One

It’s heartbreaking to realize that your wife may not love you. After Jane had carried the perfume up to our bedroom, I sat on the couch for hours, wondering how this situation had come to pass. For in this latest incident, I sensed not only her disappointment in an absentminded spouse, but the traces of an older melancholy—as if my lapse were simply the final blow in a long, long series of careless missteps.

Had our marriage turned out to be a disappointment for Jane? The thought disturbed me, for although our life together might be considered fairly ordinary, I always assumed that Jane was as content as I.

Like many men, my life was largely centered around work. For the past thirty years, I’ve worked with the law firm of Ambry, Saxon and Tundle in New Bern, North Carolina. I enjoy golfing and gardening on the weekends, prefer classical music, and I read the newspaper every morning, beginning with the sports page. Though Jane was once an elementary school teacher, she spent the majority of our married life raising three children. She ran both the household and our social life, and her proudest possessions are the photo albums that she carefully assembled as a visual history of our lives. Our brick home is complete with a picket fence and automatic sprinklers, we own two cars and are members of both the Rotary Club and the Chamber of Commerce. In the course of our married life, we’ve saved for retirement, built a wooden swing set in the backyard that now sits unused, attended dozens of parent-teacher conferences, voted regularly, and contributed to the Episcopal church each and every Sunday. At fifty-six, I’m three years older than my wife.

As I sat there reviewing the milestones of our years together, I wondered whether the seeds of Jane’s melancholy lay somehow in the fact that we’re such an unlikely pair. We’re different in almost every way, and though opposites can and do attract, I have always felt that I made the better choice on our wedding day. Jane is, after all, the kind of person I always wished to be. While I tend toward stoicism and logic, Jane is outgoing and kind, with a natural empathy that endears her to others. She laughs easily and has a wide circle of friends. Over the years, I’ve come to realize that most of my friends are, in fact, the husbands of my wife’s friends, but I believe this is common for most married couples our age. Yet, Jane has always seemed to choose our friends with me in mind, and I’m appreciative that there’s always someone for me to visit with at a dinner party. Had we not been married, I sometimes think that I would have led the life of a monk.

There is more, too: I’m charmed by the fact that Jane has always displayed her emotions with childlike ease. When she’s sad, she cries; when she’s happy she smiles, and her expression when she’s surprised never fails to delight me. In those moments, there’s an ageless innocence about her, and though a surprise by definition is unexpected, for Jane, the memories of a surprise can arouse the same excited feelings for years afterward. Sometimes when she’s daydreaming, I’ll ask her what she’s thinking about and she’ll suddenly begin speaking in giddy tones about something I’ve long forgotten. This, I must say, has never ceased to amaze me.

While Jane has been blessed with the tenderest of hearts, in many ways, she’s stronger than I am. Like most southern women, her values and beliefs are grounded by God and family; she views the world through a prism of black and white, right and wrong. For Jane, hard decisions are reached instinctively—and are almost always right— while I, on the other hand, find myself weighing endless options and frequently second-guessing myself. And unlike me, my wife is seldom self-conscious. This lack of concern about other people’s perceptions requires a confidence that I’ve always found elusive, and above all else, I envy this about her.

I suppose that some of our differences stem from our respective upbringings. While Jane was raised in a small town with three siblings and parents who adored her, I was raised in a town house in Washington, D.C., as the only child of government lawyers, and my parents were seldom home before seven o’clock in the evening. As a result, I spent much of my free time alone, and to this day, I’m most comfortable in the privacy of my den.

As I’ve already mentioned, we have three children, and though I love them dearly, they are for the most part the products of my wife. She bore them and raised them, and it’s she with whom they are most comfortable. I feel the occasional pang of regret at the thought of all I missed while spending so many hours at the office and in my den. But I’m comforted by the thought that Jane more than made up for my absences, as evidenced by how well our kids turned out. They’re grown now and living on their own, but we’re fortunate that only one has moved out of state. My two daughters still visit us frequently, and my wife is careful to have their favorite foods in the refrigerator in case they’re hungry, which they never seem to be.

At twenty-seven, Anna is the oldest. Her looks—dark hair and even darker eyes—reflect her saturnine personality. She was a brooder who spent her teenage years locked in her room, listening to gloomy music and writing in a diary. She was a stranger to me back then; days might pass before she would say a single word in my presence and I was at a loss to understand what I might have done to provoke this. Everything I said seemed to elicit only sighs or shakes of her head; and if I asked what was wrong, she would stare at me as if the question was incomprehensible. My wife seemed to find nothing unusual in this, dismissing it as a phase typical of young girls, but then again, Anna still talked to her. Sometimes, I’d pass by Anna’s room and hear

Anna and Jane whispering to each other; but if they heard me outside the door, the whispering would stop. Later, when I would ask Jane what they’d been discussing, she’d shrug and wave a hand mysteriously, as if their only goal was to keep me in the dark.

Yet because she was my firstborn, Anna has always been my favorite. This isn’t an admission I would make to anyone, but I think Anna knows it. There’s a special bond between us. Lately, I’ve come to believe that even in her silent years, she had been fonder of me than I realized. I can still remember times when I would be working in my den, and she would slip through the door. She would wander around the room, scanning the bookshelves and reaching for various objects, but if I addressed her, she would slip back out as quietly as she’d come in. Over time, I learned not to speak, and she would sometimes sit in the office for an hour, watching me as I scribbled on yellow legal tablets. If I looked up, she would smile complicitly, as if enjoying this game of ours.

Currently, Anna is working for the Raleigh News and Observer, but I think she has dreams of becoming a novelist. In college, she majored in creative writing and the stories she wrote were as dark as her personality. I recall reading one in which a young girl becomes a prostitute to care for her sick father, a man who had once molested her. When I set the pages down, I wondered what I was supposed to make of such a thing.

She is also madly in love. Anna, always careful and deliberate in her choices, was also selective when it came to men, and thankfully Keith has always struck me as someone who treats her well. He’s a resident in orthopedics at Duke Medical School. I learned through Jane that for their first date Keith took Anna kite flying on the beach near Fort Macon. Later that week, when Anna brought him by the house, Keith came dressed in a sport coat, freshly showered and smelling faintly of cologne. As we shook hands, he met my eyes and impressed me by saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lewis.”

Joseph, our second born, is a year younger than Anna, and again, we have little in common. He’s taller and thinner than I am, wears jeans to most social functions, and when he visits at Thanksgiving or Christmas, he eats only vegetables. Like Jane, he was empathetic even as a child and he chewed his fingernails worrying about others. They’ve been nothing but nubs since he was five years old. Needless to say, when I suggested that he consider majoring in business or economics, he ignored my advice and chose sociology. He now works for a battered women’s shelter in New York City, though he tells us nothing more about his job. I know he wonders about the choices I’ve made in my life, just as I wonder about his, but despite our differences, we get along well. It is with Joseph that I have the conversations that I always wished to have with my children when I held them as infants. He is highly intelligent; he received a near perfect score on his SATs and his interests span the spectrum from the history of middle-eastern dhimmitudes to theoretical applications of fractal geometry. It goes without saying that I am often at a disadvantage when it comes to debating him, but it is during such moments that I am especially proud to call him my son.

Leslie, the baby of our family, is currently studying biology and physiology at Wake Forest with the intention of becoming a veterinarian. Instead of coming home during the summers like most students, she takes additional classes with the intention of graduating early, and spends her afternoons working at a place called Animal Farm. Of all our children, she is the most gregarious, and her laughter sounds the same as Jane’s. Like Anna, she loved to visit me in my den, though she was happiest when I gave her my full attention. As a youngster, she liked to sit in my lap and pull on my ears; as she grew older, she liked to wander in and share funny jokes. My shelves are covered with the gifts she made me growing up: plaster casts of her hand prints, drawings in crayon, a necklace made from macaroni. She was the easiest to love, the first in line for hugs or kisses from the grandparents. I was not surprised when she was named the homecoming queen at her high school three years ago.

She is kind as well. Everyone in her class was always invited to her birthday parties for fear of hurting someone’s feelings, and when she was nine, she once spent an afternoon walking from towel to towel at the beach because she’d found a discarded watch in the surf and wanted to return it to its owner. Of all my children, she has always caused me the least worry, and when she comes to visit, I drop whatever I’m doing to spend time with her. Her energy is infectious, and when we’re together, I wonder how it is I could have been so blessed.

Now that they’ve all moved out, our home has changed.

Where music once blared, there is nothing but stillness; while our pantry once shelved eight different types of sugared cereal, there is now a single brand that promises extra fiber. The furniture hasn’t changed in the bedrooms where our children slept, but because the posters and Peg-Boards have been taken down—as well as all other reminders of their personalities—there is nothing to differentiate one room from the next. It is the emptiness of the house that seems to dominate. Was this, I pondered, the root of Jane’s sadness?

It was clear to me that forgetting an anniversary had not suddenly changed the way Jane felt about me. Perhaps even my forgetfulness was simply a symptom of everything that had changed between us. We’d started out as a couple and been changed into parents—something I had always viewed as normal and inevitable—but after twenty-nine years, had we somehow become strangers again? We rose at different hours, spent our days in different places, and followed our own routines in the evenings.

Our conversations of late tended to run out of steam after the first few exchanges, but I attributed this to the simple notion that after so many years, we could pretty much anticipate each other’s responses. After the latest news about the kids had been shared and the local gossip related, we usually drifted off in desultory fashion to watch television or read.

No matter how hard I strained that night, I couldn’t pinpoint when exactly our conversations had become so predictable. It must have occurred gradually, and I must have taken this for granted, because in all honesty, I couldn’t recall the last time Jane and I had done or talked about anything unexpected.

You can imagine, then, my surprise two weeks later when Jane made an announcement over dinner.

“Wilson,” she said, “there’s something I should tell you.” A bottle of wine stood on the table between us, our meals nearly finished.

“I was thinking,” she said, “of heading up to New York to spend some time with Joseph.”

“Won’t he be here for the holidays?”

“Yes, but that’s not for a couple of months. And since he didn’t make it home this summer, I thought it might be nice to visit him for a change.”

I reached for my wineglass. “That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “We haven’t been to New York since he first moved there.”

In the back of my mind, I noted that it might do us some good as a couple to get away for a few days. Perhaps that had even been the reason for Jane’s suggestion.

Jane smiled briefly before lowering her gaze to her plate. “There’s something else, too.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s just that you’re pretty busy at work, and I know how hard it is for you to get away.”

“I think I can clear up my schedule for a few days,” I said, already mentally leafing through my work calendar. It would be tough, but I could do it. “When did you want to go?”

“Well, that’s the thing . . .” she said. “What’s the thing?”

“Wilson, please let me finish,” she said wearily. She drew a long breath. “What I was trying to say was that I think I might like to visit him by myself.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“You’re upset, aren’t you?” she asked.

“No,” I said quickly. “He’s our son. How could I get upset about that?” As if to underscore my equanimity, I used my knife to cut another bite of meat. “So when were you thinking about heading up there?” I asked.

“Next week,” she said. “On Thursday.”

“Thursday?”

“I already have my ticket,” she explained.

Though she wasn’t quite finished with her meal, she rose and headed to the kitchen. By the way she avoided my eyes, I guessed she had something else to say and wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. A moment later, I was alone at the table. If I turned, I could just see her face in profile as she stood near the sink.

“Sounds like it’ll be fun,” I called out, with what I hope sounded like nonchalance. “And I know Joseph will enjoy it, too. Maybe there’s a show or something that you could see while you’re up there.”

“Maybe,” I heard her say. “I guess it depends on his schedule.”

I heard the faucet run, and rising from my seat, I brought my dishes to the sink. Jane said nothing as I approached.

“It should be a wonderful weekend,” I added.

She reached for my plate and began to rinse, her eyes still focused on her task.

“Oh, about that,” she said.

“Yes?”

“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 weeks,” she answered.

I didn’t blame Jane for the course our marriage seemed to have taken. Somehow I knew I bore much of the responsibility, even if I hadn’t put all of the pieces of why and how together yet. 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 it so difficult to display emotion. 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. I remember talking to her 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.” I tried taking 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, discussing feelings has never been one of my strengths. I’m steady, yes. Dependable, absolutely. Faithful, without a doubt. But romance, I hate to admit, is as foreign to me as space travel.

I sometimes wonder how many other men are exactly like me.

While Jane was in New York, Joseph answered the phone when I called.

“Hi, Dad,” he said simply. “How are you?”

“Good,” I said. “It’s quiet around here, but I’m doing okay. How’s your mom’s visit going?”

“It’s fine. I’ve been keeping her busy.”

“Shopping and sight-seeing?”

“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. I finally cleared my throat. “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 Dad? I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Did you really forget your anniversary?” I closed my eyes. “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.”

“I think 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 order 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 coffee and glance out the window. Placing their napkins in their laps, they silently wait for their food to arrive. Throughout the meal, they will sit like strangers and say nothing at all, 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.

I immediately 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 shifted from one foot to the other. “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. He works too much, but that’s about it.” There it was—a hint of sadness in her tone, 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 smiled. “I’m glad you’re home,” I said.

She looked up at me, held my eyes, then finally turned toward the luggage carousel. “I know you are.”

This was our state of affairs one year ago.

I would love to 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, one unmemorable day after the next. Jane wasn’t exactly angry with me, but she didn’t seem really happy, either. Try as I might, I was at a loss as to what to do about it. It was as if a wall of indifference had somehow been constructed between us without my being aware of it, and by late autumn, two 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. Noah now sleeps alone. 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 Jane 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 back then, the doctors were more concerned with his mental state. They’d sat Jane and me down in the office a year 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 better 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 ended long before that. Allie suffered from Alzheimer’s in the final years of her life, 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 is 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 once again, I felt Noah’s loneliness keenly. He was feeding a swan as I approached, 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 did with my father, but I’ve never felt comfortable with this and Noah 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 water. The glassy surface mirrored the cloudless sky.

“I’ve come to ask you something,” I finally said.

“Yes?” As he spoke, Noah tore off another piece of bread and tossed it into the water. The swan bobbed its beak toward it and straightened its neck to swallow.

“It’s about Jane,” I added.

“Jane,” he murmured softly. “How is she?”

“Good,” I nodded, shifing awkwardly. “She’ll be coming by later, I suppose.” This was true. For the past few years, we’ve visited Noah frequently, sometimes together, sometimes alone. I wondered if they spoke of me in my absence.

“And the kids?”

“They’re doing well, too. Anna’s writing features now, and Joseph finally found a new apartment. It’s in Queens, I think, but right near the subway. Leslie’s going camping in the mountains with friends this weekend. She told us she aced her midterms.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the swan. “You’re very lucky, Wilson,” he said. “I hope you realize how fortunate you are that they’ve become such wonderful adults.”

“I do,” I said.

We fell into silence and I glanced at him. Up close, the lines in his face formed crevices, and I could see the veins pulsing below the thinning skin of his hands. Behind us, the grounds were empty, the chilly air keeping people inside.

“I forgot our anniversary,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Twenty-nine years,” I added.

“Mmm.”

Behind us, I could hear dried leaves rattling in the breeze.

“I’m worried about us,” I finally admitted.

Noah glanced at me. At first, I thought he would ask me why I was worried, but instead, Noah squinted, trying to read my face. Then, turning away, he tossed another piece of bread to the swan. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low, an aging baritone tempered by a southern accent.

“Do you remember when Allie got sick? When I used to read to her?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling the memory pull at me. He used to read to her from a notebook that he’d written before they moved to Creekside. The notebook held the story of how he and Allie had fallen in love, and sometimes after he read it aloud to her, Allie would become momentarily lucid, despite the ravages of Alzheimer’s. The lucidity never lasted long—and as the disease progressed further, it ceased completely—but when it happened, Allie’s improvement was dramatic enough for specialists to travel from Chapel Hill to Creekside in the hopes of understanding it. That reading to Allie sometimes worked, there was no doubt. Why it worked, however, was something the specialists were never able to figure out.

“Do you know why I did that?” he asked.

I brought my hands to my lap. “I believe so,” I answered. “It helped Allie. And because she made you promise you would.”

“Yes,” he said, “that’s true.” He paused and I could hear him wheezing slightly as he breathed. “But that wasn’t the only reason why I did it. I also did it for me. A lot of folks didn’t understand that . . .”

Though he trailed off, I knew he wasn’t finished and I said nothing. In the silence, the swan stopped circling and moved closer. Except for a black spot the size of a dime on its chest, the swan was the color of ivory. It seemed to hover in place when Noah began speaking again.

“Do you know what I most remember about the good days?” he asked.

I knew he was referring to those rare days when Allie recognized him. “No,” I answered.

“Falling in love,” he said. “That’s what I remember. On her good days, it was like we were just starting out all over again.”

He glanced at me with a gentle smile. “That’s what I mean when I say that I did it for me. Every time I read to her, it was like I was courting her, because sometimes, just sometimes, she would fall in love with me again, just like she had a long time ago. And that’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. How many people are ever given that chance? To have someone you love fall in love with you over and over?”

Noah didn’t seem to expect an answer, and I didn’t offer one.

Instead, we spent the next hour discussing the children and his health. We did not speak of Jane or Allie again. After I left, however, I thought about our visit. Despite the doctors’ worries, Noah seemed as sharp as ever. He had not only known that I would be coming to see him, I realized, but anticipated the reason for my visit. And in typical southern fashion, he’d given me the answer to my problem, without my ever having had to ask him directly.

It was then, I remember thinking, that I knew what I had to do.