“Joanna,” he said. He locked his fingers together. “Do you remember Starley?”
She sighed, obviously exasperated. They had all been constant companions in New York; the three of them — later the four of them — had gone dancing together at night.
“He died,” he said. “He was run over by a truck.”
Her mouth came open. She slowly pulled the rubber band out of her hair and rubbed it into a ball between her fingers. “Starley’s dead?” she said. “I just got a letter from Starley.”
“No you didn’t. What would he write you a letter for?”
“He wrote me.” She shrugged.
“What did he write you?”
“Stay here,” she said. She crossed the room, stepped up, turned into her bedroom.
“What is it?” he said, following her.
The letter was about a picture that Starley could get her a print of from the National Gallery of Art. She must have written to ask him if he could get it. At the end of the letter he had written: “P.S. Why don’t you let bygones be bygones and marry him, Joanna? He shacks up with one dreary woman after another, the latest of which dumped him because her fifteen-year-old son wouldn’t do his math homework as long as she had him around.”
“Imagine thinking that after all this time I’m going to marry you,” she said. “When I knew you I was eighteen years old, and I thought that you were hot stuff. I thought New York was a big, impressive place. I was eighteen years old.”
Past her, outside the window, was a bush with bright-green leaves and lavender flowers that looked very bright in the half-light.
“That’s pretty,” he said, pointing over her shoulder. “What kind of bush is that?”
“Hibiscus,” she said. “But look — what are you doing here?”
He was sitting by her on the bed. Her skin was cool, on top of her arm where his arm touched hers. The bed linen was cool, too, because the window had been open and the bush outside had shaded it from the sun. It was summer in Florida, and winter back north. He was holding her hand. Years ago he had held her hand when she was eighteen. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. He picked up the letter with the other hand and dropped it to the floor.
“Starley’s dead,” he said. “A truck hit him. It was an accident.”
He was surprised to be saying out loud what he had been thinking for days. In the apartment she had shared with the three other girls in New York they had gotten used to whispering, in the bedroom, behind the closed door (a sign that her roommates were to stay in the living room or, preferably, go out). They had whispered, she had whispered that she loved him.
He ran his hand along the sheet, then rested it on top of her leg. As he tried to clear his mind he heard the hum of the highway, the faint static that had made it difficult to talk when he made the phone call earlier. He was talking to himself, but she was answering him.
“Wait,” he said, his voice no louder than the sound his hand made stroking the sheet. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Wait.”
“Wait for what?” she whispered.
Deer Season
There had been very few times in their lives when they lived apart, and now, for almost three years, Margaret and Elena had shared the cottage in the Adirondacks. In all that time, things had gone smoothly. The only time in their lives things had not gone well was the time before the sisters moved to the cottage. Elena and Tom, the man Elena had been living with, had broken up, and Tom had begun to date Margaret. But Tom and Margaret had not dated long, and now it had become an episode the sisters rarely mentioned. Each understood that the other had once loved him.
Elena had lived with Tom in his brother’s high rise on the East Side of Manhattan, but when Tom’s brother came back from Europe they had to leave the borrowed apartment, and Tom suggested that it might be a good idea if they lived apart for a while. It had not come as a surprise to Elena, but Tom’s dates with Margaret had.
Margaret had never lived with Tom; she had dated him when she was going to nursing school, telling Elena that she knew living with a man would be a great distraction from her work, and once she had decided what she wanted to do, she wanted to concentrate hard. It hurt Elena that Tom would prefer Margaret’s company to her own, and it hurt her more that Margaret did not seem to really love him — she preferred her work to him. But Margaret had always been the lucky one.
Tom visited every year, around Christmas. The first year he came he talked about a woman he was dating: a college professor, a minor poet. If the news hurt either of them, the sisters didn’t show it. But the next year — they were surprised that he would come again, since the first year he came his visit seemed more or less perfunctory — he talked to Elena after Margaret had gone to bed. He told her then that it had been a mistake to say that they should live apart, that he had found no one else, and would find no one else: he loved her. Then he went into her bedroom and got into bed. She thought about telling him to get out, that she didn’t want to start anything again and that it would be embarrassing with Margaret in the next bedroom. But she counted back and realized that she had not slept with anyone in almost a year. She went to bed with him. After that visit, a sentence in one of his letters might have been meant as a proposal, but Elena did not allude to that in her letter to him, and Tom said nothing more. Finally his letters became less impassioned. The letters stopped entirely for almost six months, but then he wrote again, and asked if he could come for what he called his “annual visit.” He also wrote Margaret, and Margaret said to Elena, “Tom wants to visit. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?” They were standing in the doorway to the kitchen, where Elena was putting down a saucer of milk for the cat.
“What are you thinking about so seriously?” Margaret said.
“We need a new kettle,” Elena said. “One that doesn’t whistle.” She lifted the kettle off the burner.
“Is that what you were really thinking about? I thought you might have been thinking about the visit.”
“What would I be thinking? I don’t care if he comes or not.”
“I don’t either. Maybe next year we should just say no. It does sort of stir up memories.”
Margaret poured water into a cup and added instant coffee and milk. She put the kettle down and Elena picked it up. It irritated Elena that Margaret always added the coffee after she had put the water in. It also irritated her that she had time to be bothered by such things. She thought that as she got older, she was becoming more and more petty. She had a grant, this year, to write about Rousseau’s paintings, and she kept bogging down in details. After a few hours’ work she would be bored and leave the house. Sometimes she would see no one but Margaret from week to week, except for the regulars at the village store and an occasional hunter walking through the woods, or along the roads. In the summer she had dated an older man named Peter Virrell, one of the summer people who had stayed on, but they had very little to say to each other. He was a painter, so they could talk about art, but she got tired of researching and writing and then talking all night about the same subject, and he drank more than she liked and embarrassed her the next day by calling and begging forgiveness. She found excuses not to see him. Once, when she did, he drank too much and insisted on holding her when she didn’t want to be held, and with his lips softly against her ear whispered, “Stop pretending, stop pretending …” She had been afraid that when he stopped whispering, he was going to strike her. He looked angry when he let go of her and stood there staring. “Pretending what?” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “You’re the one who knows,” he said. He sat in front of his open fireplace, tossing in bits of paper that he had shredded and worked into little balls.