His Wife Leaves Him

TLS squeezed into one — and he gave her hers. “Goodnight,” she said. “And don’t go out if you can help it. It’s bitter cold,” and Cal said “I’ll remember that.” She pressed the elevator button and looked at the notice. “I don’t know why he gave me this,” she whispered. “It’s for the D line, not mine,” and he said “‘Line’ meaning bottom floor to top, all the D apartments?” “Yes. Lots of breaking through bathroom walls to locate a water pipe leak, but fortunately for me on the other side of the building, where I used to live. Maybe that’s it. But I don’t want to embarrass him by giving it back. I hope he didn’t hear.” Elevator door opened and they went in. “So,” he was about to say, “we’ve gone down in an elevator and we’re going up,” but thought she’d think it stupid and just time filler, and what could she say to it: “That’s right”? What did holding his arm and snuggling up to him on the street mean? he thought. No snuggle; just using him against the cold. And inviting him up? Nothing to that either. A thank-you for walking her home, and also to give him time to get warm again before he started back. It also showed — but the elevator opened on the seventh floor. She trusts him, that’s all. Two apartments on this small landing and a fire door saying it led to two more: 7H and 7I. She unlocked 7J, turned on the hallway light, gave him a hanger from the coat closet opposite the front door, said “I suggest you put your scarf on the same hanger with your coat so you don’t forget it,” and he said “Good idea. I have a tendency toward amnesia whenever I leave a new place.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” and he said “Neither did I. Excuse me.” She hung up her coat, put her cap and muffler, or he now thinks it was a wool shawl, on the shelf above the coats. “Now, for your drink,” she said, “come with me.” She went into the kitchen—“Nice apartment,” he said, going through the living room-dining room, “and quite a view”—set the bag down on the stove and said “Unfortunately, the beer is warm and not very good — a six-pack left by my subletter two summers ago. Does beer go bad?” and he said “Only it it’s been opened and left around awhile, even if recapped.” “I do have red wine, uncorked, which you can open if you like, and Israeli brandy from my father. I haven’t tasted it, but he says it’s terrific, though he thinks everything made in Israel is better than from anywhere else. He travels there once a year to see some old school friends from Warsaw, and always brings me back brandy and chocolates and table napkins and things. He says he’s helping out their economy.” “How nice to have a father who gives you brandy. Mine thought I was a shiker—I wasn’t — and when he took my mom and I out to dinner, he didn’t even like my having a single beer. I’ll try the brandy.” She got a nearly full bottle of brandy off a side shelf in the refrigerator. He wanted to ask why she kept it there, but then thought she might not like the question. For instance, her father might have told her to. She got a brandy snifter out of a kitchen cabinet, washed it—“I hate to say it but we sometimes have little buggies here, clean as this building is and overfumigated”—dried it with a paper towel and gave it to him. “Pour as much as you want. I doubt the brandy’s up to the glass — four of them were a wedding present from Tiffany’s and this is the only one left — but it still might taste better in it. I’d even join you if I had some Benedictine.” He sipped, said “It’s quite good,” when it was a bit sharp, and she heated up the liver, sliced it into tiny pieces and put the plate on the floor under the sink next to a bowl of water. “Ah, I’ll give them fresh,” and she changed the water. “Watch this, if it works.” She made clicking sounds with her mouth and there were two heavy thumps from another room — had to be her cats jumping from somewhere to the floor, for right away they ran into the kitchen and started eating. “Siamese,” he said. “I love them,” and she said “Well, you can either stay here and shower them with affection or make yourself comfortable in the living room. But I have to attend to something in the back. Excuse me.” She went into the hallway that connected to the bathroom, he could see, and also to what was probably the bedroom, and shut the hallway door behind her. Going to use the toilet or something, he thought. Before she closed the door he also saw what was probably the opened linen closet the cats had jumped out of. He went back to the kitchen, finished what was in the glass, poured twice the amount he did the first time and put the bottle on the side shelf in the refrigerator. In the living room, he thought should he stand while he waits for her, sit? If he sits, where — the couch, which was really just a Hollywood bed with a corduroy spread over it and several large cushions against the wall? Morris chair, which was almost identical to the one he had in his apartment, but in much better shape? Not at the dining table, which was near the windows. That’d look ridiculous. She’d come out and see him sitting at the table with nothing on it but his glass, if he wasn’t holding it. And if he sat there he would hold it or put something under the stem if he set it down. Table looks like an antique and he wouldn’t want to mar its finish with a wet ring or even a drop of brandy on it. The view, he thought: river, moonlight on it, lights on the other side: it really is pretty. He thought he’d be able to see the George Washington Bridge from her windows, but he’d probably have to stick his head outside to do it. A crazy thought: say he were going to stay here awhile, where would he work? Not at this table, unless she has pads for it. And every time he wanted to write, he’d have to get them from wherever she keeps them — he guesses in the coat closet — and put them on? Otherwise, his typewriter could scratch the table, and just putting a place mat under it, the typewriter would slide around. The bedroom must be where she works, at a desk or table, for no sign of her working in this room. What he’d do is bring his typewriter table here — he only uses it now to hold house plants — and put it over the half-radiator under the kitchen window by the door. It’s light and compact enough to carry on the subway or bus, and has wheels, so he’d be able to wheel it part of the way, particularly in the street. The work space would be small and crowded and the chair he’d use would be a little in the way of anyone going into or coming back from the kitchen, but he’s worked in small and cramped spaces before and it’s never interfered in his writing. And he’s sure — let’s say it came to this, he thought — he’d grab her hand every now and then when she was trying to squeeze past him in the chair, and kiss it. He drank some more, got the brandy in the glass down to where he first poured it, looked at the books in the narrow floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases on either side of the living room windows. Mostly poetry and fiction, none French, and all in English. Her French books, in English and French, and probably her academic books and scholarly journals, must be in the bedroom on bookshelves there. He felt the radiator cover under the windows. Warm, not hot, and he sat on it. Feels good. Wondered when he should leave. Maybe not till she asks him to or gives a sign she’d like him to. She does neither, then in half an hour; make that the limit. “Excuse me, you still have work to do, so I think I should go.” Something like that. So she knows he doesn’t want to overstay. If she says he doesn’t have to go yet, he won’t. She might say for him to stay till he finishes his drink, and he will. Maybe he should get some more. No. Had enough, doesn’t want to get sloppy in speech or have trouble getting out of a chair or walking, and he still has to get home. Heard the toilet flush. Few seconds after it stopped flushing — went on for a long time, as if it’d never stop, so it might need a new flushometer — the squeak of the sink faucet being turned on, same sound his makes in his bathroom. The sink must be against the wall separating the bathroom and living room, and she’s probably washing her hands. Radiator’s getting too hot for him no matter where he sits on it, and he got up. But he doesn’t want to just stand there, pretending to be admiring her books, when she comes out, or the view from her windows, so he sat in the Morris chair, which was at an angle across from the couch, and put his glass on the glass top of the coffee table between them. Looked at the artwork on the walls. Had to twist around a little to see all of it. Liked them. Modern, mostly abstract, except for a realistic pencil drawing of Camus’ face, it seemed. Wasn’t sure what to make of the Brancusi-like foot-and-a-half-high marble sculpture on the coffee table—