tries to count out loud with him—nineteen, twenty, twenty-one . . .
She has trouble making a sound above a whisper.
Poor Hugh, he does not know what to say—something about a defibrillator only it is too late. His dinner napkin is still hanging from his belt and he only notices it now. Blushing slightly, he pulls it off.
No. He must not call anyone.
Nina ran next door to fetch him just as he and his wife, Nell, are sitting down to their supper in the kitchen. Their dog, an old yellow Lab, stands up and begins to bark at her; upstairs, a child starts to cry. They have two children, one a month old. A girl named Justine. A day or two after Nell came home from the hospital, Nina went over with a lasagna casserole and a pink sweater and matching cap for the baby. How long ago that seems.
Hugh says, Call us any time. Nell and I . . . His voice trails off.
Yes.
Yes, yes, I will.
And call your physician. He’ll have to draw up the death certificate.
Yes, in the morning, I will.
Will you be all right . . . ? Again, his voice trails off.
Yes, yes. I want to be alone.
Thank you.
Thank you, she says again.
She hears the front door shut.
Bradycardia.
The name reminds her of a flower. A tall blue flower.
Iris.
An old-fashioned name.
The name of the woman killed in the car accident. She must have been pretty, Nina imagines. Slender, blonde. Both are young—Iris is only eighteen and he is driving her home after a party, it is raining hard—perhaps Philip has had one drink too many but he is not drunk. No. Around a curve, he loses control of the car—perhaps the car skids, he does not remember; nor did he when the police question him. They hit a telephone pole. Iris is killed instantly. He, on the other hand, is unhurt.
Nina wonders how often Philip still thinks about Iris. Did he think of her before he died? Did he think he might have had a happier life had he married her? In a way, Nina envies Iris. Iris has remained forever young and pretty in his mind while he has only to glance at her and see how Nina’s skin is wrinkled, her hair, once auburn or red—depending on the light—is gray, her breasts have lost their firmness.
Philip spoke of the accident on their honeymoon, on their way to Puerto Vallarta.
I just want you to know that this happened to me is what he says.
It happened also to Iris is what Nina wants to say but does not.
It took me a long time to get over it and come to terms with it is what he also says.
How did you come to terms with it? Nina wants to ask.
It was a terrible thing.
Yes.
Now, I don’t want to think about it anymore, he says.
And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Do you understand, Nina?
Nina said she does but she doesn’t.
What was she like? Iris? she nonetheless asks. She tries to sound respectful. Was she Southern? Iris is such an unusual name.
She was a musician, Philip answers.
Oh. What did she play? The piano?
But Philip does not answer.
When she first arrived in Paris, at the airport, she sees a man, in the immigration line ahead of her, take off his wedding ring and pin it to the lining of his attaché case with a safety pin that he must keep there for that purpose.
What about your wife? she wants to shout.
Sometimes, in her mind, she accuses Philip of losing his wedding ring on purpose.
Her throat is dry; she finds it hard to swallow.
Downstairs, the lights are on. She goes to the hall closet, which is full of coats. Hers, his—a navy blue wool coat, a parka, a down jacket, a raincoat, an old windbreaker. The windbreaker must be twenty-five years old. She remembers how proud Philip was when he bought it. The windbreaker was bright yellow and on sale and, he claimed, would last him a lifetime. He is right. Now the windbreaker is faded, the collar and cuffs are frayed, without thinking about it, she takes it out of the closet and puts it on. Carefully, she zips it up. Her hands go to the pockets. Slips of paper—bills, a to-do list: car inspection, call George about leak in basement, bank, pick up tickets for concert. The list, she recognizes, is several months old; coins, paper clips, a ticket stub are in the other pocket.
She walks into the dining room. The chicken, the new potatoes, the salad are all on the table. Cold, waiting. Nina starts to pick up a dish to put it away and changes her mind. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow she will have plenty of time to put things away, to do the dishes, to do—she cannot think what. Instead, she takes the bottle of wine with the cork stuck inside it. Again, she tries to pull the cork out but can’t. Damn, she says to herself. She goes to the kitchen and gets a knife. With the handle of the knife, she pushes the cork inside the bottle and pours herself a glass of wine.
Still holding the knife, a sharp kitchen knife, she makes a motion with it as if to slit her throat. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dining room mirror, she shakes her head.
What would Louise think?
Holding the glass of wine, she goes back upstairs.
Outside, the sound of a police car siren. From the bedroom window, she sees a blue light flash by in the dark, then rush past the house and disappear. She thinks of the car full of teenagers playing loud music and she imagines it smashed into a tree, the windshield bits of glittering glass as smoke rises from the hood and someone in the backseat screams.
Another siren. Another police car goes by.
Poor Iris, she says to Philip.
Again, the phone rings.
Louise.
Earlier, she left Louise a message. Louise, darling, something has happened. Call me as soon as you can.
Poor Louise.
Philip’s darling.
A beautiful, lively, headstrong young woman who looks like him—tall, dark, with the same gray eyes. Nina must answer the phone.
Hello, she says, picking up the receiver in the bedroom.
Louise?
Whoever it is hangs up.
A wrong number. In the dark, Nina looks for a caller ID on the phone but there is none.
She
