My husband eats with a good appetite. But I don’t think he’s really hungry. He chews, arms on the table, and stares at something across the room. He looks at me and looks away. He wipes his mouth on the napkin. He shrugs, and goes on eating.
“What are you staring at me for?” he says. “What is it?” he says and lays down his fork.
“Was I staring?” I say, and shake my head.
The telephone rings.
“Don’t answer it,” he says.
“It might be your mother,” I say.
“Watch and see,” he says.
I pick up the receiver and listen. My husband stops eating.
“What did I tell you?” he says when I hang up. He starts to eat again. Then throws his napkin on his plate. He says, “Goddamn it, why can’t people mind their own business? Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll listen! I wasn’t the only man there. We talked it over and we all decided. We couldn’t just turn around. We were five miles from the car. I won’t have you passing judgment. Do you hear?”
“You know,” I say.
He says, “What do I know, Claire? Tell me what I’m supposed to know. I don’t know anything except one thing.” He gives me what he thinks is a meaningful look. “She was dead,” he says. “And I’m so sorry as anyone else. But she was dead.”
“That’s the point,” I say.
He raises his hands. He pushes his chair away from the table. He takes out his cigarettes and goes out to the back with a can of beer. I see him sit in the lawn chair and pick up the newspaper again.
His name is in there on the first page. Along with the names of his friends.
I close my eyes and hold on to the sink. Then I rake my arm across the drainboard and send the dishes to the floor.
He doesn’t move. I know he’s heard. He lifts his head as if still listening. But he doesn’t move otherwise. He doesn’t turn around.
Raymond Carver, “So Much Water So Close to Home”
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