“All right, then, I take it you don’t want to know the size of the speakers or where Evelyn eventually placed the unit after two deep scratches on the newly varnished floor.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, here’s something that might interest you more. Just as we were hanging up, Mom mentioned that the Doughboys might be selling the Three J’s.”
Shocked, Annie leaned forward. “How could they? It’s an institution.”
For a few seconds, they seethed in mutual silent indignation at the loss soon to be inflicted on their hometown. Annie picked up a business school brochure. Idly she thumbed through the first few pages of the booklet, a whirl of gray suits and shiny briefcases. She stopped at a photograph of students lined up at a salad bar in a graduate-student dining hall. She took in the vats of gleaming red peppers and bright green lettuce leaves, the crusty loaves that looked as if they’d arrived on the overnight plane from Paris. She knew there was no truth in such advertising, that food was as primped and polished and embellished as photoshopped models in magazines. Nevertheless … an idea slowly took shape. Could it work? Would it be possible?
Sam must have been thinking the same thing, because his face assumed a faraway, dreamy look. “The first care package my parents sent to me, freshman year, was a dozen Paul Bunyans. I was the most popular guy on campus for those couple of hours until they were all devoured.”
“I remember. I ate one for breakfast.”
“Who could forget? We could smell the onions for weeks on my futon.”
She smiled. “It didn’t bother us, as I recall.”
“Because we were otherwise occupied.” He smiled back. “Annie, do you really think …?”
“I do,” Annie stated with a conviction that wasn’t completely an act. “Though”—she wagged a cautionary finger—“taking over the Three J’s isn’t going to rank high in the class alumni notes. It’s basically just submarine sandwiches …”
“Which can’t be improved on,” he said. “Which are artisanal in their own essential submarine-ness.”
Annie tilted her chin. “It’s a big step. A huge learning curve.”
“I know.”
“Kind of scary.”
“We’ll have each other.” Sam sat, his head bowed, brow furrowed, fist on chin in classic Rodin position.
Annie waited. She listened to the rustle of papers in carrels, the scrape of books being taken down from shelves and put back. She heard the rumbling wheels of a creaky library cart.
At last, Sam looked up. “The timing of this—right before our wedding, right when we decide to move home. Right when we’re casting around for some kind of work, for some kind of future. It’s got to be a sign.” He put his lips to Annie’s ear. “Let’s do it,” he whispered.
* * *
Later that night, she lies awake, rigid, next to Sam, whose oblivious peaceful breaths in this new nonpeaceful world seem an insult. She remembers a movie she once watched on a sleepless night, a real weepie with Julia Roberts, called Dying Young; she recalls a Modern Love piece in the Sunday Times in which a cancer-ridden wife heartbreakingly offers up her cherished husband to, she hopes, a worthy successor. What should I do? races through Annie’s head. Sam rolls over and tucks his knee into hers.
In the morning she calls Dr. Buckley. “Good girl,” he says, and gives her the name of the best oncologist in Portland. “A woman,” he adds, as if this is a novelty.
“Dr. O’Brien is generally booked up,” she’s told when she reaches the office. “She’s in high demand.” Annie’s given a date three weeks from now and is added to the waiting list in case of cancellation. “Is it an emergency?” asks the nurse.
“Not really,” Annie replies, relieved to be granted a respite, relieved that the word emergency is said in such a routine way. She needs time get her affairs in order, as Dr. Buckley suggested. To prepare Sam. She studies the scribbled telephone number. As soon as she knows what’s ahead, as soon as she meets with Dr. O’Brien, she’ll tell him.
* * *
Now Annie looks at the newspaper folded under the coffee table. She thinks of the husband and wife who held hands every morning at breakfast for seventy years. She considers all the breakfasts she and Sam have shared: the bowls of cereal, plates of poached eggs, glasses of juice. How many more will be allotted to them? she wonders.
“This has been quite a day,” Sam marveled all those years ago as, arms linked, they skipped down the library steps. “Now we’ll have a business to leave to our kids. That is, after we die together at ninety-five, wearing matching aprons and slumped over a salami and a jar of peppercorns.”
Chapter Five
The doorbell chimes. Annie ignores it. She doesn’t feel like a chat with the UPS man or a lecture from the mail carrier about how the postal service is going to hell. She doesn’t want to buy Girl Scout cookies or save the whales or sign a petition for more stop signs. She just wants to stop, stop her world from spinning out of control.
The doorbell keeps buzzing. Three long and two short beeps, followed by an interminable blast. She gets up. Does she feel weak? Dizzy?
Rachel is on the porch, stomping her feet, bundled in parka, hood, scarf, mittens, blowing frosty puffs of air. “It’s about time,” she says. “You can’t hide from me. Spied your coat through the window.”
Once inside, she peels off her layers, hangs everything up in the hall closet, including Annie’s dropped and abandoned coat. She wiggles out of her boots and one pair of the two pairs of socks she’s wearing. These she balls up, then sticks on the tray that holds magazines and catalogs. “I went by the shop to buy Paul Bunyans for dinner. I left them in the car to avoid stinking up your house. Not that the smell isn’t Chanel number five to you.” She slumps onto the sofa. “You’d think Megan would get sick of them. Anyway,” she continues, “Sam said you were doing errands and should be home by now.” She studies Annie, who is standing in the entrance to the living room. “You look frazzled. You really should get a humidifier for that cough. It’s worked wonders for my sinuses.” She unfolds the afghan and tucks it around her legs. “Tea would be nice.”
“I’ll just put on the kettle,” Annie says, not even registering that she’s coughed.
Though Sam originally deduced allergies—mold, dust mites—Annie pooh-poohed his diagnosis. Wasn’t coughing in winter just the same as sweating in summer? Part of the climate, she argued, but she made the doctor’s appointment anyway.
Her mistake.
In the kitchen, Annie pulls out tea bags and sugar. She slices a lemon. She watches for the water to boil. Should she tell Rachel? To unload this burden would be such a relief. Plus, Rachel’s a psychologist. Like doctors and priests, she’s sworn to secrecy.
She pictures how the plot will unfold: She makes her entrance. As the overture to Act One, she performs a crescendo of coughs. She waits a dramatic beat before she stage-whispers I’m dying. Or, rather, I AM dying. Rachel goes suddenly quiet, then emits a single strangled sob; she struggles to assume her social worker’s voice to express words of empathy, all the while trying to hide her own personal shock and dismay.