"I was thinking about staying up there for more than just the weekend."
At her words, I felt my shoulders tense. "How long are you planning to stay?" I asked.
She set my plate off to the side.
"A couple of weeks," she answered.
Of course, I didn't blame Jane for the path our marriage seemed to have taken. Somehow I knew I bore a greater portion of the responsibility, even if I hadn't yet put together all the pieces of why and how. For starters, I have to admit that I've never been quite the person my wife wanted me to be, even from the beginning of our marriage. I know, for instance, that she wished I were more romantic, the way her own father had been with her mother. Her father was the kind of man who would hold his wife's hand in the hours after dinner or spontaneously pick a bouquet of wildflowers on his way home from work. Even as a child, Jane was enthralled by her parents' romance. Over the years, I've heard her speaking with her sister Kate on the phone, wondering aloud why I seemed to find romance such a difficult concept. It isn't that I haven't made attempts, I just don't seem to have an understanding of what it takes to make another's heart start fluttering. Neither hugs nor kisses were common in the house where I'd grown up, and displaying affection often left me feeling uncomfortable, especially in the presence of my children. I talked to Jane's father about it once, and he suggested that I write a letter to my wife. "Tell her why you love her," he said, "and give specific reasons." This was twelve years ago. I remember trying to take his advice, but as my hand hovered over the paper, I couldn't seem to find the appropriate words. Eventually I put the pen aside. Unlike her father, I have never been comfortable discussing feelings. I'm steady, yes. Dependable, absolutely. Faithful, without a doubt. But romance, I hate to admit, is as foreign to me as giving birth.
I sometimes wonder how many other men are exactly like me.
While Jane was in New York, Joseph answered the phone when I called.
"Hey, Pop," he said simply.
"Hey," I said. "How are you?"
"Fine," he said. After what seemed like a painfully long moment, he asked, "And you?"
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "It's quiet around here, but I'm doing okay." I paused. "How's your mom's visit going?"
"It's fine. I've been keeping her busy."
"Shopping and sightseeing?"
"A little. Mainly we've been doing a lot of talking. It's been interesting."
I hesitated. Though I wondered what he meant, Joseph seemed to feel no need to elaborate. "Oh," I said, doing my best to keep my voice light. "Is she around?"
"Actually, she isn't. She ran out to the grocery store. She'll be back in a few minutes, though, if you want to call back."
"No, that's okay," I said. "Just let her know that I called. I should be around all night if she wants to give me a ring."
"Will do," he agreed. Then, after a moment: "Hey, Pop? I wanted to ask you something."
"Yes?"
"Did you really forget your anniversary?"
I took a long breath. "Yes," I said, "I did."
"How come?"
"I don't know," I said. "I remembered that it was coming, but when the day arrived, it just slipped my mind. I don't have an excuse."
"It hurt her feelings," he said.
"I know."
There was a moment of silence on the other end. "Do you understand why?" he finally asked.
Though I didn't answer Joseph's question, I thought I did.
Quite simply, Jane didn't want us to end up like the elderly couples we sometimes saw when dining out, couples that have always aroused our pity.
These couples are, I should make clear, usually polite to each other. The husband might pull out a chair or collect the jackets, the wife might suggest one of the specials. And when the waiter comes, they may punctuate each other's orders with the knowledge that has been gained over a lifetime--no salt on the eggs or extra butter on the toast, for instance.
But then, once the order is placed, not a word passes between them.
Instead, they sip their drinks and glance out the window, waiting silently for their food to arrive. Once it does, they might speak to the waiter for a moment--to request a refill of coffee, for instance--but they quickly retreat to their own worlds as soon as he departs. And throughout the meal, they will sit like strangers who happen to be sharing the same table, as if they believed that the enjoyment of each other's company was more effort than it was worth.
Perhaps this is an exaggeration on my part of what their lives are really like, but I've occasionally wondered what brought these couples to this point.
While Jane was in New York, however, I was suddenly struck by the notion that we might be heading there as well.
When I picked Jane up from the airport, I remember feeling strangely nervous. It was an odd feeling, and I was relieved to see a flicker of a smile as she walked through the gate and made her way toward me. When she was close, I reached for her carry-on.
"How was your trip?" I asked.
"It was good," she said. "I have no idea why Joseph likes living there so much. It's so busy and noisy all the time. I couldn't do it."
"Glad you're home, then?"
"Yes," she said. "I am. But I'm tired."
"I'll bet. Trips are always tiring."
For a moment, neither of us said anything. I moved her carry-on to my other hand. "How's Joseph doing?" I asked.
"He's good. I think he's put on a little weight since the last time he was here."
"Anything exciting going on with him that you didn't mention on the phone?"
"Not really," she said. "He works too much, but that's about it."
In her tone I heard a hint of sadness, one that I didn't quite understand. As I considered it, I saw a young couple with their arms around each other, hugging as if they hadn't seen each other in years.
"I'm glad you're home," I said.
She glanced at me, held my eyes, then slowly turned toward the luggage carousel. "I know you are."
This was our state of affairs one year ago.
I wish I could tell you that things improved in the weeks immediately following Jane's trip, but they did not. Instead, our life went on as it had before; we led our separate lives, and one unmemorable day passed into the next. Jane wasn't exactly angry with me, but she didn't seem happy, either, and try as I might, I was at a loss as to what to do about it. It seemed as though a wall of indifference had somehow been constructed between us without my being aware of it. By late autumn, three months after the forgotten anniversary, I'd become so worried about our relationship that I knew I had to talk to her father.
His name is Noah Calhoun, and if you knew him, you would understand why I went to see him that day. He and his wife, Allie, had moved to Creekside Extended Care Facility nearly eleven years earlier, in their forty-sixth year of marriage. Though they once shared a bed, Noah now sleeps alone, and I wasn't surprised when I found his room empty. Most days, when I went to visit him, he was seated on a bench near the pond, and I remember moving to the window to make sure he was there.
Even from a distance, I recognized him easily: the white tufts of hair lifting slightly in the wind, his stooped posture, the light blue cardigan sweater that Kate had recently knitted for him. He was eighty-seven years old, a widower with hands that had curled with arthritis, and his health was precarious. He carried a vial of nitroglycerin pills in his pocket and suffered from prostate cancer, but the doctors were more concerned with his mental state. They'd sat Jane and me down in the office a few years earlier and eyed us gravely. He's been suffering from delusions, they informed us, and the delusions seem to be getting worse. For my part, I wasn't so sure. I thought I knew him better than most people, and certainly bet
ter than the doctors. With the exception of Jane, he was my dearest friend, and when I saw his solitary figure, I couldn't help but ache for all that he had lost.
His own marriage had come to an end five years earlier, but cynics would say it had ended long before that. Allie suffered from Alzheimer's in the final years of her life, and I've come to believe it's an intrinsically evil disease. It's a slow unraveling of all that a person once was. What are we, after all, without our memories, without our dreams? Watching the progression was like watching a slow-motion picture of an inevitable tragedy. It was difficult for Jane and me to visit Allie; Jane wanted to remember her mother as she once was, and I never pressed her to go, for it was painful for me as well. For Noah, however, it was the hardest of all.
But that's another story.
Leaving his room, I made my way to the courtyard. The morning was cool, even for autumn. The leaves were brilliant in the slanting sunshine, and the air carried the faint scent of chimney smoke. This, I remembered, was Allie's favorite time of year, and I felt his loneliness as I approached. As usual, he was feeding the swan, and when I reached his side, I put a grocery bag on the ground. In it were three loaves of Wonder Bread. Noah always had me purchase the same items when I came to visit.
"Hello, Noah," I said. I knew I could call him "Dad," as Jane had with my father, but I've never felt comfortable with this and Noah has never seemed to mind.
At the sound of my voice, Noah turned his head.
"Hello, Wilson," he said. "Thanks for dropping by."
I rested a hand on his shoulder. "Are you doing okay?"
"Could be better," he said. Then, with a mischievous grin: "Could be worse, though, too."
These were the words we always exchanged in greeting. He patted the bench and I took a seat next to him. I stared out over the pond. Fallen leaves resembled a kaleidoscope as they floated on the surface of the water. The glassy surface mirrored the cloudless sky.