Dexter Light. That’s our guy.” He carefully inventoried the contents of Dexter’s pockets and put them in a manila envelope.
“Now, here’s an old picture,” he said, holding a crinkled black and white photograph of a pretty, dark-haired woman up to the light. “Not a bad looking broad either.”
***
“I decided that I had to make a choice,” Rosemary said, wiping her eyes. “If we were…if I….” She trailed off.
Just say it, you idiot, he won’t think badly of you, and what if he does? You haven’t seen him for fifty years and might not again for another fifty. Didn’t you say this morning you were old? So, stop acting like a teenager.
“Am I acting like a teenager?”
“I don’t think so, but then it’s been a long time since my kids were that age and I had any real contact with one, and I didn’t understand them then, either.”
“Here’s the thing. If I condition whatever relationship that may develop between us on first making sure you weren’t involved in your wife’s…disappearance, then it would seem like I could never trust you. I’d have to cross check every detail and that would mess up everything. Oh God, I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”
“You aren’t if what you’re saying is—you want to feel safe, but by asking the question, you will have already put a precondition on whatever follows. Is that it?”
“Yes. That’s nicely put. How do you do that, anyway?”
“I’m a writer.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“Nevertheless, if you asked the question that sits like the proverbial elephant in the corner, I would say, ‘No, I didn’t have anything to do with it.’ But I might be lying, you see. Is it likely I’d confess to something like that?”
“I don’t think you’d lie. I don’t think you even know how.”
“I write fiction, remember. I’m very good at inventing stories.”
“Then I was right,” she said. “I’ll never know for certain. I’ll have to follow my instincts.”
Good for you.
“And they’re telling you…?”
She straightened up, rose, and walked across the room to a small desk painted dark green with a thin gilt line edging its fold-up writing surface. She reached into a drawer and removed a bulky envelope. She resumed her place on the sofa and handed it to him.
He opened the flap and peered in. Newspaper clippings, old photographs—all about him.
“What’s this?”
“It’s for you. My secret, now it’s yours.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have been keeping track of you for years, Frank.”
“Really? Your husband…?”
“He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have understood. To even care about someone from far away would have seemed like infidelity. Men think if a woman is interested in a man it must be about sex.”
He sorted through the clippings. One very yellow one, no more than a column inch, announced that Frank and three other boys had won the 100 yard freestyle relay in the ninety-five pound class at Meadowbrook Swimming Pool. He looked up.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we see,” she said and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
Chapter Fifteen
“You were late again last night.” Barbara busied herself with wiping the kitchen sink although, as far as Frank could see, it didn’t need it.
“Not too late, I don’t think.”
“It was after two. More drinking with your old buddies?”
“Not this time. I had a long conversation with someone from my past.” He smiled and turned his head away, remembering that once upon a time to have intercourse with someone meant you had had a conversation.
“You’re smiling,” she said. “Does that mean you are spinning more bullshit?”
“Barbara, how you talk. Your mother and I never taught you to talk like that!”
“Mom, no, but we all heard you use language a lot stronger than that.”
“Well, just a few words I picked up in the Army. By the way, where’s Bob?” Frank tried to change the subject.
“Up at a normal hour and
“Now, here’s an old picture,” he said, holding a crinkled black and white photograph of a pretty, dark-haired woman up to the light. “Not a bad looking broad either.”
***
“I decided that I had to make a choice,” Rosemary said, wiping her eyes. “If we were…if I….” She trailed off.
Just say it, you idiot, he won’t think badly of you, and what if he does? You haven’t seen him for fifty years and might not again for another fifty. Didn’t you say this morning you were old? So, stop acting like a teenager.
“Am I acting like a teenager?”
“I don’t think so, but then it’s been a long time since my kids were that age and I had any real contact with one, and I didn’t understand them then, either.”
“Here’s the thing. If I condition whatever relationship that may develop between us on first making sure you weren’t involved in your wife’s…disappearance, then it would seem like I could never trust you. I’d have to cross check every detail and that would mess up everything. Oh God, I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”
“You aren’t if what you’re saying is—you want to feel safe, but by asking the question, you will have already put a precondition on whatever follows. Is that it?”
“Yes. That’s nicely put. How do you do that, anyway?”
“I’m a writer.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“Nevertheless, if you asked the question that sits like the proverbial elephant in the corner, I would say, ‘No, I didn’t have anything to do with it.’ But I might be lying, you see. Is it likely I’d confess to something like that?”
“I don’t think you’d lie. I don’t think you even know how.”
“I write fiction, remember. I’m very good at inventing stories.”
“Then I was right,” she said. “I’ll never know for certain. I’ll have to follow my instincts.”
Good for you.
“And they’re telling you…?”
She straightened up, rose, and walked across the room to a small desk painted dark green with a thin gilt line edging its fold-up writing surface. She reached into a drawer and removed a bulky envelope. She resumed her place on the sofa and handed it to him.
He opened the flap and peered in. Newspaper clippings, old photographs—all about him.
“What’s this?”
“It’s for you. My secret, now it’s yours.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have been keeping track of you for years, Frank.”
“Really? Your husband…?”
“He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have understood. To even care about someone from far away would have seemed like infidelity. Men think if a woman is interested in a man it must be about sex.”
He sorted through the clippings. One very yellow one, no more than a column inch, announced that Frank and three other boys had won the 100 yard freestyle relay in the ninety-five pound class at Meadowbrook Swimming Pool. He looked up.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we see,” she said and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
Chapter Fifteen
“You were late again last night.” Barbara busied herself with wiping the kitchen sink although, as far as Frank could see, it didn’t need it.
“Not too late, I don’t think.”
“It was after two. More drinking with your old buddies?”
“Not this time. I had a long conversation with someone from my past.” He smiled and turned his head away, remembering that once upon a time to have intercourse with someone meant you had had a conversation.
“You’re smiling,” she said. “Does that mean you are spinning more bullshit?”
“Barbara, how you talk. Your mother and I never taught you to talk like that!”
“Mom, no, but we all heard you use language a lot stronger than that.”
“Well, just a few words I picked up in the Army. By the way, where’s Bob?” Frank tried to change the subject.
“Up at a normal hour and
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