Because you don’t want to.
That’s not it, he said. He slid out from under her arm and turned away and rose from the bed, and in the dark he began to collect his clothes. Moving about the room he hit his foot against the leg of a chair. He cursed.
What happened? she said.
Nothing.
I’ll turn the light on. She switched on the bedside lamp and watched him dress. Unlike her husband in Alaska, this man was very careful about his dressing. He stepped into his underwear, settling the waistband and drawing out the seat, and pulled on his shirt and pants and stood spreading his knees to support his pants while he tucked in the shirttail, then he buckled the leather belt with its thin brass clasp and afterward sat on the bed and pulled on his dark socks and dark shoes. His hair was disordered and he stood bent-kneed before the mirror at her dresser and combed his thin blond hair neat again and combed through his mustache and goatee. Then he put on his suitcoat and shot his shirt cuffs.
She was lying on her side with the sheet over her, watching him. One of her shoulders was exposed, it gleamed and was very pretty in the light. Give me a kiss before you go, she said.
He stepped to the bed and kissed her, then walked noiselessly down the hall and out through the front room into the cool night air. She got up from bed with the sheet around her and followed him, watching him drive away on the vacant street, seeing him pass under the corner streetlamp, then onto Main and out of sight. Shadows from the lamp were like long stick figures thrown out behind the trees and all along the street were the quiet mute fronts of houses. She sat down in the dark room. An hour later she woke shivering and went back to her bed.
AFTER THAT NIGHT A WEEK PASSED WITHOUT HIS CALLING in the evening as he had before. She waited until the middle of the following week and he still hadn’t called, and then she called him twice in one night from her dark bedroom, but he made excuses about why he couldn’t talk, and the second time she called he hung up without waiting for her to say anything more than his name. The next day at mid-morning she went to see him at the bank.
His office was in the back corner, with a glass window that looked out into the lobby. She could see him sitting at his desk talking on the phone when she stepped inside. A woman at the reception desk asked if she could help but Mary Wells said: No, you can’t help me. I came here to see him. Then he was off the phone and she went into his office and sat down as if she had come to see about a loan or a second mortgage.
What are you doing? he said.
I came to see you.
I can’t talk now.
I know that. But you won’t talk to me on the phone. So I had to come here. You’re through with me, aren’t you.
He took up a long silver pen from his desk and held it in his fingers.
You are, aren’t you. You ought to at least be able to say it.
I think we ought to slow down for a while, he said. That’s all.
Slow down, she said. What chickenshit.
He stared at her and leaned back in his chair.
You’re very timid, aren’t you, she said.
No.
Yes. Yes, you are. I understand that now. You want your fun but you don’t want any complications. You’re still a little boy.
I think you’d better go, he said. I’ve got work to do. I’ll call you later.
You’ll call me later?
Yes.
No you won’t. You won’t call me. You think I’m that stupid? That pathetic? She stood up. And you have work to do now, don’t you.
Of course. This is my office. This is where I work.
That’s very interesting, she said. And you’d like me to leave, wouldn’t you. You’d like me to walk out and not make any fuss. Isn’t that right? She looked at him. He didn’t say anything. Okay, she said. Then she bent over his desk and swept all the papers onto the floor.