At two o'clock in the morning, I woke Roberta to read her this passage from Rousseau:
"She only kept her bed for the last two days, and continued to converse quietly with everyone to the last. Finally when she could no longer talk and was already in her death agony, she broke wind loudly. "Good!" She said, turning over, "a woman who can fart is not dead." Those were the last words she spoke.'
"Now, Beenie Rushforth or not? Can't you imagine her going out like that? Farting and stomping and shaking her broom at the gods."
Roberta reached for her glasses on the night table, which was her prelude to saying something that mattered. She would chat with glasses off, but when it was serious, she somehow felt she needed a clear field of vision.
"I think you've got her pegged wrong, Scott. She's tough in ways, but also very vulnerable. Extremely vulnerable. Just listening to her talk about her daughter is so damned sad! The woman grieves. I think their separation hurts her more than the cancer. You know, I look at her, and we talk, and every time I think, 'Scott and I are so lucky. We are so, so lucky.'"
I was shoveling snow off the front sidewalk, when the Rushforth Toyota pulled to the curb in front of me. She got out wearing the giant green government-issue parka her son had given her after he left the army.
"Scott, you and I gotta talk."
"What's up, Beenie?"
"That book. You shouldn't've sent it back to the parents."
"How did you know about that? Did Roberta tell you?"
"No, but I knew. From now on, things like that, you either throw away or you keep 'em. Never pass 'em on. They're your memories, not theirs."
"What're you talking about?"
"I did the same thing and it got me into big trouble. You can do what you want, but I'm just telling you now so you know: there can be problems. Keep it or throw it away. That's the only rule to follow." She touched my arm, then walked back to her car and got out a bottle of cleaner. "It's tricky because everything seems loose and open. It's not! See you later."
I watched her walk to the house. What was tricky? How had she known about what I'd done with the manuscript? Keep it or throw it away? Had she gone mad?
I stabbed the snow shovel into the nearest mound and marched to the kitchen door, preparing for a talk either about Beenie with Roberta, or a talk with Beenie about what the hell was going on. Looking through the window, I saw both women sitting at the table. Beenie was looking straight ahead and crying. She'd say something stop, shake her head or drop it in defeat. I continued to watch, not knowing what to do. Finally Roberta happened to look my way. I pointed to me, then to the door. Can I come in? Her eyes widened, and she mouthed a big No! I went back to shoveling.
When I'd finished the sidewalk and the never-ending path to the front door, I wondered if it was safe to go back inside yet. There was so much happening, and it all had to do with the cleaning woman.
"Scott?"
"Yes? I'm freezing! Can I enter my own house now? Or are we wrestling another crisis to the ground?"
"Come in."
Despite my displeasure, my antennae went up, and the signals sent were not good. Roberta's arms were crossed. A bad sign. Her face was expressionless. Bad sign two. My wife is an optimistic, good-natured person. If she gets mad once every two months, it's surprising – and most of the time, that anger is totally justified.
"What's the matter, dear?"
"The matter is, you are going to take me out to lunch and explain these."
Our family had spent four years in Hale, Texas. A few of the only good times I remember there were sitting in the Lone Star Bar, drinking beer with Glenda Revelle, who might have been the most beautiful student I have ever known. If they're honest, all teachers will admit that, at least once in their careers, a young person walked into the class who had the potential to turn both the teacher and their world inside out. Some get involved; most don't. The problem for those who don't is, this ravishing student continues to sit in front of us half a year, their physical presence alone a daily reminder of the erotic dare: how intriguing it would be to live in a land way far from the mind. A land where the senses are everything, humiliation is likely, and outside the door of the room is probably nothing. Glenda and I did not have an affair, although she made it plain that would have been fine. We came close twice, and I was tempted. Close enough to smell her breath and the heat off the skin of her shoulder. But it did not happen.
She was persistent, and sent me a number of letters. Silver calligraphic letters on black paper. Stupidly, I kept two – and Roberta found them. That led to the evening across the kitchen table when she called me a mean loser. Eventually she believed I had not been with the girl, and we reached a thin truce. The best one can hope for in situations like that.
Now Roberta stood in front of the fireplace, holding out two black envelopes as if they were diseased.
"Ro –"
"Why did you save these, Scott?"
"I didn't. You saw what I did with those letters. Where did you get those?"
"Beenie found them."
"Oh, Beenie, huh? Well, where is she? I want to ask her a few questions."
"She left for the day. She's too upset to work. But that doesn't explain these. Why did you lie to me? Have you been writing her?"
I walked over, took the letters out of her hand, and threw them in the fire. "I haven't done anything! I threw those letters away just like that, a long time ago, and you watched me do it! I have been a good man since then, Roberta. I've worked very hard to make amends to you and the children for treating you all badly, and I think I've done O.K. If you don't trust me any more than to think for twenty years I kept some half-assed love letters from a student hidden in the back of a drawer to moon over …. Where is Beenie? I want to talk to her."
"She left. I told you she left. Why did you keep those letters?"
"I DIDN'T!"
"Then why did she find them?"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
"– Do, too!"
"DO NOT! YOU SAW ME THROW THEM IN THE FIREPLACE IN HALE!"
"Obviously not all of them?"
"For Christ's sake, Roberta, I'm telling you the truth!"
"Then why'd she find these?"
"I don't know! How did she know I had sent the manuscript to Annette's family? How did she find it in the first place? I left it with the police. THAT'S WHY I WANT TO TALK TO HER!" Fuming, I gave her my back and walked to the door.
"Where are you going? Come back here and start telling the truth!' I turned again and faced her. "What is holy to you, wife?"
"The grandchildren."
"Then I swear to you on all of their heads that you saw me burn each and every one of Glenda Revelle's letters back in Hale. O.K? Is there anything else I can say? Shall I slice my throat for further proof? Do I deserve no trust?"
That was a terrible moment, because we looked at each other across a room that was suddenly miles wide. There was such silence between us. It told me no; in her mind, I still deserved no trust. That was so shocking after all those years. I would have gone to my grave thinking I had been bad once, but slowly, slowly, I had gotten all right again in my wife's heart. Wrong. Like one of those ghastly accidents in nuclear power plants, my almost with Glenda Revelle had spoiled the earth around us for a thousand years.