Spencerville

"Sometimes." She added, "The few times we went up there alone, without the kids or without company, he was another person. Not necessarily better, and not actually worse... just another person... quiet, distant, as if he's... I don't know... thinking of something. I don't like to go up there with him alone, and I can usually get out of it."

"Okay, so what happened?"

She closed her eyes and, as he massaged her feet and calves, she said, "Well, we had a little scene at dinner last night. First, about the dinner being burned." She laughed. "I did it on purpose."

"You sound like fun to live with."

"No comment. Anyway, then he tried to trap me about dinner at Aunt Louise's, then we got onto the subject of Wendy in a coed dorm, then we got to Keith Landry, the guy who fucked me for six years — quote, unquote — and who's now living down the fucking road, then he tried to trap me again by asking if I'd seen you. I figured he already knew, so I told him I bumped into you at the post office."

Keith nodded and said, "Good thinking."

"Well, it didn't improve his mood much. He's still very angry and suspicious. That's what I wanted to tell you. But I guess you know that." She said, "He told me he came out to your place yesterday."

Keith didn't reply.

She took her feet out of his lap, sat up, and slid over beside him on the trunk. She took his hand. "I'm sorry. You don't need this."

"Annie, when I got in my car in Washington and drove here, I knew where this was headed. And I also knew what I wanted here."

She squeezed his hand. "But you didn't know the whole situation."

"The only thing I had to find out was how you felt."

"Keith, you knew. You had to know how I felt."

He smiled. "Your letters could have been read by your aunt and my aunt without a blush."

"My letters? You signed yours 'Sincerely.' "

"I did not." He added, "I meant 'Love.' "

They sat for a while listening to the stream, the horse snorting, the rustle of the leaves and the birds. Finally, she said, "You understood, didn't you, that I still loved you, and I was waiting for you?"

"I understood. But I may never have come."

"I always knew you would." She picked up a twig and scratched it around on the ground. She said, "But if you didn't, then there was no one else." She wiped her eyes, and, still looking at the ground, she took a deep breath and said, "Oh, God... I thought you'd get killed, I thought you'd get married, I thought you'd stopped loving me."

"No."

"But why did you wait? Why?"

"I don't know... I mean, right after I left, we were both angry at something... then, before I went overseas, it occurred to me that I might get killed, or lose a leg or arm, or something..."

"If I was your wife, I would have taken care of you. If I was your widow, I'd have honored your memory."

"Well, you didn't need any of that. Then, when I got home... I don't know... we couldn't connect. Then you got married, and I hated you, then I hated myself, then the years just went by... the letters came, they didn't come... you had children, you had a life... I could picture you here with friends and family... you never wrote much about your marriage..."

"You never wrote a word about how you felt."

"I did."

"You never wrote a word about us."

"Neither did you."

"I tried... I was afraid. Afraid the letters would stop."

Me, too.

She wiped her eyes again and tried to smile. "We're idiots. We used to talk about everything, then, for over twenty years, we couldn't even say 'I love you' and 'I miss you.' "

"I know." He thought a moment, then said, "You know, it's twenty-five years this month since we said good-bye in your apartment in Columbus."

"I know. Hard to believe." She put her hand on his leg. "After you left, I cried for weeks. Then I got myself together and buried myself in schoolwork. I didn't date..."

"It's all right. Really."

"Let me speak. So, anyway, I started to realize that... I started getting angry at you... and when women get angry, they get spiteful."

"I didn't know that."

She punched his leg. "Listen. So I went to see this campus shrink, and he was helpful. He said that I was manufacturing an anger toward you because it was the only way I could deal with the possibility of losing you to another woman, or of your getting killed. He said I really loved you, and I should tell you."

"I don't remember that happening."

"Because you never got that letter. I ripped it up. Then I wrote it again, and I ripped it up. I did that about a dozen times. Then I realized I was still angry, I was hurt, I felt betrayed. I remembered a line I read somewhere — men who are happy at home do not go to war."

"But even happy men get restless."

"Well, but you weren't there to tell me that. And when you called, you sounded distant."

"You, too."