Far-Flung (20 page)

“Did you have a good sleep?” she asked.

He answered by pulling her closer. She could feel sweat along her back where his stomach had rested, sweat their bodies had created together. She leaned out of the bed and turned down the space heater. She watched its coils fade from orange to red, heard its
ping ping ping,
and felt a sudden tremor of happiness, of the world stretching out all around her, curved and occurring.

“I’m all hot,” she said.

He wasn’t talking yet. She tried to turn toward him, but he pressed himself harder against her. He wrapped his arms around her, and moved against her, slowly.

“I’m sweating,” she said.

He kissed her back, and licked her spine. His tongue felt cool. She tried again to turn and this time he let her. The blankets slipped away from her and he tried to cover her again but she said, “No. I’m hot.”

Even the windows were sweating. Topsy got out of bed and opened one. She turned the heater off. She stood looking out, feeling the cold air on her face. She watched the cornstalks rearrange themselves as something—a dog?—walked through them. Darkness was spilling into the sky from some rip near the horizon.

“Come back to bed,” Walter said.

“It’s late,” she said. “You should go.”

“Come back,” he said. “I have time.”

“Where are you today?” she asked. “What’s your excuse for not being at work?”

“You,” he said. “Come here. Please.”

“Is that what you told Gladys?” Gladys was Walter’s secretary.

“Yes,” said Walter. “And I told Virginia I wouldn’t be home for dinner because I’d be in bed with you.”

“What did Virginia say?”

Walter didn’t answer. Topsy turned away from the window. He was looking at the ceiling. “What would Virginia think of that?” she asked.

“She wouldn’t like it,” he said. He looked at her. “Virginia … loves me.”

“Do you love her?”

“In a way,” he said. “In our way, yes.”

“What way is that?”

“It’s hard to describe,” he said.

She came and sat on the bed.

“I’m cold,” he said.

She went back over and closed the window. The thing was a dog—she saw it emerge from the corn and run through the trees toward Norwell Estates. Someone was calling it. Dinnertime. “Did you love … what was his name?” Walter asked.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

“Karl,” she said. “For a while, yes. And then, no.”

“Did you hate him?”

“No,” she said.

“That’s good,” he said. “Sometimes I think Virginia hates me.”

“Sometimes she probably does.”

“I never hate her. I feel sorry for her, but I don’t hate her.”

“Why do you feel sorry for her?”

Walter thought for a moment. “Because,” he said. “It’s a little pathetic. I mean all her good deeds. The Foodmobile and the Morning Doves—”

“What are the Morning Doves?”

“They call up senior citizens every morning to make sure they didn’t die overnight. Because of what happened with Bertha Knox.” Bertha Knox had been dead for quite a while when the gas man found her in the basement.

“What’s pathetic about good deeds?”

“Nothing. I mean, I think it’s great how much she does. I’m very proud of her.”

“But you said it was pathetic.”

“Oh, forget it,” said Walter. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Topsy came back and sat on the bed. “Sometimes I forget I was married. Isn’t that terrible?”

“What do you mean, forget?”

“I just forget. I forget all about Karl. Like it never happened. It’s very important when it’s happening, but when it’s over, it’s surprising how little … effect it has.”

“Did you like being married?”

“Of course. I mean, it was nice, raising a family.”

“That would be nice,” said Walter.

“Why don’t … you and Virginia?”

“We’ve tried,” said Walter. “It’s very difficult. Both times Virginia got pregnant she miscarried. And I guess we feel a little too old for it now.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two,” said Walter. “Virginia is thirty-eight.”

“That’s not too old,” said Topsy. “I was forty-two when I got Kittery and Dominick.”

“But you didn’t give birth to them,” said Walter.

“No,” said Topsy. “Ellen did that.” They were quiet a moment, and then Topsy stood up and turned on the light. “Turn it off,” Walter said. “Lie down with me.”

“No,” said Topsy. “It’s time to go home.”

“Come lie down. For just a little while. I’m sad.”

Topsy turned off the light. In the wake of illumination the room seemed darker than it had before. “Why are you sad?” she asked.

Walter thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said.

Tiny Peterson, the junk man, came with his truck and moved everything Topsy had deemed salable to the Sunnipee Hall. Then he came back and took away what was left: That was the junk. There had been a lot of it, and Topsy knew there was no reason to save it for the rummage sale in May. She had learned from experience that there are some things no one will buy, things in this world—often fine things—that are superfluous. That make the mistake of becoming unowned.

A few nights later she and Walter had dinner together in the emptied farmhouse. Virginia was visiting her niece in Dayton. In the darkness of the kitchen everything was black and white except for the red sheen of wine in the glasses on the table.

“This was a bad idea,” Topsy said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“What?”

“Well, I feel funny about coming here now,” Topsy said. She picked up a wineglass and looked at it. “Now that there’s no work to do.”

“There’s still work to do,” Walter said. “Our private work.”

“No,” said Topsy. “I don’t feel right about it anymore.”

“You mean, it’s all right to have an affair if it’s accompanied by church-work and not O.K. if it’s not?”

“No,” said Topsy. “I just mean being here.”

“But this is the perfect place. You know it is.”

“Well, we can’t come here forever. Eventually someone will buy it, won’t they?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Walter.

“Well, I didn’t really mean the place, anyway,” Topsy said.

“What did you mean?” Walter stood up. He took the glass of wine from her and drank from it.

“I meant … us. I think we should think about ending it.”

“Why?”

“What do you think? What do you think about ending it?”

“I don’t want to end it,” said Walter. He leaned against the sink. “Do you?”

“I think it might be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Well, because. Because I’m starting to depend on it. I’m starting to depend on you.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t like it. It’s not what I wanted. I didn’t want to get attached.”

“Are you?”

Topsy looked across the kitchen at him. He was just a dark figure in the shadows, but she could picture him. “I think I am,” she said.

“So am I,” he said.

“Then we should end it,” she said. “Remember the rule?”

“What rule?”

“That you’re married. That we wouldn’t … get fond of each other.”

“But we were always fond of each other. Right from the start. At least I was of you.” He drank the rest of the wine and put the glass in the sink, then came over and sat next to her. “Why can’t we just keep going and see what happens?”

“No,” she said. “It will only get worse.”

“So let it get worse.”

“I don’t want it to get worse,” Topsy said. “I want to end it now.”

He stood up. “I thought you weren’t scared. You told me you weren’t easily scared.”

Topsy shrugged. “I guess I was wrong,” she said.

Two weeks later, Topsy stood behind the cashier’s table at the Winter Bazaar and watched Walter Doyle walk up and down the aisles. He arrived at the cashier’s with a tackle box full of lures and weights.

“Those are twenty-five cents apiece,” Topsy said.

“Do I get a discount if I buy them all?”

“I guess so,” said Topsy.

“How about five dollars?”

“You want the box, too?”

“Of course,” said Walter.

“Five dollars for the contents, and five dollars for the box. Ten for it all.”

“This box isn’t worth five dollars,” said Walter. “Not even brand-new.”

“Eight dollars, then,” Topsy said. “For everything.”

“O.K.,” said Walter. He gave her a ten-dollar bill.

“Do you want your change? Any amount over your purchase price is a tax-deductible contribution.”

“I’ll take my change,” said Walter.

Topsy gave him two tired dollar bills.

“You’ve got quite a crowd,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“We need buyers.”

“Virginia’s coming this afternoon. She’s a buyer. Is that coffee free?”

“A nickel.”

“What about a free cup for purchases eight dollars and over?”

“It’s a nickel, Walter.”

Walter extracted a dime from his pants pocket. “Keep the change,” he said. “That’s tax-deductible, right?”

Topsy poured him a cup of coffee.

“Are cream and sugar extra?” he asked.

“Help yourself,” said Topsy.

Walter drank his coffee and watched Topsy fill a tray of paper cups with juice. She arranged all the cups with their edges touching, and then poured the juice down the rows in one long swoop, filling each cup perfectly, spilling none.

“Looks like you’ve done that before,” Walter said.

“Just one of my many talents,” said Topsy.

“Do you have a lost-and-found?” asked Walter.

“What did you lose?”

“A … glove.”

“There’s a box in the kitchen,” Topsy said. “But I haven’t seen any men’s gloves.”

“Could we look?”

“It’s in the kitchen. Go ahead.”

“Come with me.”

“I have to stay here.”

“You could get someone to cover for you, couldn’t you?”

“I don’t see the point. I’m sure you can find your own glove. If you did, indeed, lose it.”

“‘Indeed’?”

“What?”

“Since when do you say, ‘did, indeed’?” Topsy shrugged. She drank a glass of juice. “Since now,” she said.

“As a matter fact, I didn’t, indeed, lose a glove.”

“I thought not.”

“You thought not?”

“Stop it, Walter.”

“Well, why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like … you don’t like me.”

“I’m not. I don’t!”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t not like you.”

“I don’t not like you either.”

A child interrupted them to buy a deflated beach ball and a transistor radio shaped like a frog.

“I miss you,” said Walter, when the transaction had been completed. “Do you miss me?”

“I try not to,” said Topsy.

“But you do?”

“A little.”

“How much?”

“I told you: a little.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. I don’t lie.”

Walter felt like saying, yeah, you don’t get scared, either, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “Are you sure?”

“Walter, stop it. Please. I’m not going to discuss this in the church hall.”

“Will you discuss it somewhere else?”

“No. It’s pointless.”

Walter threw his empty coffee cup into the garbage can. He picked up his tackle box. “Here,” he said. “I don’t really want this.” He put the box down on the table.

“Take it,” said Topsy. “You paid for it.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t fish.”

“Well, then, let me give you your money back.” She took eight dollars out of the box and held them out, but Walter was walking toward the door. She looked at the money in her hand, then put it back in the cash box.

When Virginia Doyle came in later that afternoon, Topsy deducted eight dollars from her grand total. When Virginia asked why, Topsy said they were just giving discounts to good customers. Virginia looked at her as if she were crazy. She told her that was no way to run a church bazaar.

For a while after Topsy stopped seeing Walter, she avoided driving past Knox Farm. If she were going over to Hempel she took the long way, out to the end of Cobble Road and back around through Gaitlinburg. But one day—the first day it was warm enough to drive with the windows open—she found that she had forgotten to take the long way; that she was on the Range Road, and the next thing she knew she was driving up the dirt road to the farmhouse. For a few minutes she just sat in the car, not knowing what she wanted to do. She had tried to park out of sight and when she opened the windows wider an overgrown arm of forsythia unfurled into the car. The thin stalk was speckled with wartlike, pale green buds; it bobbed in front of her face. She opened her mouth and set her lips to it. She bit a little so she could taste its bitterness. She closed her eyes. She thought about her life and how things happened in it, how you couldn’t stop things from happening or control them. It was as if you and all the things that could possibly happen in your life were floating in a pool the size of an ocean and you only touched some of them, and it was all accidental, and the things you wanted were as slim and slippery as fish. Fish swam between your fingers and legs and brushed against your sides; silver-sided fish nibbled at your toes; shy, skittish fish flitted to the surface and then flipped away, no matter how still you stood, no matter how quiet you were, for they could sense your desire: It pulsed from you like sonar—
come to me, come to me, come to me
—driving the swarms of swimming things far away.

In early summer, when the days were like balm, Topsy drove to the Norwell Valley Savings Bank and climbed the stairs to Walter’s office. Gladys Wallace was feeding a pencil to an electric sharpener.

“Hello, Gladys,” Topsy said.

“Well, hi, Mrs. Hatter. What can we do for you?”

“Is Walter in?”

“Mr. Doyle? He’s in a meeting at the moment. Did you have an appointment?”

No, I don’t. But maybe you could tell Walter—Mr. Doyle—that I’m here. He told me to stop by anytime.”

“O.K., I’ll let him know. Will you excuse me?”

“I sure will,” said Topsy. She sat in an easy chair and picked up a copy of
Colonial Homes.

Gladys reappeared shortly, closing the door behind her as if she had just got a baby down inside. “He says he’ll see you now,” she said. “You can go right in.”