The Secret - American Tales

Shirley was standing on a lake shore in a wool sweater and dress pants, a middle-aged woman with soft gray eyes and silver hair. The sun was crested over the trees on the far side of the lake. The sky was pale blue, the color of the diamond in Shirley’s wedding ring, a cold sky, a late September sky. Shirley turned from the lake shore to the lake house, a two-story wood and brick structure ringed by elm trees. The house, with its prominent hardwood deck and large lake-facing windows, towered above the trees.

As Shirley stepped into the house, Bill looked up from the dining room table, an old man with a hard but handsome face and thinning gray hair. He wore a red flannel shirt with a collar, and just above the collar of the shirt on the left side of his neck was a plum-sized lump. “You weren’t in bed,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I went for a walk,” she said, stepping up to the kitchen counter. A skillet, a bowl, and several utensils were in the sink. She ran the faucet to fill a glass with water.

He picked up a newspaper from the table. “You were out all morning,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, shutting off the faucet. She took a sip of water and looked out the small window over the sink.

Bill unfolded the newspaper. “Am I so unbearable?” he asked.

She placed the glass of water on the counter. She walked past Bill into a hallway with four connecting rooms. She entered the last of the four, a large master bedroom. On its walls hung the framed portraits of their children, three girls and a boy, children with their own children. On the bed, the covers lay in a pile, and on top of that pile was Bill’s pillow. It had three small crimson specks on it. She took her purse off the nightstand beside the bed and slung it over her shoulder.

She walked into the dining room and stopped across the table from Bill. “I’m going to the pharmacy,” she said. “I need to pick up a few things.”

He was looking at a sports article in the newspaper. “Have a good time,” he said, not looking up.

“Bill,” she said, “I want you to come with me.”

“We went there last week,” he said, turning the page over.

“I’m not going alone,” she said.

His eyes narrowed on her. “Shirley,” he said. “I’m sixty-five. I’m retired. I don’t want to go to the pharmacy. I want to read my newspaper.”

She walked to the front door and stopped there. She looked over her shoulder at Bill. The newspaper was still in his hands, and he was still sitting at the table. He did not look up. She opened the door, stepped outside, and slammed the door shut.

In the driveway, a silver Buick was parked beside a black motorcycle. Shirley was sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Buick with the seatbelt strapped over her when Bill opened the driver’s side door of the Buick and climbed in. He wore a faded gray baseball hat, and his collar was flipped up to cover the lump on his throat. He did not look at her as he placed the key in the ignition.