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Gone.
    None of their family members were buried in the same graveyard. He had often said how when he and she were laid out together, as they planned, it would be the first true joining of the families. Gross, she said.
     
    Chapter Four
    Had Myers done anything wrong or was everything her fault?
    Everything?
    Okay, there was the following. That one thing. He used to follow her.
    Around the house?
    Outside, on the street.
    Where?
    Wherever.
    Like a stalker?
    Not like a stalker. She’s his wife.
    People stalk wives. No wonder she threw him out.
    She didn’t throw him out, for God’s sake. Did you see him back there? He left, he woke up and said he was leaving. Besides, she didn’t know. She never knew about the following.
    She might have known.
    No.
    Still, a thing like that affects.
    What was he supposed to do, let her promenade all over the city in her stockings without him?
    That’s the way it works these days.
    Not any way Myers knows of.
    There’s a word for it.
    No word Myers ever heard of.
    Employment?
    Oh, that. Don’t make him laugh.
    In fact, he started following her in the first months of their marriage or thereabouts. Maybe month three. About two and a half years ago. Their normalcy back then was stunning and thorough. It wasn’t this fun house he lived in now—distorted images, trapdoors, a lurching car. Back then they went to work, they came home. Sometimes they rode the train together, he carrying her bag. Sometimes they stayed in the city for a fish dinner, their favorite stools-and-counter spot. They made love, ironed. They discussed their belongings and the positions their belongings held, both in their esteem and in the apartment. And he hoped it would always be this way, marriage, adding more objects, subtracting a few, making love a little less but still frequently. Each day he came home elated, astounded by his luck. This graceful brilliant woman, this beautiful adorable creature loved him, of all people. He had not been a happy man before. He was determined not to mess this up.
    One day she had called his office to say she’d be late. That’s how it all started. He’d had a different job back then, a worse one, one that never required he stay late, and she’d had an even worse one, one that didn’t require her at all. So when she said, I’m going to be late, it was surprise that her job needed her that made him say, Do you have to?
    It’s work, I’m working. I’m sorry. Order without me.
    Order. He and his wife ate items that answered to a call, that were called for, items that arrived in foil with a plastic hat on top, the entire assembly placed into kraft paper, stapled for security, and then put inside an additional thin plastic bag tied at the top.
    On that particular day, he forgot to ask which item she wished to find at the bottom of all the protective coverings. His mind that day was distracted, frayed from the longstanding understanding he had with walls, billboards, disembodied voices. No parking here to corner. Close-out deals now. Don’t forget your lotto. Stand clear of the closing doors, please. He called back. She didn’t answer her office phone or her cell. At the front desk they said she’d left an hour before.
    The truth was, he could imagine a scenario where he would have to confess each time he followed her, one by one, would have to produce the date, hour, coordinates, trajectory. She would also confess her end of it, which was substantial. They would take turns, reciting sites and times, alphabetically or chronologically, marking them off one by one or deleting them from an electronic file.
    She came home late that night, had something else in her or on her, a mussed appearance, a healthy ruddy complexion, not the dried tired look of someone with an evening of input and printout behind her. She had a callous glow.
    Where were you?
    I told you. Work.
    Considering at that point she had never lied to him before, he didn’t think.
    I’ll be late again, sorry. This