said Nancy.
“It’s that I want you to marry me,” said Oates.
“We’ve talked about this before,” said Nancy.
“We’ve talked about it,” said Oates, “but I’ve never formally asked you before. So I’m asking you tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“Flying in tonight, I was looking out at the lights in the distance—little yellow lights, houses, towns—wondering if I could see yours. They were the only lights that mattered to me. I thought, if you are all that matters to me, shouldn’t we be everything, shouldn’t we be married?”
“It still frightens me a little,” said Nancy. “I like us the way we are.”
“You’re afraid if I become your husband, you’ll lose me?”
“Uh-huh,” said Nancy softly.
“That was someone else, a long time ago,” said Oates. “Not me. I’m not going to leave you. I promise.”
“Do you want an answer tonight?” asked Nancy.
“If it’s ‘yes,’ then I would like to know as soon as possible. I’d like to go to sleep knowing that.”
Nancy curled up in the crook of Oates’s arm. “It’s yes,” she said.
It was so quiet she could hear the river straining against its banks behind the house. She could hear the sweet thump, thump, thump, thump of Oates’s heart. So quiet, she could almost hear the Kleinholzes’ mare pawing at the wood chips in her stall.
Chris
W HILE HE WAS MANAGING EDITOR OF THE YORKTOWN TRIBUNE, Chris had contributed a preface for a collection of articles written by one of their columnists. The book had a small print run, but it was handsomely published in a blue cloth binding with gold letters, and the jacket featured a Vermeer print. Chris had never paid attention to book quality before this, but the heft and well-craftedness of this book pleased him. And he was excited by its longevity. For over a year the book presided on the table beside the sofa, the cover solid, the pages still white. In contrast, the pages of the Trib yellowed, dried up on the edges and curled, like leaves. Even the issues saved in their morgue aged poorly.
Chris had always been attracted to journalism because of its presence, its energy, its speed. When he first came to the Trib as a reporter, he had covered town meetings, zoning board meetings, planning board meetings, and it was a thrill that he could attend a meeting, distill everything that happened, and the next afternoon it was there in print: solid, news. It was as if his brain was pulling the world together for his readers. His take on things was there on people’s doorsteps the next morning. And every news item was followed by another. Everything was always new.
It was only after the publication of the book of articles that the evanescence of newspapers began to depress him. A brilliant series he’d done on rural poverty (a series that should have won a Pulitzer) ended up in the recycling bin along with everything else. On newsprint it was no different from the weekly horoscope, from the engagement announcements, from the ads for Prime Foods’ sale of capons. The pages of the Trib, his words, his thoughts, lined parakeet cages, were shat on by gerbils, peed on by incontinent puppies, were crumpled up and used to start fires in woodstoves. Sometimes—more often than not—they were not even read. Sometimes, when subscribers went on vacation and neglected to inform the circulation department, the paper sat in sodden piles on doorsteps.
Books, Chris imagined, lasted forever. Or at least as good as forever. He was smart, he was a crackerjack writer, so why squander his talent on newsprint? With fiction, you were supposed to write about something familiar. He knew about a suburban New York newspaper. He knew about small-town politics. He knew about small-town crime. It was all there for him—all he needed to do was put it together.
It was around this time that his marriage to his first wife, his college girlfriend, faltered, then came to an end. Valerie was a social worker in a teenage
“It’s that I want you to marry me,” said Oates.
“We’ve talked about this before,” said Nancy.
“We’ve talked about it,” said Oates, “but I’ve never formally asked you before. So I’m asking you tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“Flying in tonight, I was looking out at the lights in the distance—little yellow lights, houses, towns—wondering if I could see yours. They were the only lights that mattered to me. I thought, if you are all that matters to me, shouldn’t we be everything, shouldn’t we be married?”
“It still frightens me a little,” said Nancy. “I like us the way we are.”
“You’re afraid if I become your husband, you’ll lose me?”
“Uh-huh,” said Nancy softly.
“That was someone else, a long time ago,” said Oates. “Not me. I’m not going to leave you. I promise.”
“Do you want an answer tonight?” asked Nancy.
“If it’s ‘yes,’ then I would like to know as soon as possible. I’d like to go to sleep knowing that.”
Nancy curled up in the crook of Oates’s arm. “It’s yes,” she said.
It was so quiet she could hear the river straining against its banks behind the house. She could hear the sweet thump, thump, thump, thump of Oates’s heart. So quiet, she could almost hear the Kleinholzes’ mare pawing at the wood chips in her stall.
Chris
W HILE HE WAS MANAGING EDITOR OF THE YORKTOWN TRIBUNE, Chris had contributed a preface for a collection of articles written by one of their columnists. The book had a small print run, but it was handsomely published in a blue cloth binding with gold letters, and the jacket featured a Vermeer print. Chris had never paid attention to book quality before this, but the heft and well-craftedness of this book pleased him. And he was excited by its longevity. For over a year the book presided on the table beside the sofa, the cover solid, the pages still white. In contrast, the pages of the Trib yellowed, dried up on the edges and curled, like leaves. Even the issues saved in their morgue aged poorly.
Chris had always been attracted to journalism because of its presence, its energy, its speed. When he first came to the Trib as a reporter, he had covered town meetings, zoning board meetings, planning board meetings, and it was a thrill that he could attend a meeting, distill everything that happened, and the next afternoon it was there in print: solid, news. It was as if his brain was pulling the world together for his readers. His take on things was there on people’s doorsteps the next morning. And every news item was followed by another. Everything was always new.
It was only after the publication of the book of articles that the evanescence of newspapers began to depress him. A brilliant series he’d done on rural poverty (a series that should have won a Pulitzer) ended up in the recycling bin along with everything else. On newsprint it was no different from the weekly horoscope, from the engagement announcements, from the ads for Prime Foods’ sale of capons. The pages of the Trib, his words, his thoughts, lined parakeet cages, were shat on by gerbils, peed on by incontinent puppies, were crumpled up and used to start fires in woodstoves. Sometimes—more often than not—they were not even read. Sometimes, when subscribers went on vacation and neglected to inform the circulation department, the paper sat in sodden piles on doorsteps.
Books, Chris imagined, lasted forever. Or at least as good as forever. He was smart, he was a crackerjack writer, so why squander his talent on newsprint? With fiction, you were supposed to write about something familiar. He knew about a suburban New York newspaper. He knew about small-town politics. He knew about small-town crime. It was all there for him—all he needed to do was put it together.
It was around this time that his marriage to his first wife, his college girlfriend, faltered, then came to an end. Valerie was a social worker in a teenage
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