wait for some future occasion when he could speak to Sarah alone.
Glancing into the window, he saw her approach his bedroom, and he circled quietly to the northern side of the cabin. Through unwashed glass blurred with a spiderweb, he watched her smooth the mattress, pull the sheet tight, and fold it down six inches, perfectly horizontal. She tucked the edges under the mattress, fluffed two pillows and placed them over the fold. Then she sat on the bed and stared at the closet.
If she cries, I will go to her. He never could bear to see Sarah cry. Whenever she was troubled he had always hurried to correct the problem with a joke, a bouquet, or a prescription. That was why he had felt so helpless during the miscarriages, why he had stayed in the basement at night while she cried in bed. Because all he could do was offer cups of chamomile tea, kiss her forehead, rub her shoulders, clean the bathroom and the bloody sheets.
It all came back as he searched Sarah’s face for hints of anguish. There were no tears, no sobbing. Her expression was stoic, which made him stare all the more. Did this woman really miss him? Sarah was so difficult to read. Not like his young female patients, who seemed to welcome college as the age of display, saying “Look at this , doctor. Look at me .” His wife never invited observation, which was one of the things that appealed to him. Sarah had layers of reserve that shielded a heart which was genuinely, intensely warm—whenever he could reach it. In these past few years it had gotten harder for him to touch that heated core, she guarded it so closely. Still, he felt an odd thrill in looking at her, trying to interpret her subtlest gestures. Of course he recognized this spying as a shallow temptation. Doctors knew the horror and the fascination of other people’s tragedies; the spectacle of human suffering was a sadistic pleasure.
David pulled himself away and walked back into the woods. Fifty yards past the cabin he sat at the base of a small hill and waited for the sound of a door closing, the start of a car’s ignition. When he heard the clatter of Margaret’s tires spinning on gravel, he looked back and watched a flash of blue metal, carrying Sarah far away.
• 12 •
That night in the cabin David felt, for the first time, unmistakably dead. For the past few days he had reveled in the possibilities of a new life, but now he mourned the old one. He tried to reassure himself that there was still time. Time to confess, to return to his previous routine. But how could his former life be anything other than diminished?
Tomorrow he would have to go to the general store, to replace the food that Margaret had thrown out, and there he would face the telephone, waiting like the wife he was neglecting. That would be the moment of reckoning, the point of no return.
All night he slept fitfully, thinking of Sarah sitting at the foot of this bed, surveying the room with those sad, dark eyes. It was cruel to let a woman mourn for a living man, cruel to leave her alone in their empty house. But their marriage had already been a form of grief, and any momentary joy she felt in his reappearance would not last long. He told himself that their best hope for happiness was to change their lives, and this was a change beyond imagining.
By sunrise his mind was already set. He would stay at the cabin and try to create a new life, something Sarah might want to share. When the time was right, he would return to her, and ask if she wanted to start again.
On the ride to the store, he considered everything that he was leaving behind. The college would be fine without him; several physicians in town would be happy to take his place, and his student patients came and went so frequently, he had made few strong connections. For serious ailments, undergraduates usually went home to their family doctors, and as for the faculty, most of them avoided the college waiting room, dreading sick students who might plead for
Glancing into the window, he saw her approach his bedroom, and he circled quietly to the northern side of the cabin. Through unwashed glass blurred with a spiderweb, he watched her smooth the mattress, pull the sheet tight, and fold it down six inches, perfectly horizontal. She tucked the edges under the mattress, fluffed two pillows and placed them over the fold. Then she sat on the bed and stared at the closet.
If she cries, I will go to her. He never could bear to see Sarah cry. Whenever she was troubled he had always hurried to correct the problem with a joke, a bouquet, or a prescription. That was why he had felt so helpless during the miscarriages, why he had stayed in the basement at night while she cried in bed. Because all he could do was offer cups of chamomile tea, kiss her forehead, rub her shoulders, clean the bathroom and the bloody sheets.
It all came back as he searched Sarah’s face for hints of anguish. There were no tears, no sobbing. Her expression was stoic, which made him stare all the more. Did this woman really miss him? Sarah was so difficult to read. Not like his young female patients, who seemed to welcome college as the age of display, saying “Look at this , doctor. Look at me .” His wife never invited observation, which was one of the things that appealed to him. Sarah had layers of reserve that shielded a heart which was genuinely, intensely warm—whenever he could reach it. In these past few years it had gotten harder for him to touch that heated core, she guarded it so closely. Still, he felt an odd thrill in looking at her, trying to interpret her subtlest gestures. Of course he recognized this spying as a shallow temptation. Doctors knew the horror and the fascination of other people’s tragedies; the spectacle of human suffering was a sadistic pleasure.
David pulled himself away and walked back into the woods. Fifty yards past the cabin he sat at the base of a small hill and waited for the sound of a door closing, the start of a car’s ignition. When he heard the clatter of Margaret’s tires spinning on gravel, he looked back and watched a flash of blue metal, carrying Sarah far away.
• 12 •
That night in the cabin David felt, for the first time, unmistakably dead. For the past few days he had reveled in the possibilities of a new life, but now he mourned the old one. He tried to reassure himself that there was still time. Time to confess, to return to his previous routine. But how could his former life be anything other than diminished?
Tomorrow he would have to go to the general store, to replace the food that Margaret had thrown out, and there he would face the telephone, waiting like the wife he was neglecting. That would be the moment of reckoning, the point of no return.
All night he slept fitfully, thinking of Sarah sitting at the foot of this bed, surveying the room with those sad, dark eyes. It was cruel to let a woman mourn for a living man, cruel to leave her alone in their empty house. But their marriage had already been a form of grief, and any momentary joy she felt in his reappearance would not last long. He told himself that their best hope for happiness was to change their lives, and this was a change beyond imagining.
By sunrise his mind was already set. He would stay at the cabin and try to create a new life, something Sarah might want to share. When the time was right, he would return to her, and ask if she wanted to start again.
On the ride to the store, he considered everything that he was leaving behind. The college would be fine without him; several physicians in town would be happy to take his place, and his student patients came and went so frequently, he had made few strong connections. For serious ailments, undergraduates usually went home to their family doctors, and as for the faculty, most of them avoided the college waiting room, dreading sick students who might plead for
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