Epilogue
No Longer Strangers
She knew he was awake before he moved.
It was a quarter past six on a Sunday morning, in the middle of April, and it was raining. It had been raining since Thursday. It came down on the roof of the narrow house on Lincoln Street in a long soft patient hush, and ran along the gutter, and dripped from the maple outside the bedroom window onto a tin watering can that somebody had left on the sill. The room was gray and warm. The quilt smelled of dog. She lay on her side with her face half in the pillow and her eyes shut, breathing slowly, in and out, and listened to a man pretend that he was still asleep.
He was not good at it.
He had a tell. It was a very small one. When he slept properly, his breath went down into his chest and came up long and uneven, with a catch at the top, like a person climbing stairs. When he was awake, he breathed through his nose, evenly, in a rhythm that was just a shade too regular. It was a sound a man makes when he is trying not to wake someone.
He's counting, she thought.
In for four. Out for four.
She smiled into the pillow.
The mattress dipped. A bare foot touched the floor. She heard him stand, with the stiff cautious creak of a man who had once fallen off a paddleboard, and cross the room in three steps, stepping over the board that squeaked. She heard the door. She heard, a good deal later, the sound of a kettle, and a small thud, and a low word that was probably ow, and the faint scratch and sigh of an old dog getting off a rug.
She did not open her eyes.
It was a thing she did. She had done it for nearly two years, on Sundays, and he had never once called her on it. He thought she did not know that he was bringing it. He thought it was a surprise. And she lay there in the gray light, in the narrow bed, in the little house with the green door that they had bought in the fall, and let him have it, with her heart so full that it hurt.
It took eleven minutes.
She heard him come back. She heard the careful tread, and the clink of a cup against a saucer, and the soft tick, tick of three claws and a wooden peg on the floorboards. She felt the bed take his weight. She felt a hand, warm, and a little rough, smoothing a strand of hair away from her face and tucking it behind her left ear.
"I know you're awake," said Daniel.
"I'm not."
"You've got a face."
"I haven't."
"You've got the little thing. At the corner. It goes up." He was grinning. She could hear it. "I've been watching you pretend to sleep since you were a, since you were twenty-eight."
"I'm thirty."
"You're thirty-one in July."
"Don't say that."
"It's a very nice age."
"It's a horrible age."
"I'll be there," said Daniel. "I'll be thirty-three. We can be a pair of horrible old people together."
She opened one eye.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed in a gray sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow, and the green light from the window was on his hair, which stood up at the back. He had not shaved. There was a small, fresh, shiny red scar across the knuckle of his right hand, where he had caught it on a bicycle chain on Thursday, and a plaster that said Bear Misses the Sun. He was holding a blue mug in both hands. It had a chip. It steamed.
She looked at it.
"It's too sweet," she said.
"It's not too sweet."
"You've put cinnamon in."
"A bit."
"You always put in too much."
"I'm working on it."
"It's been two years."
"I've got to be consistent," said Daniel. "It's a man's got to have a flaw."
She took the mug.
It was hot. It smelled of clove, and cinnamon, and a dark thread of tea. She drank. It was exactly too sweet. It was too hot, and too spiced, and had in it, at the very bottom, in a long clear golden coil, the thick clean taste of a spoonful of honey. She held it in her mouth. She swallowed. A warmth went all the way down.
"It's perfect," said Sarah.
"It's adequate."
"It's the best one I've ever had."
"You say that every Sunday."
"It's true every Sunday." She sat up. She pulled the quilt round her shoulders, and tucked her feet under her, and leaned her head against the wall. The little old beagle climbed up the side of the bed, with an air of immense endurance, and flopped across her lap with a long wheezing groan. He was six. He had gone gray round the muzzle. He had hated the rain for fourteen months, and complained about it, steadily, in a tone of dignified bitterness, and in all that time had not once failed to be in the way whenever somebody put on a coat. "Good morning, sir."
The dog sighed.
"He says it's too early."
"He says it's always too early."
"He's right." Daniel lay back. He put his head on her knee, beside the dog's, and looked up at the ceiling, where a long damp crack in the plaster ran across the corner in the shape of a river. They had been meaning to fix it. They had been meaning to for eighteen months. "Sunday Talk?"
"Sunday Talk."
"You first."
"No. You."
"I went first last week."
"You went first the week before."
"I'm shy."
"You're a coward."
"I'm a very brave coward," said Daniel. "I've got a diagram."
She laughed.
She put her hand in his hair. It was thick, and soft, and a little damp, and it stuck up under her palm. She looked down at him, at the long, untidy, beloved face, with the lines at the corners of the eyes, and the slightly crooked nose, and the plaster on the hand, and thought, as she did at least once a week, with undiminished astonishment: he's mine.
I got to keep him.
It was not a thing she said. She had learned that there were some things you did not say. But they lay there, in the gray light, for a long peaceful moment, a man and a woman and a dog, in a narrow bed, in the rain, not talking. It was a very comfortable silence. It was the kind that you could put your whole weight on.
"I'm happy," said Sarah.
"Is that the talk?"
"It's a part of it."
"What's the other part?"
"I'm a little bit afraid."
He did not move.
"Not the old kind," she said. "I checked. I looked all over. It's not the, it's not the hand. It's only that I'm, I like it so much. And I think, what if. And then I think, no. It's allowed." She smiled. "I think that's the whole of it. It's allowed to be this good. I keep forgetting. And then I remember. And I tell you."
"Thank you."
"Is that all?"
"It's perfect," said Daniel. "It's the best one yet." He took her hand, and kissed the palm. "Mine's smaller."
"Go on."
"I broke your mug."
"What?"
"On Thursday. The white one. The library one, with the. I dropped it. In the sink. I was going to buy another. I looked everywhere. They don't make them." He had gone red to the ears. "I glued it. It's on the shelf. It's got a crack. It's hidden behind the, you can't tell, if you turn it."
She stared at him.
"It says Gus said twenty minutes," she said.
"I know."
"It says He lied."
"I know."
"It's the most important object in this house."
"I know. I'm so sorry."
"Daniel."
"Yes?"
"Show me," said Sarah.
He got up. He went to the shelf in the corner, by the window, and took down a white mug, and carried it back with both hands, like a man bearing a small injured bird. He sat. He held it out. She took it. It was ordinary, large and plain, with its black letters. The handle had been put back on with a bead of clear glue, a little crooked, and a long thin line ran from the rim to the base, sealed, visible, like a vein.
She turned it in her hands.
She looked at it for a very long time. She thought of a shelf behind a library desk, and a stapler, and a woman with a long dark braid who had turned it, once, to face the wall, and then turned it back. She traced the crack with her thumb.
"I like it better," she said.
"You what?"
"I like it better like this." She was smiling, with her eyes wet. "It's got a, it's been through something."
"It looks like a hat."
"It looks like a bowl," said Sarah. "It's got a lean."
They did the crossword at eight.
They did it as they always did, in the little kitchen at the back, at a table that wobbled, with a pot of tea between them, and the rain on the window, and a plate of toast that nobody had finished. He had a pencil. She had a pen. It was the Sunday one, the big one, with a theme. She did it in order, quickly, with her tongue between her teeth. He did it in pieces, jumping about, muttering. When she wrote something wrong, in ink, she looked at it, and sighed, and he held out the pencil, and she took it, and wrote over it, lightly, and said, "Don't say anything."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You've got a face."
"I've got the face."
"It's the smug one."
"I'm not smug. I'm proud," said Daniel. "It's a different, it's a different muscle."
She threw a crust at him.
It was nine when somebody knocked on the door. It was a small, hesitant, uncertain sort of knock. It came again. They looked at each other. The dog, on the rug, lifted his head, and gave a low mournful whuff, and went back to sleep.
"Who's that?" said Sarah.
"I don't know."
"It's Sunday."
"It's nine."
"Are we expecting a person?"
"We are expecting nobody," said Daniel, and went to the window, and looked out, through the dripping glass. "It's, there's a van. Across the road. It's been there since eight. It's a rental. It's got a, there's a couple. Unloading boxes."
"The Hendersons' house?"
"They've sold. It's been empty since February." He turned. His face had gone soft. "It's a young man. He's got, they're both young. They've got a lot of, he's trying to carry a lamp and a plant at the same time. And a woman's standing on the porch, with her arms folded, looking at him."
"Is she angry?"
"She's laughing." He looked again. "They've dropped the lamp."
"Oh, no."
"It's all right. It's a, the shade's gone, but it's, they're both on the grass. They're laughing so hard, they can't." He stopped. "Sarah."
"Yes?"
"They look like they've never met anyone."
She came to the window.
She stood beside him, in her gray sweater, with her hand on his arm. The rain had thinned to a fine bright mist. The street was shining. Across the road, on the wet grass in front of a green-shuttered house, a young man in a blue raincoat was kneeling, with a broken lamp in his lap, and a young woman was sitting on the steps, with a cardboard box on her knees, and her face in her hands. They were both shaking. They did not look like people with a plan. They looked like two whole strangers, who had been put in a van together, and driven a long way, and set down in an unfamiliar place, and had only just realized how little they knew.
"They're so new," said Sarah.
"Yes."
"They don't know where the, they've never seen the, nobody's told them about the pharmacy, or the, they don't know that it rains in April."
"They'll find out."
"They'll want a thing." She had gone quiet. "They'll want to be told it's, they'll want someone to say."
"Say what?"
"That it's going to be all right."
He did not answer.
She turned. She went to the cupboard by the stove, and took down a box. It was a plain one, of cardboard, with a picture of a sheaf of wheat. She opened it. She took out a sleeve of crackers, in plastic, plain and salted, and held it for a moment in her hand.
"What are you doing?" said Daniel.
"I keep them in my bag. For story hour." She looked up. "There's always a child who forgets to eat."
"Oh."
"I think they're hungry."
"They might not like crackers."
"Everyone likes crackers."
"I don't think that's, they might think we're strange."
"We are strange," said Sarah. "We're the strangest people on the street." She was smiling. She took her coat from the hook. She put it on. She picked up a jar from the shelf, a small one, with a hand-lettered label, and tucked it into her pocket. It was honey. It was clover, from a farm near Dunmore, and it had come in the post in a box from a man in an apron, who sent one every Christmas, with a note. Not sugar. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Across the road."
"Now?"
"Now." She held out her hand. "Come here."
He took it.
They stood at the door, the two of them, in their coats, on a Sunday morning, with a dog at their feet and the smell of toast and tea behind them. She had her fingers laced in his. She could feel the pulse in his wrist, very steady, going on, as it had gone on under her ear on a hundred nights. She opened the door.
The cool wet air came in. It smelled of cut grass and rain. A bird was singing, somewhere in the maple.
On the grass across the road, the young man looked up. He saw them. He stood, hurriedly, with the lamp in his arms, a tall, awkward, startled figure, with a good deal of wet brown hair. He looked at them as one looks at two people who have come out of a house in a strange city. He seemed about to apologize.
"Hi," said Daniel.
He had a way of saying it. It was low, and warm, and a little embarrassed, with the faintest rueful smile in it, and it carried across the road in the stillness like a hand held out.
"Hi," said the young man. "I'm, sorry. We're, we've just moved in. We're making a, I broke your, I think I've broken a, this is a lamp."
"It's a good lamp."
"It's in two pieces."
"We can fix it," said Daniel. "I'm good with a screwdriver."
"Are you?"
"I'm a science teacher."
"Oh," said the young man, and went pink, and burst into helpless laughter, and the woman on the steps looked up. She had a round, freckled, friendly face, and dark curls, and eyes that were red from laughing. She looked at the two of them, and the dog, and the tall man with a plaster on his hand, and the small one beside him, in a coat, with her hair coming down.
"I'm Sarah," said Sarah.
She crossed the road.
She did it slowly. She went across the shining asphalt, with her husband's hand in hers and a three-legged dog following at her heel, and the rain falling lightly on her hair. She did not hurry. She did not look back. At the edge of the grass, she stopped, and drew out a small plastic sleeve from her coat pocket, and held it out to the woman on the steps, across the little space between them, without looking up.
"You must be hungry," she said.
The woman stared at it.
"It's only crackers," said Sarah. "I hope that's, I always carry them. They're plain."
"Oh," said the woman. "Oh. That's, thank you. That's so kind."
"It's nothing."
"We haven't eaten since, I think it was Ohio."
"Then you'll want the honey."
"The what?"
"I've got honey." She took out the jar. She put it in the woman's hand. "It's from a man we know. It's for tea. It's very good. It's not sugar."
The woman looked at the jar. She looked at Sarah. And then, suddenly, with no warning, her face crumpled, and she put her hand over her mouth, and a tear ran down her cheek, and she gave a small, helpless, embarrassed laugh.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know why I'm. We've been in a car for three days. We don't know a soul. And you just, and you came out."
"It's the least we can do."
"I'm Emma."
"Hello, Emma."
"That's Tom."
"Hello, Tom," said Sarah. She turned to the young man, and held out her hand. He took it, in a lamp-smudged grip, and she shook it, firmly, and warmly, with a smile. "This is Daniel. He's my husband. He'll fix your lamp. I'm a librarian. If you need a book, I've got a, you'll want the one about the bear."
"What bear?"
"It's about winter," said Daniel, behind her. "It's very sad. But in a hopeful way."
They all laughed.
It rang out over the wet grass, clear and bright, in the thin April light, four voices and one old dog's bark, and a bird in the maple joined in. Across the road, in the window of a narrow house, a white mug stood on a shelf, with a crack in it, and the sun, which had been trying all morning to come through, found a gap in the cloud and fell straight across it, and lit the black letters, one at a time.
GUS SAID TWENTY MINUTES.
(He lied.)
It was a very small thing. It was only a joke. It had begun, once, on a rainy Thursday in a plastic chair, between two people who did not know each other's names, and had grown, and changed, and carried a great deal. It had been a way of saying it's taking longer than anyone said. It had been a way of saying I know. It had been, for two years, in a hundred small rooms, a way of saying I'm still here. And now, quietly, in the last of the rain, it had become something else.
It had become a thing you could say to a stranger.
It's going to be all right, it said. It's going to take longer than they told you.
We'll wait with you.
Sarah put her hand in her husband's, and the other, lightly, on the arm of a young man holding a broken lamp, and stood on the wet grass in the morning, in the shining street, in a small town in a big green country, and thought that she had never in her life been so entirely at home.
They were no longer strangers.
They had never been perfect, either. That was the point. They had only been, once, a very long time ago, two people in a room, with a fish on the television, and half a packet of crackers between them, and everything still to learn.