She lay down on top of the bedspread and looked at the ceiling. What had she been doing twenty-five years ago, right this minute?
WITH THE WEEKEND behind her, Joyce started waiting for the phone to ring. Frank called. A telemarketer called. The mail arrived. She walked with Kathleen. Frank called again. She wrote to Nina. The day passed.
After dark, Joyce drove to Rockport and passed Patrick’s apartment. The windows were dark. She went around the block two more times, but no one was home.
The next day, Kathleen called to say Jack had arrived: her house was in an uproar and she wouldn’t be able to walk. Joyce thought about killing some time at the mall, but in the end she painted the stairwell to the basement. At night, she drove to Rockport, past dark windows, again.
Joyce woke up early the next morning and lay in bed thinking about Kathleen. It was the eighth. Maybe she should go over there.
At seven-thirty the phone rang, and Joyce dove for it.
“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Frank asked.
“No,” Joyce said, catching her breath.
“Look. I’m coming up tonight. I should be there by six.”
“Oh, really?” Joyce said, trying to sound as if it were no big deal.
“We have to talk,” he said flatly.
Joyce felt her stomach drop. How had he found out? She got up and started sweeping the kitchen, even before putting on coffee. She washed all the floors in the house. She called Kathleen, who sounded a little breathless but claimed that Buddy was on his way home. Joyce went to the supermarket and bought too much food, and flowers for the table. She headed outside to clip stray blades of grass at the edge of the driveway. Anything to keep herself occupied.
Joyce was in the shower when Frank arrived, earlier than announced. She found him running his hands over the kitchen walls. “Very professional,” he marveled, pointing at a silky stretch that used to be badly cracked.
“And you even cleaned up the yard. Those lilies you planted will be pretty next summer.”
He looked pasty and exhausted. The stray gray hairs at his temples had multiplied. Joyce kissed his cheek lightly and said, “I’m making pasta.” He smiled but avoided meeting her eyes and reached into the refrigerator for a beer. The kitchen clock ticked overhead. Joyce thought she would scream if he didn’t say something.
“Frank,
what’s going on? What do we have to talk about? I’ve been going nuts since you called.”
“Oh. Sorry I made it sound so dire. Let’s sit.” He lowered himself into a chair.
Joyce ran down the list of possible bombshells. He knows. He’s dumping me. He’s dying of cancer. He’s having an affair.
“First of all, I want to apologize,” Frank said, peeling the label off the beer bottle with his thumb. He was nearly whispering. “I’ve been very distant. I’ve kind of abandoned you this summer.”
“No,” Joyce started, but he gestured for her to stop.
“Just let me get this out. Things are bad at work. Really bad. It turns out that Harlan has a serious drinking problem and Tran wants to move back to San Jose to be near his family. All the potential investors opted out, and I think the company’s going to fold within a week. Maybe two.” He put down his beer.
“I ignored the warning signs, and for a while I thought maybe we could squeak by until the financing came through. I’m sorry, Joyce, but I’ve been working without pay for a few weeks now, hoping it might help. I think we may end up in a real financial bind.”
“It’s okay,” Joyce said softly. “The way you walked in here, I thought you were going to tell me you had a week to live. Or that you were dumping me for a cute programmer chick.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, keeping his eyes on the beer bottle. “The other thing is, I don’t want to keep doing this.”
Joyce felt her face flush. He does know, she thought. He wants a divorce. “Keep doing what?” she asked, trying to sound calm.
“Working in high tech.” He started to talk more forcefully, as though he’d rehearsed this part. “I realized that what I enjoyed the most about my last couple of jobs was teaching people how to do stuff, how to write code, how to program. And the thing I like doing best in the rest of my life is coaching soccer — being around kids.
“I hope you won’t be too upset about this, but I’ve been looking in the help wanteds, and I applied for a job at a junior college outside of Worcester. I’d teach a few programming classes and act as assistant dean in the new technology department they’re starting.
“I had one interview last week, and today they called back for a second one. The pay isn’t so good, Joyce, but I’m . . .” He finally stopped and looked her in the eye. “I can’t go on like this.”
Joyce was so relieved she was afraid she might laugh. She put her hand on his. “You take the job when they offer it. That’ll take care of health insurance, right? I’ll make more money this year. We could even sell this place if we have to.”