The Lone Pilgrim by Laurie Colwin Page B

pace,” said Martha. “But now I’m going to make a cup of tea and play for time.”
    One more moment in that insufficiently lit room and it was all over, she knew. What she really wanted was to get drunk. She wished it might begin to blizzard and shut them in together—anything that might coerce her besides her feelings. She filled the stranger’s kettle—a kettle that looked as if it had never been used—and brewed herself a cup of tea in a white mug.
    The occupant of this apartment was beginning to make himself known. He had chosen a low couch that was hard to get up from if you were bulky or long-legged. It was covered in some briary tweed that would prickle in summer. The living room rug was made of braided fiber and looked hostile to the naked foot. There was no dust or clutter anywhere. Every surface looked immaculate and resistant. On the kitchen windowsill were three plants—the tough spiky sort you can leave for several weeks without watering. The papers on the desk were neatly stacked. This was the encampment of a well-directed boy who had his hair cut often, who wore a wool tie, who scraped his face when he shaved, and who thought an apartment was a place to work and sleep.
    While the tea steeped, Martha imagined herself in William’s position, visiting him in San Francisco, on his turf. Would she be happy to be included into his family circle? She imagined herself sitting in his living room. She leaned over the stranger’s counter and wondered what sort of conversation she might have with Catherine Sutherland. She let herself imagine William’s house—a black stone fireplace, a window seat on the first floor landing where she might see ballet slippers, hockey sticks, schoolbooks. She imagined herself being given a tour of the house and standing at the threshold of the master bedroom.
    The barrenness of the kitchen she was standing in made Martha reflect on the richness of domestic artifact. What a good shield a house is, emblazoned everywhere with the message that shared, daily life was lived within, something she and William would never know anything about. She would never, for example, cook William a meal. They would never have what must be love’s greatest luxury: time. They would never own anything in common or travel together. Now that Martha was married, their few dealings were going to be entirely furtive.
    Whatever she was going to do was going to be wrong. William was right: someone was going to get cheated on.
    But William predated her marriage. He had led her out of the darkness and into the light. Once in the light, with William gone, she had met Robert. She had liked him at once. He was tall and rugged and he seemed rather fearless in his dealings with others. He had been a Boy Scout and had never gotten over it: he was genuinely kind and good. Furthermore, he was serious. He fell in love with Martha and wanted to marry her. He was interested in beginning his adult life, and Martha answered something within him.
    They were an excellent match. They loved to travel. They liked to prowl around cities late at night. They liked to go to bed early and get up an hour before dawn in order to have a place all to themselves. Once married and settled in Boston, they found that their inclinations meshed. Their household was a perfect amalgamation of the two of them. The life she lived with Robert was real life to her.
    Her tea was ready. She carried it to the living room where William was waiting. At the sight of him, her heart turned over. He looked mournful and expectant. For a moment they were simply lovers with a past between them.
    It seemed to her the first real moment of her marriage—not her marriage to Robert, but her sense of herself as a married person. She felt exactly divided between the woman she was now and the woman she had been. The world in which she had been William’s lover and would be again, the place from which her letters to