gelt.” “‘Gelt’? You? I never heard you use a Yiddish word in your life. That’s my father’s word and expression—‘We can use the gelt’; ‘Make a lot of gelt’—not yours. And what’re you talking about our needing a dollar? We’ve plenty of money, or enough, if we don’t hang on too long, for the rest of our lives.” “Maybe you have — you’re self-supporting — but not me. Sell it and put the money you get into a triple-A safe account in my name, with the kids as beneficiaries.” …He’s in the driver’s seat of a car, she’s in the passenger seat, but the steering wheel and foot pedals are in front of her and she’s driving. “We must be in jolly England,” he says. “No,” she says, “in jolly U.S.” “I’m saying ‘England’ in the sense that the ignition and controls are on the wrong side of an American car and you’re driving much too fast.” “No, the right side, and I’m in fact not driving fast enough,” and the car speeds up. Then it swerves sharply to the right and almost goes over an embankment and he yells “Gwen, what’re you doing — you want to kill us? You almost drove off the shoulder into a ditch.” The car continues to swerve left and right on the narrow shoulder. He grabs the wheel with his right hand and steers the car back onto the two-lane road, slows it down by stepping on the brake pedal, then feels guilty he yelled at her again. “I’m sorry,” he says. She starts crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I said I’m sorry. Oh, damn, here, take the freaking wheel already,” and she says “I eventually will, but do you have to be so mean about it?” “No, I don’t; I’m sorry,” and she takes the wheel and drives at the posted speed and doesn’t veer off the road. “Good, that’s the way to go. I’m so ashamed, though; really. I could’ve corrected you more gently and less physically. But you’ll forgive me like all the other times, won’t you?” and she says “I don’t see how I can.” …They’re walking beside a stream in the woods, he pushing Gwen in her wheelchair and their older daughter behind them. Gwen says “She’s not holding on to either of us. You won’t let her get too near the water, will you?” and he says “Oh, she’s all right.” “She’s not all right; she’s not even two. She can wander off and fall into the stream and drown in a foot of water.” “Believe me,” he says, “she has the common sense and good judgment of someone two or three times her age. She’ll know not to get too close to the water, and if she does get very close, she’ll know not to fall.” “People fall even when they do know not to,” and he says “Look, how else is she going to become self-sufficient and independent of us but by dealing with things, even potential catastrophes, on her own? But don’t worry; I’m looking out for her.” “Then look out for her now,” she yells. Their daughter’s standing by the edge of the stream, bends over to reach something in the water, and falls in. Gwen screams, tries to get up out of the wheelchair and the chair starts to fall over. He catches the chair just before it hits the ground and gets it upright with her in it and with his other hand grabs his daughter out of the water and sets her on her feet. “Look at that,” he says. “Saved you both and at the same time. What husband-father you know could have done what I did?” Gwen, stroking their daughter’s hair, says “Neither would have happened if you had listened to me. But, oh no; you had to be stubborn and contrary, just like you’ve always been. You’ll never change. You’re like a heroism-obsessed firefighter who starts forest fires so he can save people when he puts them out. You’re too dangerous to live with. Once we get home I’m calling a lawyer to start proceedings for a divorce.” “You can’t do that. It’s the last thing I want. And think of the kids.” “We only have one,” she says, and he says “But we’re going to have two.” …Gwen’s in a hospital bed in his sister’s old bedroom. His mother’s standing beside her, holding her hand through the bed rail while dabbing her forehead and cheeks with a washrag. He’s sitting in an armchair in the room, reading a magazine, when the phone rings on the side table next to him. He answers it. It’s his doctor. “Jake,” the man says, “I’ve very bad news for you. Your report came back from the lab. It’s just what I thought. You have cancer and you have to be operated on right away to eradicate it.” “Thank you,” and he hangs up the phone. His mother’s old and somewhat feeble, he thinks, and he doesn’t see how he can leave Gwen alone with her for so long. He says to them “That was my doctor. He called me Jake, for some reason, but I know he knew he was talking to me. Must’ve been a slip of the tongue. ‘Jake’ means okay, and I’m not. He says I have the most serious cancer a man my age can get and I have to have surgery today or I’ll be dead by next week. I don’t know what to do. Leave or stay. Abandon you both for a while to try to save my own skin or continue to help Mom with Gwen and die in a week. Tell me, what should I do?” Gwen hunches her shoulders and gives a look as if she doesn’t know what he should do. His mother says “Do what’s right for yourself; that’s always the best way. That’s what I’m doing with your lovely bride. If I didn’t look after her day and night I know it’d upset me so much that I’d get mortally sick and be dead very soon.” “Gwen,” he says, “please say something. Don’t leave me guessing what you think.” She hunches her shoulders again and gives a look as if she knows what she wants to say but doesn’t want to say it to him. “Then whisper to Mom what you’re thinking and she can tell me.” She shakes her head. “You’re no help,” he says to her, “you’re no help,” and he starts crying uncontrollably. “Oh, my poor boy,” his mother says, patting his shoulder. There, there, everything will work out. You’ll come to the right decision for yourself without any help from either of us and feel much better in the end.” He shakes his head and wants to say “No, it won’t,” but he’s too choked up to speak. …Someone’s knocking on his bedroom door. “Yes?” he says, but the knocking continues. It’s coming from some other part of the house, he thinks. He gets off the bed and goes into the kitchen. A policeman’s behind the screened storm door, his fist just about to knock again. Big guy, maybe six-four, and muscular, with a fat neck, and looks very serious. He backs up a few feet when he sees Martin and puts his hand on his holster. He’s suspicious of me, he thinks, or maybe I got it wrong. It’s bad news, though, that’s for sure, either for me or about someone I know. Maybe one of my daughters, or both together, died in a car crash or got sick all of a sudden and was rushed to a hospital. No, if it were a death, there’d be two policemen. But that’s only when two soldiers show up at a door to tell someone their son or another close relative died in the war. “Yes, officer,” he says, opening the door, “what can I do for you?” Is this fourteen-oh-seven Hazelton?” “No, thank goodness. I mean, that what you’ve come for isn’t related to me. I was thinking the worst for my family again. House you want’s farther up this driveway.” “Are you sure you’re not fourteen-oh-seven? We got a call from a lady at that address that her husband’s being very rough with her, might even have threatened her life, but before we could get her name, the phone was slammed down and nobody would pick up when we called.” “I didn’t know she had a husband. Anyway, people often come to our house when they want hers. Pizza deliverymen and UPS drivers and the like. Maybe because we have no name or house number on our mailbox and they think the first house they come to on this driveway is hers. But I swear to you, nothing but harmony between me and my wife.” “May I talk to her?” and he says “She’s out. You can look around the house, though,” and the policeman says “No, that’s all right,” and gets back in his car and drives up the hill. He goes back inside the house. “Gwen, you’ll never believe what just happened,” he says, walking into her study, where she’s working at her computer. “A cop was at the door and said you called them to complain I was roughing you up and possibly threatening your life. He asked to see you but I told him you weren’t here. Good thing he didn’t take me up on my invitation to inspect the house. I could’ve been charged with giving false information, maybe handcuffed and thrown into the back of his car. But he must’ve believed me when I said there was nothing but good feelings between us and the last thing I’d do is harm you in any way, shape or form. Yes, we’ve had our spats, I said, but worked them out almost right away. Like my parents used to say about their marriage, I told him, we never went to bed angry at each other, which meant we always got a good night’s sleep, unless we were sick with or worried about something. One thing I find puzzling is why he knocked on the door when he could have used the bell. The bell is much more civilized.” She raises her shoulders and turns back to the computer and resumes typing. “So what’re you working on these days?” he says. She continues typing. “All right, I’ll go.” …They’re watching a movie on the DVD player. She’s in a wheelchair and he’s lying on the bed and feeling sleepy. “What film is this?” he says, yawning, and she says “