*
And so it went. Twice a week, every week, for twelve weeks. Anna bought a book on Malaysian culture and another on Indian cooking and another on the faith of Tao. Martin came home, tired, old, proud. And Anna told him about the dry cleaner and the tuna salad and the similarities between Judeo-Christian monotheism and the singularity of Allah. But Anna was still sick, and she knew it. She told Martin, but he told her she was just bored. That she should just find more things to do with her day. That her knee was fine and the nausea was normal.
That night she went to bed earlier than early and forgot to leave a towel for his bath or water for his pills and lay propped up in bed beside her almanac. She had purposefully climbed in on Martin’s side of the bed, pretending to be asleep for a whole thirty minutes before she heard him sigh, walk around the bed, and lower his weight inside the cold half of the sheets. Anna pressed her face into her pillow and scrunched up her features. But Martin was snoring before he could feel the blankets shaking slightly up and down.
*
On Tuesday at 7:53 P.M., Anna was fantasizing about choking to death when her phone rang. No one called at this hour. Martin wasn’t home yet, so she hoped it wasn’t someone trying to sell her something; somehow she could never figure out how to hang up on those people. She let it ring a few times just in case it was Martin dialing in his delay—she never answered right away, never wanted to seem like she was waiting.
She picked up. It was the annoying woman who sat at the front desk of Martin’s firm. Occasionally she’d call to say he’d be running late—that there was some meeting or that his car wouldn’t start. Anna hated when she called. She had bad taste in Christmas cards and had let herself get fat.
“Anna, hi, is that you?” She paused. Her voice sounded funny.
“Yes it is. Is Martin running late?”
She didn’t answer.
“Hello? Sorry, can you hear me?” Anna hated the new phones Martin had installed last summer—she never knew quite where she should be talking into.
“Yes, yes, I can. Anna . . .” She paused again. “They told me I should call you . . . better than the police or something. I . . . I really don’t know how to say this. Anna—Martin had a heart attack.”
Anna swallowed.
“Where is he? Which hospital? Last time they took him to Pembrook and he had to stay the night. Is he on that machine yet? Let me—” But the woman interrupted her.
“Anna, I don’t think you understand. It’s not like that this time. He pressed the buzzer and we called 911, but when we got back in there he was . . . they tried . . . Anna, I . . . I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
Anna was silent.
“Oh . . . dear . . . I . . . is anyone else home?”
“No.”
“Anna . . . they did everything, really.”
Silence hung between them for a good ten seconds.
“You have a car, I presume, um, can you get to the hospital?” Anna could feel her throat tightening as the phone began to shake against her face.
“I . . .” Anna swallowed. “I’m not supposed to drive into the city at night.” She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
“All right, um . . .” She heard muffled voices in the background. “We’re sending someone. Sit tight, Anna, I . . . I’m so sorry.”
Anna hung up the phone and stared at her watery steak. Surely there was some mistake. The desk lady was crazy anyway. Martin would drive home in an hour or two, tired, hungry, and homesick. And Anna would make him eggs and lie next to him in bed and read him his papers or his letters or some entries from her almanac. And he would roll over to her side of the bed and stay there forever. Agree to retire for good this time. And then they’d play golf, and cook, and see a show in the city, and she’d read him the scorecard and recipes and the playbill.
Anna pushed her plate away, looking down then up then ahead, her features scrunched and paralyzed in silence. She lifted up her hands, clenching them slowly together. She stood up, walked into the living room, and then walked back to the kitchen. Martin wasn’t dead. He wouldn’t just die like that. People don’t just die like that. She pulled her steak in front of her, swallowing hunks whole, forcing down bites too large for her esophagus. Swallowed and swallowed and swallowed until it was gone. Until she hadn’t choked. Until she couldn’t swallow her throat’s other lump and let her wrinkled face sink to her hands.
Anna walked over to the phone, dialed Sam’s number, and hung up.
*
On Wednesday at 4:42 P.M., Anna knocked on Sam’s apartment door.
“Hi Anna,” said Sam.
Anna looked at him.
“How does your knee feel today?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”
Anna went inside and sat down.
Sam tilted his head slightly and chuckled.
“No tuberculosis or anemia or endometrial cancer?”
“No,” she said. “No, there isn’t.”
Sam put on some tea and handed her his pile.
“I’ve got a lot for you today. Two of those Saint Augustine chapters, and I want you to look at this pile of coupons.”
She read him an advertisement for car insurance.
She read him a sheet of coupons for Walgreens.
She read him a page of Saint Augustine’s philosophy.
Sam’s clicking stopped. He looked toward her as if listening for something, or smelling for something or tasting for something or feeling for something.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Sam stood up from his desk, went into the kitchen briefly, and walked over to her side of the room. Sam never left his side of the room.
“I found this on the chair and I presume it’s yours.” Sam leaned against her chair, handing her a thin beige cardigan. Anna took it from him, careful to avoid meeting his skin.
“Thank you, Sam. I must have left it here.”
Sam wasn’t certain if he was looking directly at Anna’s eyes. He was never certain with her. He could only guess, wonder, speculate until he told himself he was being silly, being egocentric, being sick.
“Anna,” he repeated, reaching out slowly, hesitantly, before placing a hand on her shoulder—exhaling into relaxation as he felt the smooth linen fabric beneath his fingers. “You sure you’re okay?”
Anna nodded, knowing he could somehow sense the motion of her head. Then picked up the book, dislodging his hand.
“I’m fine, Sam. Really.”
She listened to the sound of the tea percolating and thought about their mutual senses; it smells like cinnamon berries, it tastes like honey smoke, it feels warmer today. “Did I ever tell you I could do Black Swan’s thirty-two fouettés en tournant?”
“No.” Sam went back over to his desk and resumed his clicking. “You’ve never told me that, Anna. That’s impressive.”
Then Anna read to Sam. Read to him as he turned her words into a language of spots. A language that she now knew he could read in the steam and in the tea and in the books and in his body. In the painting and the shelves and the music and the air.
Anna brought her mug to the sink before excusing herself to the bathroom. She didn’t let him hear her turn the wrong way—but she knew when she clicked shut the front door that he’d know she’d never be back. Knew because her sagging breasts and varicose veins were covered in cotton. Knew because he could hear her tears spot his book like Braille.