What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories

standing.
    Why not someone else? Why not those people tonight? Why not all those people who sail through life free as birds? Why not them instead of Edith?
    He moved away from the bedroom door. He thought about going for a walk. But the wind was wild now, and he could hear the branches whining in the birch tree behind the house.
    He sat in front of the TV again. But he did not turn it on. He smoked and thought of that sauntering, arrogant gait as the two of them moved just ahead. If only they knew. If only someone would tell them. Just once!
    He closed his eyes. He would get up early and fix breakfast. He would go with her to see Crawford. If only they had to sit with him in the waiting room! He'd tell them what to expect! He'd set those floozies straight! He'd tell them what was waiting for you after the denim and the earrings, after touching each other and cheating at games.
    H E got up and went into the guest room and turned on the lamp over the bed. He glanced at his papers and at his account books and at the adding machine on his desk. He found a pair of pajamas in one of the drawers. He turned
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    down the covers on the bed. Then he walked back through the house, snapping off lights and checking doors. For a while he stood looking out the kitchen window at the tree shaking under the force of the wind.
    He left the porch light on and went back to the guest room. He pushed aside his knitting basket, took up his basket of embroidery, and then settled himself in the chair. He raised the lid of the basket and got out the metal hoop. There was fresh white linen stretched across it. Holding the tiny needle to the light, James Packer stabbed at the eye with a length of blue silk thread. Then he set to work-stitch after stitch—making believe he was waving like the man on the keel.
    So Much Water So Close to Home
    M Y husband eats with a good appetite. But I don't think he's really hungry. He chews, arms on the table, and stares at something across the room. He looks at me and looks away. He wipes his mouth on the napkin. He shrugs, and goes on eating.
    "What are you staring at me for?" he says. "What is it?" he says and lays down his fork.
    "Was I staring?" I say, and shake my head.
    The telephone rings.
    "Don't answer it," he says.
    "It might be your mother," I say.
    "Watch and see," he says.
    I pick up the receiver and listen. My husband stops eating.
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    "What did I tell you?" he says when I hang up. He starts to eat again. Then throws his napkin on his plate. He says, "Goddamn it, why can't people mind their own business? Tell me what I did wrong and 111 listen! I wasn't the only man there. We talked it over and we all decided. We couldn't just turn around. We were five miles from the car. I won't have you passing judgment. Do you hear?"
    "You know," I say.
    He says, "What do I know, Claire? Tell me what I'm supposed to know. I don't know anything except one thing." He gives me what he thinks is a meaningful look. "She was dead," he says. "And I'm as sorry as anyone else. But she was dead."
    "That's the point," I say.
    He raises his hands. He pushes his chair away from the table. He takes out his cigarettes and goes out to the back with a can of beer. I see him sit in the lawn chair and pick up the newspaper again.
    His name is in there on the first page. Along with the names of his friends.
    I close my eyes and hold on to the sink. Then I rake my arm across the drainboard and send the dishes to the floor.
    He doesn't move. I know he's heard. He lifts his head as if still listening. But he doesn't move otherwise. He doesn't turn around.
    H E andGordonJohnsonandMelDornand Vern Williams, they play poker and bowl and fish. They fish every spring and early summer before visiting relatives can get in the way. They are decent men, family men, men who take care
    So Much Water So Close to Home
    of their jobs. They have sons and daughters who go to school with our son, Dean.
    Last Friday these family men left for the Naches River. They parked the car in the mountains and hiked to where they wanted to fish. They carried their bedrolls, their food, their playing cards, their whiskey.
    They saw the girl before they set up camp. Mel Dorn found her. No clothes on her at all. She was wedged into some branches that stuck out over the water.
    He called the others and they came to look. They talked about what to do. One of the men—my Stuart didn't