She was not going to get back to sleep, so she went downstairs and looked for something to do. Actually, it came as a relief that Marshall had so captivated her attention — that she had seen him as vulnerable, that she had felt close to him as he struggled through the night. Because she had been struggling through quite a few difficult nights herself lately, stung by guilt over the affair she was having with her boss, Tony Hembley, trying to deny the fact that in such situations, now that the ’60s were long gone, eventually she would have to decide.
Beside the stairs was a basket of things that needed to be ironed, including her favorite pillow shams that wrinkled like crepe paper but could be quickly steamed into satiny softness. But she was too sleepy to iron. Instead, she went into the living room and curled up, pulling an afghan Evie had knitted for her over her lap, turning on the reading light, and scanning Sunday’s still-unfinished crossword puzzle. She saw that Marshall had written in a couple of words she’d missed in pencil, and also that he’d doodled as he thought about the answers, drawing circles that became ovals, then what looked like a fried egg, its albumen spreading out lacily from the yolk. Or maybe it was no such thing; maybe she was just hungry. For another few minutes she gave thought to “Poet translated by FitzGerald”—wouldn’t Marshall have known that? — yet Marshall was always preoccupied, so possibly he had not even glanced at that part of the puzzle. Even when he was supposed to be asleep, he often moved around the room, sleepwalking or just plain drifting, quietly walking part of the night away. It was to her advantage that he was so often in a world of his own, or distracted, she thought, and then, instantly, felt ashamed of her thoughts. Gordon, Marshall’s brother, was apparently a restless sleeper too; at least, his new wife — the only one of his wives she had ever had a real correspondence with — often remarked on Gordon’s insomnia, or his troubled sleep. The brothers were at once physically similar and also dissimilar: both had unusually colored green eyes, deeply hooded; both had large feet and hands, though only Marshall’s had a sculptural delicacy. Of course, working with his hands had toughened and abraded Gordon’s hands in a way Marshall’s behind-the-lectern gestures had not. Also, the difference in age between them, which was not great, would not explain Marshall’s almost unlined skin, the tiny crow’s-feet at his eyes drawing attention to one of his best features. Marshall was six feet tall, though he slumped so much he didn’t appear particularly tall. Gordon 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 that men 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 alclass="underline" 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 mesmerizing fire 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 Tony: certainly he had realized he was hiring an unconventional person, someone with a zigzagging past that slalomed his own. She had finished law school, flunked her exams the first time around, gotten sidetracked taking night courses in literature while keeping the books for a Boston electronics store for almost two years, then enrolled in a Harvard summer program she thought would teach her about new computer technology, which instead resulted in her retreat into the works of Jane Austen, followed by the rather unexpected promotion of Marshall to full professor at Benson College, their joyful decision to leave their apartment for a real house, followed by their having the good fortune to meet Tony Hembley at a friend’s summer wedding in the Adirondacks, where she spontaneously joined him at a rickety piano to accompany his accordion-played Cajun rendition of “Bosco Stomp.” More than half the guests were too drunk to understand what a weird spectacle was transpiring, though she and Tony had gotten it entirely: the inexplicable oddity of finding a soul mate in the unlikeliest place at the unlikeliest time, a kind of obligation, naturally, required of those thus blessed. “… Too stupid to pass the law boards,” she had said. “… So couldn’t imagine the rest of my life fastening suspenders to my pants and tying a noose with a rep tie. Just had to switch from Dean Witless to real estate,” he’d replied.