“But you’re home early,” he said.
“I did come home a little early, yes. I told them I’d forgotten something.” She was finished with the dishes; she went back into the living room and sat down in front of the television next to Lisa. The lioness was resting in dry dirt at the foot of an acacia now, yellow sun setting behind her. Peter stayed behind in the kitchen for a moment, thinking, finding compartments into which he might file his questions where they wouldn’t bother anyone until later. But he didn’t go back to them later. They were fine right where they were. If, in the future, he found he had need of them, he’d know where to look.
Irene did not go back to Pastor Brian’s Bible study the following week. She stayed home and cleaned the kitchen and joined the family in front of the TV. There were two ways to think about this development, and it’s hard to blame Peter Sample for picking the easier one, the one that involved a mother wanting to spend time with her family instead of arguing about the Bible at a church down the street. The other possibility seemed improbably dramatic to him. He’d never quit anything in his life. There’s no need to make a big fuss just because you disagree with someone; you stay where you are until things improve, and you do what you can to help things along. It goes without saying and you shouldn’t have to be told. Adherents to this creed usually adopt it when young, and can barely imagine a world beyond it. As creeds go, it’s mild, unpresumptuous, hardly worth repeating. That is its general appeal.
*
In September he’d wondered but by October he was sure: his wife was losing weight. She’d gained a little over the years, mainly after Lisa was born, but all that was gone now; her clothes looked a little big on her. He’d noticed that she usually skipped Sunday dinner now; she said they served a big lunch after services in Council Bluffs—he pictured a big rec room adjacent to a church, flowers on pink tablecloths over round tables with folding legs. It was possible, he knew, that she’d been losing weight for some time; they were so seldom intimate that he had no occasion to consider her body without staring.
Autumn was coming in cold and bracing this year; he slipped his hand into the sleeve of her nightgown one evening after they’d gone to bed. When he tightened his grip around her shoulder blade he could make out its contour against the pads of his fingers. There’d been muscle in that space the last time he’d embraced her.
He was going to kiss her, but he said: “Are you all right?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
He gripped the shoulder blade again, more playfully. “There used to be more of you,” he said; in his tone she could hear him smiling.
“Just getting older,” she said. She kissed him, on the lips.
“You’re only thirty-five,” he said.
“Our bodies change,” she said, her voice gently descending to a depth he’d heard it reach only once or twice in their lives together, he wasn’t sure when and where. She kissed him again; it was dark; he wondered idly if her eyes were closed, whether she meant this or was only taking grave measures to change the subject, and then he kissed her back.
In the morning, after breakfast, he watched while she cleared their plates, letting his gaze dawdle and stray. She was so pretty; she didn’t look as sturdy as she once had, but she would always look strong to him: in the way she pivoted before turning, for example, that carefully calculated grace. Had he not been looking, and had her back not been turned to him, he might have missed the connection. But he watched as she scraped the remnants of his breakfast plate into the scrap bucket—crusts, a few bites of egg white—before starting in on her own, with most of the food still on it. Ham, whole eggs. The ham made a little flop sound when it landed. Had it been Lisa, Irene would have reproached her: You’re wasting food.
She scraped the plate clean with her fork, and fit the lid tightly over the bucket.
*