A Widow for One Year

“Graham, you gotta pick a story you do like,” Hannah said.

/> “Are you getting frustrated?” Graham asked her.

“Me? Never,” Hannah said. “I got all day.”

“It’s night,” the boy pointed out. “The day’s over.”

“How about Madeline in London ?” Hannah suggested.

“Pepito’s in that one, too,” Graham said.

“How about just plain old Madeline, the original Madeline ?”

“What’s ‘original’ mean?” Graham asked.

“The first one.”

“I’ve heard that one too many times,” Graham said.

Hannah hung her head. She’d had a lot of wine with dinner. She truly loved Graham, who was her only godchild, but there were times when he confirmed Hannah’s decision to never have children.

“I want Madeline’s Christmas, ” Graham finally announced.

“But it’s only Thanksgiving,” Hannah said. “You wanna Christmas story on Thanksgiving?”

“You said I could pick any one I wanted.”

Their voices carried downstairs to the kitchen, where Harry was scrubbing the roasting pan. Eddie was drying a spatula by absently waving it in the air. He’d been speaking to Harry on the subject of tolerance, but he appeared to have lost his train of thought. Their conversation had begun with the issue of in tolerance (largely racial and religious) in the United States, but Harry sensed that Eddie had drifted into a more personal area of discussion; in fact, Eddie was on the verge of confessing his intolerance of Hannah, when Hannah’s very own voice, in her dialogue with Graham, distracted him.

Harry knew about tolerance. He would not have argued with Eddie, or with one of Eddie’s fellow citizens, that the Dutch are more tolerant than most Americans, but Harry believed this to be the case. He could sense Hannah’s intolerance of Eddie, not only because (in her view) Eddie was pathetic, and because of the sameness of his infatuation with older women, but also because Eddie wasn’t a famous writer.

There is no intolerance in America that compares to the peculiarly American intolerance for lack of success, Harry thought. And while Harry had no fondness for Eddie’s writing, he liked Eddie a lot, especially because of Eddie’s abiding affection for Ruth. Admittedly, Harry was puzzled by the nature of Eddie’s adoration; the source of it must be the missing mother, Harry guessed—for the ex-cop could tell that what Ruth and Eddie had most in common was Marion’s absence. Her absence was a fundamental part of their lives, like Rooie’s daughter.

As for Hannah, she called for more tolerance than even the Dutchman was accustomed to bestowing. And Hannah’s affection for Ruth was less certain than Eddie’s. Moreover, in the way that Hannah looked at Harry, the former Sergeant Hoekstra saw something too familiar. Hannah had the heart of a hooker—and a prostitute’s heart, Harry knew, was not the proverbial heart of gold. A prostitute’s heart was chiefly a calculating heart. An affection that was calculated was never trustworthy.

It’s not the easiest thing to meet the friends of someone you’ve fallen in love with, but Harry knew how to keep his mouth shut and when to be just an observer.

While Harry set a stockpot to boil on the stove, Eddie inquired of the former policeman what plans he had for enjoying his retirement— for it still puzzled Eddie (and Hannah) as to what Harry might find to do with himself. Would something in law enforcement in Vermont ever interest him? Harry was such an eager yet discriminating reader— might he try to write a novel himself one day? And it was evident that he liked to work with his hands. Would some sort of outdoor job appeal to him?

But Harry told Eddie that he hadn’t retired to look for another job. He wanted to read more; he wanted to travel, but only when Ruth was free to travel with him. And although Ruth was a halfway-decent cook—that was her own description—Harry was a better cook, and he was the one in the family who had the time to do the grocery shopping. Moreover, Harry was looking forward to doing a lot of things with Graham.

It was exactly what Hannah had privately confided to Eddie: Ruth had married a housewife! What writer wouldn’t want to have his or her own housewife? Ruth had called Harry her very own policeman, but Harry was really Ruth’s very own housewife .

When Ruth came in from outside, her hands and face were cold, and she warmed herself by the stockpot, which had begun to bubble.

“We’ll have turkey soup all weekend,” Harry told her.

When the dishes were done, Eddie sat with Ruth and Harry in the living room, where the couple had been married only that morning but where Eddie was given the impression that Ruth and Harry had known each other forever; they would know each other forever, Eddie felt certain. The newlyweds sat on the couch—Ruth sipping her wine, Harry drinking his beer. Upstairs they could hear Hannah reading to Graham.

“That’s how I feel,” Harry said. “Just fine.”

“Me, too,” Ruth said.

“To the lucky couple,” said Eddie O’Hare, toasting them with his Diet Coke.

The three friends raised their glasses. There was the odd, ongoing pleasure of Hannah’s voice, reading to Graham. And Ruth thought again of how lucky she’d been, how she’d suffered only a little misfortune .

Over that long Thanksgiving weekend, the happy couple dined only once more with Hannah and Eddie, their two unhappy friends.