Ella.
When he drove to Chicago Street to her little house after she had called him at school it was late in the afternoon. He parked and walked up the sidewalk past the three elm trees, the one with the sap still showing the dark stain but no longer so raw nor fresh this late in the year, and then when he stepped onto the porch he discovered that she was already waiting for him at the door. She opened it even before he could knock. She let him in and he entered the little front room of the place and saw at once that she had been packing. Her two suitcases were set out on the floor and the room itself was clean and spruce and neat again, as it had been when she’d moved in. Dustfree and anonymous again, it was returned once more to its former state: a little rental house on Chicago Street on the east side of Holt.
When he had a good look at Ella he could see that she too was better now. Not as good as she had looked once, but her hair was pretty again, just washed and brushed back from her face, and she was dressed in wool slacks and a good white blouse. She had lost weight since he’d last seen her, but it didn’t appear that she would lose any more.
He gestured toward the suitcases. Are you going somewhere?
I’m going to tell you about it, she said. That’s why I called you.
So tell me, he said.
She looked at him. Her eyes still bore a kind of wounded fierceness, as though the sadness and the anger were both just below the surface. I hoped you weren’t going to be that way today, she said.
What way?
I didn’t want it to be like this, not this time.
Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you have in mind, he said. You called school and I came.
Can we at least sit down? she said. Will you do that?
Yes.
She seated herself on the couch and he sat opposite her on one of the wooden chairs. On the couch she looked small, almost frail. He picked out a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Are you going to object if I smoke?
I’d prefer that you didn’t.
He looked at her. He held the cigarette but didn’t light it. Go ahead and talk, he said. I’m listening.
Well, she said, I wanted you to know that I’ve decided to go to Denver to my sister’s. To stay with her for a while. I called her and it’s all set. She has an extra bedroom and I can have the use of that. I won’t be in the way and it’ll give me time to think. We both think it’ll be for the best.
For how long?
I don’t know. I can’t tell that yet. For as long as it takes.
When?
You mean when am I going?
Yes, when do you plan to leave?
Tomorrow. In the morning. I’ll be taking the car.
You’ll be taking the car. That’s news.
You don’t need it. You have the pickup.
He looked around, out into the little dining room and through the arched doorway into the kitchen. He turned back. And you think this’ll be the answer? Taking off like this?
She regarded him steadily. You know, you make me really tired sometimes.
I guess that goes both ways, he said.
They looked at each other, and it seemed obvious to Guthrie that she was thinking hard, trying to get back to how she wanted this to be. But it wasn’t going to happen. Too much had gone on.
She spoke again. I’m sorry about that for both of us, she said. I’m sorry about a lot of things. And I’ve decided I’m finally tired of being sorry.
He started to speak, but she cut him off.
Let me finish, please.
I was only going to say—
I know. Let me finish. I don’t want to forget this. I want something more than this. I understand that now. I’ve been submerged and abstracted. I wanted something more from you all these years. I wanted someone who wanted me for what I am. Not his own version of me. It sounds too simple to say it that way, but that’s what it is. Someone who wanted me, for myself. You don’t.
I used to, he said. I did once.
What happened to it?