torch to bring everything to ruin.
    He smoked and finished the coffee, and then he turned the TV off. He went to the bedroom door and listened for a time. He felt unworthy to be listening, to be