‘Uh-huh.’
‘Anyway, you’ve got those little girls in tow now. Nothing is going to be simple ever again.’
‘Thanks, Dad. I was hoping you’d cheer me up.’
‘Just think it’s a shame, that’s all. Not the smartest thing you’ve done.’
‘Yeah. Keep it up. Like taking ecstasy, having a beer with you.’
August found his daughters covered in cookie crumbs on Milly’s front porch.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Squishing ants. Look. There’s the ant graveyard,’ said one of his daughters proudly, while the other dispatched more ants.
‘Milly?’
‘I’m right here,’ she called from the dim inside. ‘I am watching them every minute. Thank God you’re back safe and sound.’
‘Milly, I’ve only been half an hour.’
‘Safe and sound,’ repeated Milly with genuine relief.
It was the best part of the day, still sunny but not hot, when Jack wandered back.
‘Hi, honey. I got the milk and bread you wanted. How you doing?’
‘Are August and Ah Lam really getting divorced?’ blurted Milly. ‘Is it true?’
‘Ah Lam! That’s her name!’
She was sitting in the shadows, her eyes bright, staring into his. And was that lipstick? She was wearing her yellow dress with red roses printed on it. It always reminded him of a dress she’d worn when young – a red dress with yellow roses. He couldn’t help noticing she was actually very pretty at the moment. He felt a sweet ache start in his groin.
‘There’s nothing wrong with their marriage, Jack. I don’t understand it.’
A silence, while Jack rinsed his face off at the kitchen sink. The water came straight from the spring. Freezing and delicious.
‘Maybe Augie is in love with someone else. It happens.’ Slurring a bit.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Handsome big-nosed Harold flashed into her mind, and she blushed. ‘They have children. You irritate me.’
‘Want a beer, Milly?’
‘What’s wrong with August?’
‘Where’s the bottle opener?’
‘You should talk to him.’
‘Milly. Honey. Have a beer.’
‘I’ll have a Coke.’
And then, listening to the fly-buzzing, cricket-chirping evening grind down to darkness, and after the occasional interchange about the whereabouts of the matches and the potato chips, Jack and Milly subsided into their old silence. Their oldest silence, not of tension or animosity. There was no energy at all in this silence. This was the placid and private silence of this particular marriage when no one was looking. Jack had stopped noticing that his wife looked pretty in certain lights and in certain alert moods. He was thinking what he always thought about when not talking or working or reading a spy book. Women. For instance, that new novelist from New Jersey. He pictured Agata something-or-other, wrapping her long legs around his back. What if he bought her that turquoise necklace he’d seen her admiring? He never would, not in a million years, but what if he did? Lucky August, a free agent.
Milly was thinking about dinner, and mentally reviewing the ingredients in the cupboard, wondering how they’d combine into a meal. Strangely, those bags of groceries from United Markets seemed not to contain anything nutritious. Mostly junk food and beer. So dinner tonight – macaroni and ketchup? Under this was her eternal free-floating anxiety about…everything. She had to hold this base camp steady, or the world would implode. Silently, just a soft whoomph like when she fell and the dust rose, and soon it would be as if there’d never been a Mr and Mrs MacAlister.
‘Jack!’ she said, after an hour. They had not lit the lanterns yet, and sat in shadows. The heat finally seeped out of the day, and a semblance of energy trickled in.
‘What is it, honey?’
‘I’m fixing dinner now.’
She levered herself up, and started edging along the table like a non-swimmer holding on to the side of the pool. Extraordinary, she thought yet again, how painless her disability was. You’d think not being able to use your own legs properly would hurt. Then, for no reason, she decided it was time for another puppy. Company for Jaspy when Mackie was gone.
Jack opened a pack of bear claw pastries and reached for a John le Carré. He considered this: when you got to seventy, eating junk food took on a whole new dimension. Forget booze, forget Prozac. Forget Agata’s long legs. When all else failed, when you were sunburned and you didn’t give a shit about your waistline, and one of your sons had dumped yet another wife, and your own wife kept wanting to buy more puppies and she was a terrible cook – well, there was always bear claws.
Milly slowly lit the lantern on the table. Unlike most folk, they hadn’t begun using battery lanterns yet.
‘I love this,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘This lamp. The hissing noise. And the smell. What is the smell anyway?’
‘Kerosene. It stinks, Milly.’
‘I know. I love it.’
