What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories

say which—said they should start back at once. The others stirred the sand with their shoes, said they didn't feel inclined that way. They pleaded fatigue, the late hour, the fact that the girl wasn't going anywhere.
    In the end they went ahead and set up the camp. They built a fire and drank their whiskey. When the moon came up, they talked about the girl. Someone said they should keep the body from drifting away. They took their flashlights and went back to the river. One of the men—it might have been Stuart—waded in and got her. He took her by the fingers and pulled her into shore. He got some nylon cord and tied it to her wrist and then looped the rest around a tree.
    The next morning they cooked breakfast, drank coffee, and drank whiskey, and then split up to fish. That night they cooked fish, cooked potatoes, drank coffee, drank whiskey, then took their cooking things and eating things back down to the river and washed them where the girl was.
    They played some cards later on. Maybe they played
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    until they couldn't see them anymore. Vern Williams went to sleep. But the others told stories. Gordon Johnson said the trout they'd caught were hard because of the terrible coldness of the water.
    The next morning they got up late, drank whiskey, fished a little, took down their tents, rolled their sleeping bags, gathered their stuff, and hiked out. They drove until they got to a telephone. It was Stuart who made the call while the others stood around in the sun and listened. He gave the sheriff their names. They had nothing to hide. They weren't ashamed. They said they'd wait until someone could come for better directions and take down their statements.
    I WAS asleep when he got home. But I woke up when I heard him in the kitchen. I found him leaning against the refrigerator with a can of beer. He put his heavy arms around me and rubbed his big hands on my back. In bed he put his hands on me again and then waited as if thinking of something else. I turned 'and opened my legs. Afterwards, I think he stayed awake.
    He was up that morning before I could get out of bed. To see if there was something in the paper, I suppose.
    The telephone began ringing right after eight.
    "Go to hell!" I heard him shout.
    The telephone rang right again.
    "I have nothing to add to what I already said to the sheriff!"
    He slammed the receiver down.
    "What is going on?" I said.
    It was then that he told me what I just told you.
    So Much Water So Close to Home
    I S w E E P up the broken dishes and go outside. He is lying on his back on the grass now, the newspaper and can of beer within reach.
    "Stuart, could we go for a drive?" I say.
    He rolls over and looks at me. "We'll pick up some beer," he says. He gets to his feet and touches me on the hip as he goes past. "Give me a minute," he says.
    We drive through town without speaking. He stops at a roadside market for beer. I notice a great stack of papers just inside the door. On the top step a fat woman in a print dress holds out a licorice stick to a little girl. Later on, we cross Everson Creek and turn into the picnic grounds. The creek runs under the bridge and into a large pond a few hundred yards away. I can see the men out there. I can see them out there fishing.
    So much water so close to home.
    I say, "Why did you have to go miles away?"
    "Don't rile me," he says.
    We sit on a bench in the sun. He opens us cans of beer. He says, "Relax, Claire."
    "They said they were innocent. They said they were crazy."
    He says, "Who?" He says, "What are you talking about?"
    "The Maddox brothers. They killed a girl named Arlene Hubly where I grew up. They cut off her head and threw her into the Cle Elum River. It happened when I was a girl."
    "You're going to get me riled," he says.
    I look at the creek. I'm right in it, eyes open, face down, staring at the moss on the bottom, dead.
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    "I don't know what's wrong with you," he says on the way home. "You're getting me more riled by the minute."
    There is nothing I can say to him.
    He tries to concentrate on the road. But he keeps looking into the rear-view mirror.
    He knows.
    STUART believes he is letting me sleep this morning. But I was awake long before the alarm went off. I was thinking, lying on the far side of the bed away from his hairy legs.
    He gets Dean off for school, and then he shaves, dresses, and leaves for work. Twice he looks in and clears his