than a little upset, but I convinced myself that I had dreamed the whole thing, and fell back into a restless slumber, full of dreams of David dying. The next morning I felt grumpy and ill-at-ease. It was the day of Davidâs funeral, and there wasnât anything on earth that was going to make me feel good about that day. As I looked in the mirror, I became even more certain of that. I looked like a blouse someone had left to wrinkle in the dryer. My blond hair framed a colorless face and I had dark shadows under my blue eyes.
âYouâll be just fine, Anna,â I said to myself. At forty-two, I wasnât in bad shape. The lines that had appeared on my face werenât etched too deeply. Gave it character, my father said. I was getting more character every year, but Iâm not the type to fret over it. At least, I hadnât been until she came along.
I wondered if she would have the nerve to show up at the funeral. I wouldnât know her if she did. When he made his confession, David never told me her name, and I never asked for it. As far as I was concerned, it was important not to know the name of the woman David had met at the St. George Hotel every Wednesday for fifteen weeks. For fifteen weeks, on the night I taught a class inâof all thingsâethics, Ms. X had taught David that he could still lure a woman to bed. I wondered if they had laughed about that. He wasnât laughing when it ended. âA temporary madness,â he had told me, weeping as he did. âForgive me,â he pleaded.
To this day, Iâm not able to be very precise about why I did forgive him. At the time I was outraged, hurt, angry, humiliated. The pain of betrayal remained; whatever trust was between us had taken a torpedo broadside. But the ship didnât sink, it just listed.
Maybe the reason I stayed with him wasnât really so complex. David and I had been together for twenty years; and in that twenty years I had come to love him more than anyone else on earth. He was a habit I couldnât break. Fate broke it for me.
David had made his confession six months ago, and strove to be the ideal husband in the time since. Together we tried to renew our marriage, and somehow, we were making it. On the morning of the day he died, he told me that he was working on something that would really make me proud of him. I had no idea what it was. âIâm proud of you all the same, David,â I said to the haggard reflection in the mirror. Ten minutes later I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing.
I pulled myself together, hoping I wouldnât shame myself at his funeral. As I put on a plain black dress that David had always liked, I held on to the anger I felt toward his killer. David had come to the college to pick me up that night. I was on my way to the car when I heard the shots. The college is in a part of town that has become rougher over the years, and I didnât think much about hearing gunfire. It wasnât an everyday occurrence, but it wasnât that rare. When I saw the crumpled form on the steps that lead up from the parking lot, I didnât know it was David until I was only a few feet from him. He was unconscious, and bleeding to death. Nothing, not even a ghost in my bedroom, will ever terrify me the way those moments did, when I held David as he died.
No one saw the actual shooting, but several witnesses saw a blue Chevy speeding away from the scene. No one knew anything else. No model, no license plate, no description of the driver, no mention of how many people were in the car. No motive, just someone who got their kicks by driving around firing guns at people. There was some speculation that David had been hit by gunfire aimed at someone else, since other bullets were found lodged in a nearby tree, a wall, another car. âRandom violenceâ seemed to be the theory of the newspapers.
I was one of the believers in the theory. No one would want to kill
âYouâll be just fine, Anna,â I said to myself. At forty-two, I wasnât in bad shape. The lines that had appeared on my face werenât etched too deeply. Gave it character, my father said. I was getting more character every year, but Iâm not the type to fret over it. At least, I hadnât been until she came along.
I wondered if she would have the nerve to show up at the funeral. I wouldnât know her if she did. When he made his confession, David never told me her name, and I never asked for it. As far as I was concerned, it was important not to know the name of the woman David had met at the St. George Hotel every Wednesday for fifteen weeks. For fifteen weeks, on the night I taught a class inâof all thingsâethics, Ms. X had taught David that he could still lure a woman to bed. I wondered if they had laughed about that. He wasnât laughing when it ended. âA temporary madness,â he had told me, weeping as he did. âForgive me,â he pleaded.
To this day, Iâm not able to be very precise about why I did forgive him. At the time I was outraged, hurt, angry, humiliated. The pain of betrayal remained; whatever trust was between us had taken a torpedo broadside. But the ship didnât sink, it just listed.
Maybe the reason I stayed with him wasnât really so complex. David and I had been together for twenty years; and in that twenty years I had come to love him more than anyone else on earth. He was a habit I couldnât break. Fate broke it for me.
David had made his confession six months ago, and strove to be the ideal husband in the time since. Together we tried to renew our marriage, and somehow, we were making it. On the morning of the day he died, he told me that he was working on something that would really make me proud of him. I had no idea what it was. âIâm proud of you all the same, David,â I said to the haggard reflection in the mirror. Ten minutes later I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing.
I pulled myself together, hoping I wouldnât shame myself at his funeral. As I put on a plain black dress that David had always liked, I held on to the anger I felt toward his killer. David had come to the college to pick me up that night. I was on my way to the car when I heard the shots. The college is in a part of town that has become rougher over the years, and I didnât think much about hearing gunfire. It wasnât an everyday occurrence, but it wasnât that rare. When I saw the crumpled form on the steps that lead up from the parking lot, I didnât know it was David until I was only a few feet from him. He was unconscious, and bleeding to death. Nothing, not even a ghost in my bedroom, will ever terrify me the way those moments did, when I held David as he died.
No one saw the actual shooting, but several witnesses saw a blue Chevy speeding away from the scene. No one knew anything else. No model, no license plate, no description of the driver, no mention of how many people were in the car. No motive, just someone who got their kicks by driving around firing guns at people. There was some speculation that David had been hit by gunfire aimed at someone else, since other bullets were found lodged in a nearby tree, a wall, another car. âRandom violenceâ seemed to be the theory of the newspapers.
I was one of the believers in the theory. No one would want to kill
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