*
ONCE WE RETURNED from Anne’s, William and I sat together under blankets, listening to the elm scrape the side of the house, both of us wishing we could light a fire, and berating ourselves for not having stayed at Anne’s beside hers. It was late afternoon, and the snow began to fall, the flakes like pencil shavings or ash, and William suggested we go for a walk.
“At least we’ll be moving,” he said. “We can stay warm that way.”
Neither of us had initiated sex, and I thought I might make a joke about how marriage had so swiftly tamped down the urge, but I did not. I knew it wasn’t getting married that changed things, really. It was my vision of Mary Rae with him in the Silver Streak, and Alice telling me he’d asked Mary Rae to marry him—two things I didn’t know to be true.
We ended up on the deserted campus, and William headed toward his office in Tjaden Hall.
“I have to pick up some things,” he said.
The office proved to be much warmer than the apartment—so warm that William tapped open one of the high windows with the broomstick he kept just for that purpose. He had an old leather couch against one wall, and while he sorted through slides in the light from the desk lamp, I lay down and closed my eyes.
“I’m going to the lab,” he said. “Take a nap if you want.”
Something was bothering me about the office, some smell in the couch’s fabric cushions, something I noted when we walked in, before he’d opened the window and let most of the scent out. It was incense—sandalwood. Del had started burning it as a teenager—little cones she set on saucers, or sticks of it she propped in ceramic holders. I had often opened the windows of our bedroom to let the smell out, it was so strong. She insisted it would help us remember our past lives.
I sat up on the couch. The cold came in from the open window and erased the incense smell. I stood and went to the office door and peered out into the empty hallway. Once, Anne’s office had been at the end—William had shown it to me one day. Her name remained on the door, though a group of graduate students had taken it over. I walked out into the hall and then stepped back into his office. The smell of the sandalwood seemed to have disappeared. I stood looking at the books on his shelf, and then, bored, I tugged on the top desk drawer. It was locked.
I would have expected to find napkins from the Green Dragon, or pens and pencils, or university letterhead. But there was something more important stored there. Despite my promise to myself that as a dutiful wife I wouldn’t pry, I scanned his office, wondering where he might have placed the key. He might have hidden it anywhere—inside or behind books, taped under the shelves themselves. He didn’t carry it with him on his key chain, which held three keys: one to his motorcycle, one to the office, and one to the apartment. It made sense that the desk key would be here in the office. I scanned the spines of the books, and noticed on one of his bookshelves a small tin—a battered thing that struck me immediately as special to him. He’d told me that as a child his mother sold apples, and he collected the money in a tin. I wavered, not sure if I should look, but then I gave in and took it down and pried off the lid. Inside was the key.
I stuck my head out the door to check the hallway, and then unlocked the desk drawer and slid it open. Lying flat, taking most of the space, was a leather portfolio. It was an awkward place to put something like that, and I was intrigued. William still hadn’t shown me any of his new work. I slid the portfolio out and opened it on the desk. I felt a little thrill of surprise. I’d discovered some of his sleep studies.