part 1 chapter

16

w hen they are least aware that anyone sees — in bed, the tub , the bathroom,

strolling the yard, preparing and eating food—i admit to the guilty pleasure of spying on the

man and woman in my house. at the same time, my conscience torments me. it’s just that i’m

so in need of the company of anyone other than myself that i can’t resist. i was raised to be

modest, and ellen always dowsed the light before we made love regardless of my desire to see

her supple body. but i can’t help myself now.

these people are wanton in their intimate moments. they stride about the bedroom naked

and sleep without any nightclothes. although i’m content with the memory of being enclosed in

ellen’s primordial warmth, i wish we’d allowed ourselves this couple’s freedom. and these

days, vicarious pleasure is the only kind i know.

now in the empty house, mine once again without the weekend people, i recall my times

with ellen. all the touching, until only awareness pulsated—with no word for my wife, no name

for myself. there were no labels, no analysis of what she’d said to me earlier in the day, no

judgments about needs met, or not.

by my reckoning, it has been ninety-two years since anyone has spoken to me. occasionally,

the man or woman will step into my space close enough to brush my arm or face. registering

only a puzzling chill, they move away. in my solitude, i’ve considered how people briefly move

against, or brush by, one another the way cattle in fields establish connections through touch—

and how we are ignorant that this habit keeps us grounded. that is, until those with whom we

are physically intimate are gone.

and where is ellen now? at the age of eighty-five, she’d lived longer than me by eight years.

i never minded the deepening crows’ feet around her eyes, the thickening of her waist, and the

graying of her hair. she was always beautiful in my eyes. after i was beyond her reach, my

heart shattered as i saw her face distorted by joint pain, her mouth dragged down by losses, and

her quick, graceful step become slow and tentative. i witnessed her confinement to bed, heard

her cry out in her sleep—particularly during her last illness. i stroked her forehead and held her

dear hand, but she had no idea of my presence or the comfort i wished to offer. i still seek her at

night. often, i dream that a young tom and ellen embrace in a sunny field, naked bodies

oblivious to the rough terrain and the dampness of the earth. we never lay unclothed in a field.

ellen wouldn’t have allowed it. but in the early days, we tasted this merging. after the dream, i

vainly search to find myself reflected in her luminescent eyes again. why do i never see her here

in our home? why does she appear to me only in this dream?