Where or When by Anita Shreve Page B

forgot,” she says. “I’ve brought something. I found it in the trunk with the pictures.”
    She bends down to retrieve her purse, a black leather pocketbook with a long strap, opens it, and removes a mimeographed newsletter, several pages stapled at one corner. She hands it to Charles.
    â€œIt was a kind of newspaper they gave us on the day we left. It has a brief history of what happened that week, and at the end there are all the addresses of the campers and the counselors.”
    Charles riffles through the newsletter, looks again at its cover, at the hand-drawn cross with the words “The Ridge” above it, and the dates of their attendance below. He puts the newsletter on the banquette between them.
    â€œI’ve left my reading glasses in the car,” he says.
    â€œIt’s odd,” she says, “but I didn’t recognize a single name there, except yours.”
    Her eyelids are slightly hooded; a soft tint in her glasses takes the edge off the navy of her eyes, makes them appear almost charcoal. She wears little makeup, at least as far as he can tell, and there is just the faintest suggestion of a dark rose color on her lips. He knows he should ask about her husband, as she has asked about his wife. And there are facts he would like to know about her marriage, though not necessarily from her. He does not want to hear her speak of her husband—not today, not right now.
    â€œYou certainly don’t look like the wife of a farmer,” he says lightly.
    She laughs for the first time. “Well, you don’t look like a salesman,” she says.
    â€œWhat’s a salesman look like?” he asks. He would like to ask her what she thinks of him—has he aged hopelessly? is she disappointed?—but, of course, he cannot.
    She glances again at the newsletter with the cross. “I don’t remember much religion from that week,” she says. “It’s strange when you think about it. Except for the epiphany I wrote you about, and the services down by the water. Though they seem, at least in my memory, not very Catholic. Not very ornate. Having more to do with nature than with God.”
    He thinks this is true. There was a priest, he recalls, a tall, athletic fellow with thick black hair—Father Something; Father What?—who doubled as a swimming teacher. A number of lay counselors. Not a single nun.
    â€œWhat was the priest’s name?” he asks.
    She thinks a minute. “Father Dunn?” she asks tentatively.
    He smiles. “Thank you. You’re right. They soft-pedaled the religion. Mercifully. And wisely too.”
    â€œI remember the pool, but I didn’t see it on my way in.”
    â€œWe can take a walk,” he says.
    She shifts slightly, moving her shoulder away. As if she might not acquiesce to a walk.
    â€œYou don’t look like a poet either,” he says. “Though I don’t really know what a poet is supposed to look like.”
    Her hand is on the banquette, resting there between them. He covers her hand with his own.
    The room spins for a second, as if he were already drunk.
    â€œDoes this upset you?” he asks her quietly. She shakes her head but doesn’t look at him.
    They sit there for minutes. She seems unwilling to withdraw her hand; he is unable to remove his. He feels the warmth of her hand beneath his, though he is barely touching her. He sees the waiter across the room. He will kill the man if he comes to their table now.
    When she speaks, her voice is so low he is not sure he has heard her correctly.
    â€œWhen you wrote about holding my hand . . .”
    He waits, poised for the conclusion of the sentence. He rubs the top of her hand lightly.
    She leans slightly toward him, an infinitesimal, yet highly significant, millimeter closer. She looks down at his hand over hers. She slips her hand from his, but gives her face to him. Her eyes are clear, unclouded.
    â€œI had a