He asked about her girls, and she said that they were both being lovely to her. He told her about Larry, and she listened. “Oh, wow, poor Jim,” she said.
But when their walk was done, Bob felt that he had not quite seen her distinctly. And he realized that he had been feeling that way for a while, even when he had been happy to see her—in his memory he could not remember their talks all that well either, and he could not picture her, except for fleetingly.
—
And so Bob was a mess. He could not sleep, he had to use every bit of energy to get through his evenings with Margaret. He could not eat, and he started to lose weight.
*
Back in New York City, Pam was watching with horror as the sky outside her window changed. It began as a strange look of dawn, although it was eleven o’clock in the morning. Two hours later the sky was an eerie orange, and to Pam it looked like space aliens were about to invade. She did not go outside for three days; a forest fire in Canada was sending over its debris, and people were warned to avoid going outside. A strange smell wafted into her place, although all the windows were closed tight.
A few times Pam closed her eyes as she thought: Oh, this poor earth!
On the second day of this otherworldly-looking occurrence, Pam heard her door unlock and she sprang up from her couch to hear her husband call out, “Pam?”
“Ted!” Pam walked to him quickly; he looked unwell. His clothes appeared to fit him badly and his hair had not been combed. But he also had deep pockets beneath his eyes, and Pam said, “Come, sit down, what’s happened? Are you okay? How did you get here, did you drive?”
“I drove.” He nodded, then went and sat in a chair beside a glass table in the corner by the window.
“Oh my God, I hope you had the windows rolled up.” She lowered herself onto the couch.
“I did.” He looked at her, then took his glasses off, rubbing his hand over his face.
Pam felt a quickening in her stomach. She said nothing as she watched him.
He sat forward with his arms on the glass table, and he said, “Pam.” The look he gave her was one of a dismal desperation; she had never seen him like this before. “Pam, I miss you,” he said.
Still Pam remained silent.
“Did you hear me? I said I miss you, Pam. I miss my wife.” He gave her a sad, wry, and small smile.
“Oh God.” Pam said this so quietly, she was not sure that he heard.
He stood up then but did not walk toward her. “Are you having an affair?” He asked this gently.
It took her a moment, but she said, “Am I having an affair? Am I having an affair? You’re the one having an affair, Ted, with that fucking idiot Lydia Robbins! Jesus Christ, Ted!”
He stood there, and she had never seen his face so sad. He said, “I can’t stand Lydia Robbins, Pam. I honestly cannot stand that woman.”
“Well, that’s not what I heard!” She was ready to have it out with him.
But he sat down at the table and cried.
11
Olive Kitteridge sat waiting for Lucy to show up. Olive’s son, Christopher, had just called from New York City, where he lived, and he had been uncharacteristically talkative, and Olive kept glancing at the clock because Lucy was to arrive at ten, and as her son went on talking she became anxious—to tell him she had to go would be an awful thing because whenever she spoke to him again he would probably not be this talkative—but he finally wound down and she said, “Okay, Chris, nice talking to you,” and he said, “You too, Mom”—which was a pleasant thing for Olive to hear.
And now she sat waiting. Lucy always showed up early, but today she was five minutes late and Olive was rolling her eyes when there was finally a knock on her door.
“Come in!” yelled Olive, and Lucy came in, wearing a striped blue-and-white dress, the material reminding Olive of a seersucker suit Henry used to have years ago, and Lucy looked nice in the dress. It went almost to her ankles with a slight tuck at the waist, and she wore her green sneakers, which was too bad, because they didn’t go with the blue. “I like that,” Olive said, putting her hand down in front of herself to indicate Lucy’s dress.
“You do? Really? We went to Rockland last week and I bought this. I spent a lot of money on it,” Lucy said, as she sat down on the small couch.
“I bet you did,” Olive said.
“And now I’m thinking it wasn’t worth it.”
Olive said, “It looks fine, I told you I liked it. Now let’s hear your story.”
“Okay.” Lucy placed a new bag—at least Olive hadn’t seen it before—on the couch next to her. The bag was blue canvas with two long leather straps. Olive almost said that she liked the bag too, but Olive didn’t think overcomplimenting someone was anything she cared to do. So she kept quiet.
Lucy folded her sunglasses and put them into the blue bag, and then she sat back and said, “Okay. Here is my story. I don’t know what to make of it. I’m going to tell you that right up front. It is one more story of an unrecorded life, but beyond that—I don’t know.”
Olive waved her hand to indicate that Lucy should just begin.
“So.” Lucy folded her hands on her lap. Then she crossed her legs and bent forward just slightly and said, “There was a girl—well, a woman, but back then we were girls—I went to college with. Her name was Addie Beal and she was two years behind me. Addie was an only child. Her mother had been sixteen years old when she had her. And they were almost more like sisters, I mean they just adored each other. The mother especially, her name was Lindsay, and she was just crazy about Addie.” Lucy wiped back some strands of hair that had fallen in her face.
Lucy continued, raising her eyebrows at Olive. “So, as awful people say, Addie didn’t come from much.”
“Meaning what?” Olive asked.
“Meaning money, but also, her mother was not educated, I mean she never finished high school because she gave birth to Addie, and so she did secretarial work, and they really had no money, Addie was at school on a full scholarship like I was. So we had a little bit of an immediate connection because of that. Even though most of my friends—I think, anyway, I’m not sure now, looking back—did not realize the extreme situation I had come from myself.
“But Addie was a pretty girl, sort of sparkly in her face, and she was in the theater department, and of course she got all the ingenue parts.”
“Where did she come from?” Olive wanted to know.
And Lucy put one hand up and said, “Exactly. She came from Maine.”
