life is as it always has been. But it feels different. What is it you call this in astronomy, these imperceptible tugs? Perambulations? A force that is not seen, but exists because of the impact it has on the things around it.
There is a woman in Todd’s office, a designer, named Sarah, and sometimes I believe he has fallen in love with her. Not an affair, not some lusty hotel room when he’s supposed to be working. But really in love. The way I know he once was with me and I was with him. That blend of danger and excitement. I see it in his eyes when he talks to her on the phone. But when I say to him, even as a tease, “You’re in love with Sarah, aren’t you?” Todd replies, “Maggie, get a grip on yourself.”
It hasn’t been that easy. A few weeks before I left on this trip, we had a break-in. I was in my office, working on the ground floor, when I heard a noise. Doors banging, footsteps. The dog began barking, racing up and down the stairs.
I usually don’t hear any noise when I work at home. Todd had converted an old storage closet for me on the ground floor, and on days when I don’t have to go into the office (about three days a week), I am set up there in my little insulated windowless space, complete with fax-modem and a hookup to the office. Though he has no children of his own, Kurt encourages this kind of flexible working arrangement. I never thought I could be happy in a windowless room, but actually I am. I don’t know what time it is or what the weather is outside. There’s a clock on the fax, but I only look at it when I think it may be time to get Jessica from school. I am amazed at how much I can enjoy this solitude. Some days I don’t even go outside. Todd jokes that I’m like someone with twentieth-century disease—that illness when you are allergic to your environment, its fumes, its toxic waste—who can’t cope with synthetic fibers or cleaning fluids. He likes to kid me that nine out of ten people with this illness are women.
I argue that I just like to be free of the chaos of thehouse—the dishes that aren’t done, the clothes that need to be put away. I can spend hours checking my E-mail, faxing freelancers all over the world who are gathering information for me when I need the name of a hotel in Eboli, ecotourist information on the birds of Madagascar, where you can get the best brik-à-l’oeuf in Tunis.
I can go on for days like this in my little cell because, of course, unlike here, I know I can leave. I always resist going away, but then once I really go, I am gone. It always amazes me when I travel somewhere how easy it is to leave your other life behind. As if it has ceased to exist; as if it has vanished in thin air.
I was in my own world when I heard the banging upstairs. At first I didn’t believe that someone was in the house, but the dog kept growling, running up and down the stairs. He’s a small dog, built close to the ground, and I never thought he’d be that fierce, but somehow he chased the person out. When I heard the hatch door slam the second time, I called Todd. He told me to leave the house while he called 911.
We live in a neighborhood where drug dealers have their turf one block from ours, and we rarely go out at night. Some of our neighbors have bullet-proof front doors, but so far we had resisted such precautions. But Todd said it was time to put in an alarm system.
Lyle Nashe, the Home Security Alarm salesman who arrived, wore a shiny blue suit and carried a small suitcase. First he admired our house—the banisters Todd had stripped, the marble mantel that had once been covered in blue paint. He said, “You’ve done wonders with this place,” winning Todd over, but not me. He liked the country kitchen, the primitive art on the walls that I bring back from wherever I go. “I likeit,” Lyle Nashe said. “It’s eclectic. You have a lot you must want to protect here.”
“Actually,” I told him, “our possessions don’t amount to much.
There is a woman in Todd’s office, a designer, named Sarah, and sometimes I believe he has fallen in love with her. Not an affair, not some lusty hotel room when he’s supposed to be working. But really in love. The way I know he once was with me and I was with him. That blend of danger and excitement. I see it in his eyes when he talks to her on the phone. But when I say to him, even as a tease, “You’re in love with Sarah, aren’t you?” Todd replies, “Maggie, get a grip on yourself.”
It hasn’t been that easy. A few weeks before I left on this trip, we had a break-in. I was in my office, working on the ground floor, when I heard a noise. Doors banging, footsteps. The dog began barking, racing up and down the stairs.
I usually don’t hear any noise when I work at home. Todd had converted an old storage closet for me on the ground floor, and on days when I don’t have to go into the office (about three days a week), I am set up there in my little insulated windowless space, complete with fax-modem and a hookup to the office. Though he has no children of his own, Kurt encourages this kind of flexible working arrangement. I never thought I could be happy in a windowless room, but actually I am. I don’t know what time it is or what the weather is outside. There’s a clock on the fax, but I only look at it when I think it may be time to get Jessica from school. I am amazed at how much I can enjoy this solitude. Some days I don’t even go outside. Todd jokes that I’m like someone with twentieth-century disease—that illness when you are allergic to your environment, its fumes, its toxic waste—who can’t cope with synthetic fibers or cleaning fluids. He likes to kid me that nine out of ten people with this illness are women.
I argue that I just like to be free of the chaos of thehouse—the dishes that aren’t done, the clothes that need to be put away. I can spend hours checking my E-mail, faxing freelancers all over the world who are gathering information for me when I need the name of a hotel in Eboli, ecotourist information on the birds of Madagascar, where you can get the best brik-à-l’oeuf in Tunis.
I can go on for days like this in my little cell because, of course, unlike here, I know I can leave. I always resist going away, but then once I really go, I am gone. It always amazes me when I travel somewhere how easy it is to leave your other life behind. As if it has ceased to exist; as if it has vanished in thin air.
I was in my own world when I heard the banging upstairs. At first I didn’t believe that someone was in the house, but the dog kept growling, running up and down the stairs. He’s a small dog, built close to the ground, and I never thought he’d be that fierce, but somehow he chased the person out. When I heard the hatch door slam the second time, I called Todd. He told me to leave the house while he called 911.
We live in a neighborhood where drug dealers have their turf one block from ours, and we rarely go out at night. Some of our neighbors have bullet-proof front doors, but so far we had resisted such precautions. But Todd said it was time to put in an alarm system.
Lyle Nashe, the Home Security Alarm salesman who arrived, wore a shiny blue suit and carried a small suitcase. First he admired our house—the banisters Todd had stripped, the marble mantel that had once been covered in blue paint. He said, “You’ve done wonders with this place,” winning Todd over, but not me. He liked the country kitchen, the primitive art on the walls that I bring back from wherever I go. “I likeit,” Lyle Nashe said. “It’s eclectic. You have a lot you must want to protect here.”
“Actually,” I told him, “our possessions don’t amount to much.
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