It

more humorous remarks about whether or not they were taking their vitamin E. Stanley had also stopped mentioning babies, but sometimes, when he didn’t know she was looking, she saw a shadow on his face. Some shadow. As if he were trying desperately to remember something.
Other than that one cloud, their lives were pleasant enough until the phone rang during the middle of Family Feud on the night of May 28th. Patty had six of Stan’s shirts, two of her blouses, her sewing kit, and her odd-button box; Stan had the new William Denbrough novel, not even out in paperback yet, in his hands. There was a snarling beast on the front of this book. On the back was a bald man wearing glasses.
Stan was sitting nearer the phone. He picked it up and said, ‘Hello — Uris residence.’
He listened, and a frown line delved between his eyebrows. ‘Who did you say?’
Patty felt an instant of fright. Later, shame would cause her to lie and tell her parents that she had known something was wrong from the instant the telephone had rung, but in reality there had only been that one instant, that one quick look up from her sewing. But maybe that was all right. Maybe they had both suspected that something was coming long before that phone call, something that didn’t fit with the nice house set tastefully back behind the low yew hedges, something so much a given that it really didn’t need much of an acknowledgment . . . that one sharp instant of fright, like the stab of a quickly withdrawn icepick, was enough.
Is it Mom? she mouthed at him in that instant, thinking that perhaps her father, twenty pounds overweight and prone to what he called ‘the bellyache’ since his early forties, had had a heart attack.
Stan shook his head at her, and then smiled a bit at something the voice on the phone was saying. ‘You . . . you! Well, I’ll be goddamned! Mike! How did y — ‘
He fell silent again, listening. As his smile faded she recognized — or thought she did — hi s analytic expression, the one which said someone was unfolding a problem or explaining a sudden change in an ongoing situation or telling him something strange and interesting. This last was probably the case, she gathered. A new client? An old friend? Perhaps. She turned her attention back to the TV, where a woman was flinging her arms around Richard Dawson and kissing him madly. She thought that Richard Dawson must get kissed even more than the Blarney stone. She also thought she wouldn’t mind kissing him herself.
As she began searching for a black button to match the ones on Stanley’s blue denim shirt, Patty was vaguely aware that the conversation was settling into a smoother groove — Stanley grunted occasionally, and once he asked: ‘Are you sure, Mike?’ Finally, after a very long pause, he said, ‘All right, I understand. Yes, I . . . Yes. Yes, everything. I have the picture. I . . . what? . . . No, I can’t absolutely promise that, but I’ll consider it carefully. You know that . . . oh? . . . He did? . . . Well, you bet! Of course I do. Yes . . . sure . . . thank you . . . yes. Bye –bye.’ He hung up.
Patty glanced at him and saw him staring blankly into space over the TV set. On her show, the audience was applauding the Ryan family, which had just scored two hundred and eighty points, most of them by guessing that the audience survey would answer ‘math’ in response to the question ‘What class will people say Junior hates most in school?’ The Ryans were jumping up and down and screaming joyfully. Stanley, however, was frowning. She would later tell her parents she thought Stanley’s face had looked a little off-color, and so she did, but she neglected to tell them she had dismissed it at the time as only a trick of the table –lamp, with its green glass shade.
‘Who was that, Stan?’
‘Hmmmm?’ He looked around at her. She thought the look on his face was one of gentle abstraction, perhaps mixed with minor annoyance. It was only later, replaying the scene in her mind again and again, that she began to believe it was the expression of a man who was methodically unplugging himself from reality, one cord at a time. The face of a man who was heading out of the blue and into the black.
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘No one,’ he said. ‘No one, really. I think I’ll take a bath.’ He stood up.
‘What, at seven o’clock?’
He didn’t answer, only left the room. She might have asked him if something was wrong, might even have gone after him and asked him if he was sick to his stomach — he was sexually uninhibited, but he could be oddly prim about other things, and it wouldn’t be at all unlike him to say he was going to take a bath when what he really had to do was whoops something which hadn’t agreed with him. But now a