Another You Read Online Free PDF Page B

was shorter by several inches, though he held himself ramrod straight, shoulders squared—perhaps the carriage he’d learned in the army, while Marshall was pursuing his Ph.D. She lifted the photograph of herself and Marshall off the side table and rubbed the dusty frame. It had been taken in Boston many years ago by the teenage son of a woman she’d worked with. What had happened to the woman and her talented son, who had been so passionate about his photography courses? She’d lost track of so many people, and so had Marshall—though he’d never had as many friends and acquaintances as she. He maintained thatmen didn’t socialize the way women did, but lately he didn’t socialize at all, and she hardly did, herself: just the book discussion group, or an odd evening out when Marshall taught his night class. In the photograph, Marshall’s hand clasped her shoulder, and he nuzzled her hair, which was much longer, falling below her shoulders. His eyes were half-closed, his thoughts turned inward, but she hadn’t been relaxed at all: her eyes a bit too wide, her smile slightly artificial. Still, the tenderness between them showed. Then and now, when he wasn’t thinking about three things at once, going in one direction looking for his briefcase and another to find the pile of papers he’d just graded, meanwhile forgetting his watch on the dresser and leaving the lunch bag on the kitchen counter, he would look at her appreciatively and his gaze would calm her. She knew he loved her, but she was often surprised to see that he was looking quietly at her simply because he liked her. She didn’t mind at all that it was the same way he would look at the covers of certain books, or the way he’d look out the window and appreciate, for a brief second, the sight of branches blowing in the wind, or be amused by squirrels cavorting on the telephone wires.
    Thinking fondly of her husband—relieved that she did, because for quite a while her thoughts had habitually turned, instead, to Tony—she went into the kitchen and made pancake batter. No assurance he’d have time to eat pancakes, unless she was unkind and woke him up after his stressful night sleepwalking, but if he did wake up, the batter would be there. Cracking an egg into the powdery mixture, she thought again about his doodles, and about the inked and pencilled puzzle, slightly sorry that instead of going to foreign films or going dancing—well, a few times, years ago in Boston, they had gone dancing—they now sat so many nights in front of the fire, settling for nothing but relaxation and wordless connection with one another. Strange, really, that while she felt comfortable with their pleasant domestic routines most of the time, at other times the sameness seemed oppressive. Just a day or so ago, she had complained to Tony about their evenings at home, yet when he had commiserated, calling them “your quotidian quotient,” she had become defensive. She had actually found herself talking about the solitary beauty of the second-growth pine, and of the birches, lit by the backyard spotlight, and if Tony hadn’t laughed, she would probably have continued: the mesmerizingfire in the fireplace; the complex patterns the shadows cast upon the wall. “I’m here to save you from your life of happy pretense,” Tony had said to her, clinking the rim of his coffee cup to hers. One thing about Tony was that he never minded overstepping his bounds—and when he had, he registered his glee by making a silent toast, or by flashing the V-for-victory sign. It was a mistake to confide in him, but also, for some reason, irresistible. Now she forced him out of her mind and finished stirring the batter.
    She supposed she should be grateful she could keep such odd hours at the real estate business, communicating essentially by Post-it notes and taped messages, though the more she thought about it, it was possible she might appear both organized and brilliantly improvisational to