immune to passions of the moment. He suggested she visit a doctor he knew—it happened to be the doctor who treated his grandmother’s Female Complaint. Sarah dried her tears and borrowed Macon’s pen to write the doctor’s name on the back of a chewing gum wrapper. But wouldn’t the doctor refuse her? she asked. Wouldn’t he say she ought to be at least engaged? Well, all right, Macon said, they would get engaged. Sarah said that would be lovely.
Their engagement lasted three years, all through college. Grandfather Leary felt the wedding should be delayed even further, till Macon was firmly settled in his place of employment; but since his place of employment would be Leary Metals, which manufactured cork-lined caps for soft drink bottles, Macon couldn’t see himself concentrating on that even briefly. Besides, the rush to and from Sarah’s bedroom on her mother’s Red Cross days had begun to tell on them both.
So they married the spring they graduated from college, and Macon went to work at the factory while Sarah taught English at a private school. It was seven years before Ethan was born. By that time, Sarah was no longer calling Macon “mysterious.” When he was quiet now it seemed to annoy her. Macon sensed this, but there was nothing he could do about it. In some odd way, he was locked inside the standoffish self he’d assumed when he and she first met. He was frozen there. It was like that old warning of his grandmother’s: Don’t cross your eyes, they might get stuck that way. No matter how he tried to change his manner, Sarah continued to deal with him as if he were someone unnaturally cool-headed, someone more even in temperament than she but perhaps not quite as feeling.
He had once come upon a questionnaire that she’d filled out in a ladies’ magazine—one of those “How Happy Is Your Marriage?” things—and where it said,
I believe I love my spouse more than
he/she loves me,
Sarah had checked
True
. The unsettling part was that after Macon gave his automatic little snort of denial, he had wondered if it might be true after all. Somehow, his role had sunk all the way through to the heart. Even internally, by now, he was a fairly chilly man, and if you didn’t count his son (who was easy,
easy;
a child is no test at all), there was not one person in his life whom he really agonized over.
When he thought about this now, it was a relief to remind himself that he did miss Sarah, after all. But then his relief seemed unfeeling too, and he groaned and shook his head and tugged his hair in great handfuls.
Some woman phoned and said, “Macon?” He could tell at once it wasn’t Sarah. Sarah’s voice was light and breathy; this one was rough, tough, wiry. “It’s Muriel,” she said.
“Muriel,” he said.
“Muriel Pritchett.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, but he still had no clue who she was.
“From the vet’s?” she asked. “Who got on so good with your dog?”
“Oh, the vet’s!”
He saw her, if dimly. He saw her saying her own name, the long
u
sound and the
p
drawing up her dark red mouth.
“I was just wondering how Edward was.”
Macon glanced over at Edward. The two of them were in the study, where Macon had managed to type half a page. Edward lay flat on his stomach with his legs straight out behind him—short, pudgy legs like the drumsticks of a dressed Long Island duckling. “He looks all right to me,” Macon said.
“I mean, is he biting?”
“Well, not lately, but he’s developed this new symptom. He gets angry if I leave the house. He starts barking and showing his teeth.”
“I still think he ought to be trained.”
“Oh, you know, he’s four and a half and I suppose—”
“That’s not too old! I could do it in no time. Tell you what, maybe I could just come around and discuss it. You and me could have a drink or something and talk about what his problems are.”
“Well, I really don’t think—”
“Or you could come to
my
place. I’d fix you
Their engagement lasted three years, all through college. Grandfather Leary felt the wedding should be delayed even further, till Macon was firmly settled in his place of employment; but since his place of employment would be Leary Metals, which manufactured cork-lined caps for soft drink bottles, Macon couldn’t see himself concentrating on that even briefly. Besides, the rush to and from Sarah’s bedroom on her mother’s Red Cross days had begun to tell on them both.
So they married the spring they graduated from college, and Macon went to work at the factory while Sarah taught English at a private school. It was seven years before Ethan was born. By that time, Sarah was no longer calling Macon “mysterious.” When he was quiet now it seemed to annoy her. Macon sensed this, but there was nothing he could do about it. In some odd way, he was locked inside the standoffish self he’d assumed when he and she first met. He was frozen there. It was like that old warning of his grandmother’s: Don’t cross your eyes, they might get stuck that way. No matter how he tried to change his manner, Sarah continued to deal with him as if he were someone unnaturally cool-headed, someone more even in temperament than she but perhaps not quite as feeling.
He had once come upon a questionnaire that she’d filled out in a ladies’ magazine—one of those “How Happy Is Your Marriage?” things—and where it said,
I believe I love my spouse more than
he/she loves me,
Sarah had checked
True
. The unsettling part was that after Macon gave his automatic little snort of denial, he had wondered if it might be true after all. Somehow, his role had sunk all the way through to the heart. Even internally, by now, he was a fairly chilly man, and if you didn’t count his son (who was easy,
easy;
a child is no test at all), there was not one person in his life whom he really agonized over.
When he thought about this now, it was a relief to remind himself that he did miss Sarah, after all. But then his relief seemed unfeeling too, and he groaned and shook his head and tugged his hair in great handfuls.
Some woman phoned and said, “Macon?” He could tell at once it wasn’t Sarah. Sarah’s voice was light and breathy; this one was rough, tough, wiry. “It’s Muriel,” she said.
“Muriel,” he said.
“Muriel Pritchett.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, but he still had no clue who she was.
“From the vet’s?” she asked. “Who got on so good with your dog?”
“Oh, the vet’s!”
He saw her, if dimly. He saw her saying her own name, the long
u
sound and the
p
drawing up her dark red mouth.
“I was just wondering how Edward was.”
Macon glanced over at Edward. The two of them were in the study, where Macon had managed to type half a page. Edward lay flat on his stomach with his legs straight out behind him—short, pudgy legs like the drumsticks of a dressed Long Island duckling. “He looks all right to me,” Macon said.
“I mean, is he biting?”
“Well, not lately, but he’s developed this new symptom. He gets angry if I leave the house. He starts barking and showing his teeth.”
“I still think he ought to be trained.”
“Oh, you know, he’s four and a half and I suppose—”
“That’s not too old! I could do it in no time. Tell you what, maybe I could just come around and discuss it. You and me could have a drink or something and talk about what his problems are.”
“Well, I really don’t think—”
“Or you could come to
my
place. I’d fix you
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