The phone rang not two minutes later. Nathan was sitting right beside it, and picked it up on the second ring.
“Nathan?” A familiar man’s voice.
“Yes, this is Nathan.”
“Marvin LaPlante.”
“Marvin. How have you been? I owe you an apology. I’ve really been remiss, I’m afraid. Not calling or writing to thank you for giving the boy a chance. I guess I thought maybe it would be more diplomatic to wait and see how things panned out. I hope that’s not being too pessimistic.”
Silence on the line. Then, “Actually, that’s what I was calling about, Nathan. I just wanted to say I was sorry. That things didn’t work out better. With your boy.”
“Oh, no. He lost that job?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No. When did it happen?”
“Week before last,” Marvin said. “I had no idea you didn’t know. He started calling in sick on Wednesdays. Always that same day. Seemed a little odd. He didn’t seem sick when he came in the next day, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But then the third Wednesday he called in, one of the delivery drivers saw him downtown. So, I hope you understand. I had no choice but to let him go.”
“Of course I understand, Marvin. I never meant for you to show him any deferential treatment.”
“I’m just sorry I ended up being the one to break it to you. I figured by now you would know.”
“Yes,” Nathan said. “You would think so. Wouldn’t you?”
? ? ?
A few minutes after Nathan hung up the phone, Eleanor came through to the living room. She took one look at him, sitting on the couch by himself, staring at nothing.
“Nathan, my goodness,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
It surprised and disappointed him. He had made a firm decision to keep his thoughts and reactions to himself. And somehow, in the empty room, before Eleanor had arrived, he had assumed he was succeeding.
“Nothing at all,” he said.
She turned to go without comment.
But Nathan thought better of his words immediately. As soon as they came out of his mouth he knew they were in serious error. No happy marriage was, in his estimation, ever based on thoughtless, automatic untruths and exclusions. And the best way to make someone unhappy, if not downright unbalanced, is to tell her that what she sees with her own eyes is not there at all.
“Eleanor,” he said, and she stopped. “I’m sorry. I said that without thinking. It’s just some trouble with Nat.”
She came closer. Sat beside him on the couch. Put her hand on top of his. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Please don’t be offended if I say no. It’s just my answer for the moment. It’s not that I don’t want to share such things with you. It isn’t even really to say there’s anything at all I wouldn’t share with you. It’s just that I want to hear Nat’s version of events before my own theories get blown too far out of proportion.”
“I understand,” she said. And kissed his cheek.
“Do you really?” he asked as she rose to leave.
“Of course.”
“You’re a good woman, Eleanor.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
“You are.”
She brushed his words away with a wave of her hand and disappeared back into the kitchen.
? ? ?
Nathan pulled his battered old dictionary down from its resting spot on the living room bookcase.
He sat in his favorite chair, the book open in his lap. Put on his reading glasses.
Taking his good silver pen out of his pocket, he opened the drawer of the end table and found his engraved leather case of notation cards, each card embossed with his name.
He looked up his word, then made a note on a card in his most careful penmanship:
Forthcoming (adjective)
1) Frank. Candid and willing to cooperate.
2) (of a person) Open and willing to talk.
He closed the dictionary, returned it to its rightful place on the shelf, and left the note card in the middle of the pillow on Nat’s bed.
? ? ?
Nathan stood at his dresser, emptying his pants pockets before bed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and felt dismayed about how angry he still looked. Nathan had never liked anger. It seemed a barbaric and undignified emotion. He knew it always masked fear or hurt, and had often wished everyone could simply be sensible enough to cut out the middleman.
He caught his own eyes again in the mirror.
Was he hurt?
Behind his reflection he saw Eleanor removing the pillow shams and turning down the bed. She looked up and noticed.
“You didn’t close the door,” she said. “You always close the door.”
“I thought Nat might have something to say to me before bed.”
At least, he hoped it would be before bed. He hoped he didn’t have to sleep on all of this turmoil all night.
A mere second later Nathan heard a preposterously soft knock. He looked up to see Nat standing respectfully outside the bedroom doorway with his tail between his legs, figuratively speaking, and the note card quite literally clutched in his hand.
“Yes, Nat?” Nathan asked, in a voice that betrayed his anger.
“Maybe I could talk to you? You know. Alone.”
“All right. We’ll take this in the living room.”
? ? ?