Page 2

I was halfway down the stairs, when Jim called out from the kitchen, “Maggie, have you seen my keys?” I stayed put, hoping he’d find them, although I knew he wouldn’t. This was a dance we’d been doing for the past nineteen years. The keys were probably on the kitchen counter under the huge pile ofPsychology Todaymagazines. The magazines he never had time to read. The magazines I kept quietly throwing out when he wasn’t looking. I heard him tossing things around, and I knew in his haste he was dumping stuff everywhere. I had to find his keys before the hurricane moved from the kitchen to the living room.

When I walked into the kitchen, Jim looked at me hopefully, as if I’d been sent from the Promised Land to help him. “I can’t find my keys, and I have a client coming in early,” he said, pushing his bangs off his forehead. I sighed as he started looking in the appliances. Did he really think they’d be in the toaster oven? I glanced at the hook near our back door that we’d put in for this exact purpose, but his keys weren’t there. I moved the pile of magazines and handed him his keys. “Thanks,” he said, letting out a huge breath.

“Do you want some coffee before you lose the coffee pot too?” I asked.

“It’s not nice to make fun of an old guy,” he said.

I handed him a cup of coffee and a bagel. He tucked a napkin into the top of his red-striped polo like a bib so he wouldn’t get cream cheese on it. Jim’s hair had almost no gray in it, which pissed me off. Although today I saw a few white hairs peeking through the stubble on his face, which gave me a little satisfaction.

“I forgot to tell you I can’t go to the Marksons’ party next Saturday,” he said. “I made an appointment with a new client.”

“On a Saturday evening?”

“It was the only time he could come in. You can go to the party though.”

“Forget it. I’ll skip it.” I got myself a bagel and sat down to have breakfast with him when his cell phone rang. His ringtone was “Ride of the Valkyries” from his favorite scene inApocalypse Now. I hoped he wouldn’t answer and we could have breakfast together, but that wasn’t the case.

“Hello. …” He listened a moment. “Okay, try to calm down. Just tell me what’s going on. … I know you think she’s stalking you, but she’s your mother, she’s eighty-five, and she’s in a wheelchair. You’ll be safe until our appointment at nine.” He hit the end call button and turned to me.

“What’re you up to today?” He asked this as if I might be hiding some secret, exciting life and today might be a new adventure. Part of me wanted to say I was going to Vegas to lose all our money and start a prostitution ring, but I figured he’d just ask me to pick up his favorite cookies on my way home.

“I’m going to Brooklawn this morning.” How could he not remember that I go visit my dad at his assisted living facility every Tuesday?

“Oh yeah, sorry. I’ve been a little distracted.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s work stuff.” He put his dish on the sink and left his mug on the table, as if he’d forgotten we had a dishwasher.

“I know, but it makes me feel bad when you shut me out. For a while now it’s seemed like your mind is somewhere else, and I keep bringing it up, but nothing changes.”

“You’re right. I’ll try harder, I promise.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if this time he’d hear what I was saying.

Jim picked up his briefcase and went to the hall closet to get his coat. As he put on his gloves, I said, “Gia’s not going to be home tonight. Do you want to try that new gastropub?”

“I don’t know. I might be too tired.” He walked toward the door and put his hand on the knob.

“Has Gia mentioned her new boyfriend to you? I don’t think I like him,” I said, putting his mug to my lips and drinking the last drop of his coffee. Jim’s shoulders drooped as he realized his great escape was going to be held up.

“Can we talk about this later?” he asked.

“Why can’t we talk about it now?”

“I don’t want to get stressed out.”

“I’m stressed. I thought we could share it.”

“You know I don’t like dealing with this kind of stuff before I go to work.”

As a psychologist, Jim listened to his patients and helped them solve their problems, yet I was often left to deal with ours by myself. He’d come home to a place where our problems had been magically fixed.

He kissed me on the lips lightly, so lightly I felt a brush of air and the slight hint of a cinnamon raisin bagel on his breath. He opened the door to the garage and called over his shoulder, “Love you.”

“Love you? Where’s theI?” I said.

“Okay. Love,I.” He was delighted by his comeback.