Read Online What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories by Raymond Carver - Free Book Online
Authors: Raymond Carver
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said nothing in reply. But she hung back a little to give the couple time to move ahead.
Outside, the wind was up. James thought sure he could
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
hear the surf over the sound of engines starting.
He saw the couple stop at the van. Of course. He should have put two and two together.
"The dumbbell," James Packer said.
EDITH went into the bathroom and shut the door. James took off his windbreaker and put it down on the back of the sofa. He turned on the TV and took up his place and waited.
After a time, Edith came out of the bathroom. James concentrated his attention on the TV. Edith went to the kitchen and ran water. James heard her turn off the faucet. Edith came to the room and said, "I guess I'll have to see Dr. Crawford in the morning. I guess there really is something happening down there."
"The lousy luck," James said.
She stood there shaking her head. She covered her eyes and leaned into him when he came to put his arms around her.
"Edith, dearest Edith," James Packer said.
He felt awkward and terrified. He stood with his arms more or less holding his wife.
She reached for his face and kissed his lips, and then she said good night.
H E went to the refrigerator. He stood in front of the open door and drank tomato juice while he studied everything inside. Cold air blew out at him. He looked at the little packages and the containers of foodstuffs on the shelves, a chicken covered in plastic wrap, the neat, protected exhibits.
After the Denim
He shut the door and spit the last of the juice into the sink. Then he rinsed his mouth and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He carried it into the living room. He sat down in front of the TV and lit a cigarette. He understood that it took only one lunatic and a torch to bring everything to ruin.
He smoked and finished the coffee, and then he turned the TV off. He went to the bedroom door and listened for a time. He felt unworthy to be listening, to be standing.
Why not someone else? Why not those people tonight? Why not all those people who sail through life free as birds? Why not them instead of Edith?
He moved away from the bedroom door. He thought about going for a walk. But the wind was wild now, and he could hear the branches whining in the birch tree behind the house.
He sat in front of the TV again. But he did not turn it on. He smoked and thought of that sauntering, arrogant gait as the two of them moved just ahead. If only they knew. If only someone would tell them. Just once!
He closed his eyes. He would get up early and fix breakfast. He would go with her to see Crawford. If only they had to sit with him in the waiting room! He'd tell them what to expect! He'd set those floozies straight! He'd tell them what was waiting for you after the denim and the earrings, after touching each other and cheating at games.
H E got up and went into the guest room and turned on the lamp over the bed. He glanced at his papers and at his account books and at the adding machine on his desk. He found a pair of pajamas in one of the drawers. He turned
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
down the covers on the bed. Then he walked back through the house, snapping off lights and checking doors. For a while he stood looking out the kitchen window at the tree shaking under the force of the wind.
He left the porch light on and went back to the guest room. He pushed aside his knitting basket, took up his basket of embroidery, and then settled himself in the chair. He raised the lid of the basket and got out the metal hoop. There was fresh white linen stretched across it. Holding the tiny needle to the light, James Packer stabbed at the eye with a length of blue silk thread. Then he set to work-stitch after stitch—making believe he was waving like the man on the keel.
So Much Water So Close to Home
M Y husband eats with a good appetite. But I don't think he's really hungry. He chews, arms on the table, and stares at something
Outside, the wind was up. James thought sure he could
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
hear the surf over the sound of engines starting.
He saw the couple stop at the van. Of course. He should have put two and two together.
"The dumbbell," James Packer said.
EDITH went into the bathroom and shut the door. James took off his windbreaker and put it down on the back of the sofa. He turned on the TV and took up his place and waited.
After a time, Edith came out of the bathroom. James concentrated his attention on the TV. Edith went to the kitchen and ran water. James heard her turn off the faucet. Edith came to the room and said, "I guess I'll have to see Dr. Crawford in the morning. I guess there really is something happening down there."
"The lousy luck," James said.
She stood there shaking her head. She covered her eyes and leaned into him when he came to put his arms around her.
"Edith, dearest Edith," James Packer said.
He felt awkward and terrified. He stood with his arms more or less holding his wife.
She reached for his face and kissed his lips, and then she said good night.
H E went to the refrigerator. He stood in front of the open door and drank tomato juice while he studied everything inside. Cold air blew out at him. He looked at the little packages and the containers of foodstuffs on the shelves, a chicken covered in plastic wrap, the neat, protected exhibits.
After the Denim
He shut the door and spit the last of the juice into the sink. Then he rinsed his mouth and made himself a cup of instant coffee. He carried it into the living room. He sat down in front of the TV and lit a cigarette. He understood that it took only one lunatic and a torch to bring everything to ruin.
He smoked and finished the coffee, and then he turned the TV off. He went to the bedroom door and listened for a time. He felt unworthy to be listening, to be standing.
Why not someone else? Why not those people tonight? Why not all those people who sail through life free as birds? Why not them instead of Edith?
He moved away from the bedroom door. He thought about going for a walk. But the wind was wild now, and he could hear the branches whining in the birch tree behind the house.
He sat in front of the TV again. But he did not turn it on. He smoked and thought of that sauntering, arrogant gait as the two of them moved just ahead. If only they knew. If only someone would tell them. Just once!
He closed his eyes. He would get up early and fix breakfast. He would go with her to see Crawford. If only they had to sit with him in the waiting room! He'd tell them what to expect! He'd set those floozies straight! He'd tell them what was waiting for you after the denim and the earrings, after touching each other and cheating at games.
H E got up and went into the guest room and turned on the lamp over the bed. He glanced at his papers and at his account books and at the adding machine on his desk. He found a pair of pajamas in one of the drawers. He turned
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
down the covers on the bed. Then he walked back through the house, snapping off lights and checking doors. For a while he stood looking out the kitchen window at the tree shaking under the force of the wind.
He left the porch light on and went back to the guest room. He pushed aside his knitting basket, took up his basket of embroidery, and then settled himself in the chair. He raised the lid of the basket and got out the metal hoop. There was fresh white linen stretched across it. Holding the tiny needle to the light, James Packer stabbed at the eye with a length of blue silk thread. Then he set to work-stitch after stitch—making believe he was waving like the man on the keel.
So Much Water So Close to Home
M Y husband eats with a good appetite. But I don't think he's really hungry. He chews, arms on the table, and stares at something
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