anger before.
"What do we say to the kids?"
She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Foreign ground it was, indeed, but there were certain immediate problems, among which handling the children was foremost. So she groped her way on. "Nothing, I guess. Not yet." One part of her prayed they wouldn't have to know at all. Will Clinger's rumors were nothing compared to straight talk from Annie and Sam. She couldn't begin to assess the emotional damage that would cause. "It's too much, with Michael so sick."
"How do we act with them?"
"We focus our worry on Michael."
"Can I kiss you?"
"No."
"What about Virginia?"
"Kiss her all you want," Annie said bitterly.
"You know what I mean."
Yes, she did; still, the bitterness was there.
"We'll talk with Virginia," he said.
"Yes."
"Do you want me to move out?"
She looked at him then. His expression was hidden by the night, but she knew he was fishing for hope. Quietly, if a bit dryly, she said,
"That would
defeat the purpose of not telling the kids, don't you think?"
"Yes. Same thing with my sleeping in the den."
"You take the bed. I won't be sleeping much anyway."
"Annie, that's absurd--"
"What's absurd?" she cut in. "I rarely sleep through the night anyway, so instead of lying in bed, I'll be walking around or sitting up here. The kids know I'm upset about Michael."
"I don't want the bed if you're not there. You take it."
"So what'll you tell the kids?"
"That I'm upset about Michael."
"And when they wake up and find you sprawled on the sofa in the den?"
"Same thing. I was upset about Michael, walked around for a while, fell asleep there."
"Night after night?"
When he didn't answer, she knew she had made her point--both about keeping up a facade before the kids and about the extent of her hurt. Night after night. She wondered when it would end, if it would end. She felt as though the neat little bundle that was her life with Sam had been torn apart and the pieces strewn on the floor. Still stunned from the tearing, she didn't have the strength to start picking them up.
Sam rose from the window seat. As wearily as she felt, he said, "We can both take the bed. I'll just be careful not to go near your side." He was halfway to the door when he stopped and bowed his head. "Annie?" She was silent. "We're holding a press conference tomorrow morning. About Dunn v. Hanover. I canceled it yesterday and would scrap it for good if I had my way, but our public relations people are insisting."
"While Michael is sick?" she asked. Victory or not, a press conference seemed inappropriate.
"J.D. wants it. So does J.S. I'm going to have trouble doing it." He hesitated. "Will you come?"
Annie let her head loll against the window frame. In the past, she had attended Sam's press conferences. It had been her pleasure to be there, to be introduced, to beam at her husband. She couldn't do it now, though, couldn't possibly do it now. She couldn't produce a beam if her life depended on it, and the last thing she wanted was to be introduced. She didn't want people looking at her. She felt sure they would know the truth and stare, perhaps be amused or feel pity.
"I have school," she said.
"I know, but I thought maybe you could go in a little late." That was what she had done in the past. Her silence said she wouldn't do it this time.
He stayed where he was for another minute, before whispering, "Okay," and going quietly down the stairs.
Annie was a chronic insomniac. She could function at peak level with five hours of sleep, which meant that, in theory, she could go to bed at midnight, wake up at dawn, and be fine. In practice her eyelids were often drooping by ten at night. She would sleep straight for several hours, then only on and off after that. Normally she made the most of the wakeful time to do creative thinking, read a book, grade exams. Often she simply fitted her body to Sam's and took pleasure in his warmth.
There was no warmth this night. She didn't go to bed at all but
"What do we say to the kids?"
She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Foreign ground it was, indeed, but there were certain immediate problems, among which handling the children was foremost. So she groped her way on. "Nothing, I guess. Not yet." One part of her prayed they wouldn't have to know at all. Will Clinger's rumors were nothing compared to straight talk from Annie and Sam. She couldn't begin to assess the emotional damage that would cause. "It's too much, with Michael so sick."
"How do we act with them?"
"We focus our worry on Michael."
"Can I kiss you?"
"No."
"What about Virginia?"
"Kiss her all you want," Annie said bitterly.
"You know what I mean."
Yes, she did; still, the bitterness was there.
"We'll talk with Virginia," he said.
"Yes."
"Do you want me to move out?"
She looked at him then. His expression was hidden by the night, but she knew he was fishing for hope. Quietly, if a bit dryly, she said,
"That would
defeat the purpose of not telling the kids, don't you think?"
"Yes. Same thing with my sleeping in the den."
"You take the bed. I won't be sleeping much anyway."
"Annie, that's absurd--"
"What's absurd?" she cut in. "I rarely sleep through the night anyway, so instead of lying in bed, I'll be walking around or sitting up here. The kids know I'm upset about Michael."
"I don't want the bed if you're not there. You take it."
"So what'll you tell the kids?"
"That I'm upset about Michael."
"And when they wake up and find you sprawled on the sofa in the den?"
"Same thing. I was upset about Michael, walked around for a while, fell asleep there."
"Night after night?"
When he didn't answer, she knew she had made her point--both about keeping up a facade before the kids and about the extent of her hurt. Night after night. She wondered when it would end, if it would end. She felt as though the neat little bundle that was her life with Sam had been torn apart and the pieces strewn on the floor. Still stunned from the tearing, she didn't have the strength to start picking them up.
Sam rose from the window seat. As wearily as she felt, he said, "We can both take the bed. I'll just be careful not to go near your side." He was halfway to the door when he stopped and bowed his head. "Annie?" She was silent. "We're holding a press conference tomorrow morning. About Dunn v. Hanover. I canceled it yesterday and would scrap it for good if I had my way, but our public relations people are insisting."
"While Michael is sick?" she asked. Victory or not, a press conference seemed inappropriate.
"J.D. wants it. So does J.S. I'm going to have trouble doing it." He hesitated. "Will you come?"
Annie let her head loll against the window frame. In the past, she had attended Sam's press conferences. It had been her pleasure to be there, to be introduced, to beam at her husband. She couldn't do it now, though, couldn't possibly do it now. She couldn't produce a beam if her life depended on it, and the last thing she wanted was to be introduced. She didn't want people looking at her. She felt sure they would know the truth and stare, perhaps be amused or feel pity.
"I have school," she said.
"I know, but I thought maybe you could go in a little late." That was what she had done in the past. Her silence said she wouldn't do it this time.
He stayed where he was for another minute, before whispering, "Okay," and going quietly down the stairs.
Annie was a chronic insomniac. She could function at peak level with five hours of sleep, which meant that, in theory, she could go to bed at midnight, wake up at dawn, and be fine. In practice her eyelids were often drooping by ten at night. She would sleep straight for several hours, then only on and off after that. Normally she made the most of the wakeful time to do creative thinking, read a book, grade exams. Often she simply fitted her body to Sam's and took pleasure in his warmth.
There was no warmth this night. She didn't go to bed at all but
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