When Charles went out and didn't come back, I searched the streets around Inman Square, convinced I would find him and persuade him to return. But though I walked for hours, calling his name, he was nowhere to be seen.
I went home and stayed near the phone, watching dreadful old movies on television, but he never called. That night as I lay in bed I thought I heard him at the door, fiddling with his keys and jiggling the knob, but he did not come in. The next morning, I called his office, and was put through to his voice mail. I left a dignified message, but he didn't call back.
Over the next few days I called each of his closest friends, chatting aimlessly, hoping they would bring up his name, tell me they'd run into him, let me know what he was up to.
As days went by with no word from him, I gradually let go of the idea that he'd return. He's settled in with someone else, I thought. Perhaps he's happy. I packed up the things he'd left behind and tried not to think about him. I went back to work and resumed the parts of my routine that did not involve him.
Then, ten days after he left, I saw a card tacked to the bulletin board at the laundromat. There was a description of him, and a phone number.
I ran home and called the number. He was there, the woman said, I could come by any time. I ran a comb through my hair, changed into the violet silk shirt he'd always liked. Makeup? I needed it, but he hated me to wear makeup. Maybe just a little blusher and some mascara, no lipstick. I made my face up quickly. It looked tawdry; I scrubbed it off.
I hurried out the door, and walked quickly down the street. She lived a good ten blocks away, almost to Central Square. No wonder I hadn't seen him in the neighborhood.
When I got to the address she'd given me, an old woodframe triple-decker, I rang the bell, and someone buzzed me in. I stepped into a small entry-way dominated by a dark staircase with a huge newell post.
"Come on up," said a woman's voice from the second floor. "Sorry about the light."
The apartment door at the second floor landing was ajar. I entered and found myself in a tiny hall.
"Be right there," came a voice from the kitchen. The apartment was overly warm, humid, and filled with the smell of cooking onions.
A small, tidy-looking woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was older than I had expected, and she greeted me with a smile, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Glad you could come so soon," she said. "He's in the livingroom." She gestured to the left. "Go on in. I'll be there in a sec, got something on the stove."
I went into the room she'd indicated, and he was sitting there on a shabby pale-green sofa. He looked up as I came in, but he didn't smile.
"How're you doing?" I asked.
He shrugged. He was grubby and disheveled and thinner than I'd ever seen him, and he'd shaved off his beard. What an odd face he had. I'd never known what was going on under his beard, and his bare face didn't reveal any emotion either.
"May I sit down?"
He grudgingly moved over on the couch. I sat down next to him.
"I've had a rough week and a half," I said. "You don't look so good either."
He shrugged again and looked away.
I was about to say something sharp, but the woman came in from the other room.
"I'm Maura," she said.
"Katherine," I said.
"Nice to meet you. Can't say he's mentioned your name, but it was obvious to me that there was someone somewhere who cared about him very much."
There wasn't much I could say. "It's true."
"Well, I'm so glad you called. I didn't want to just throw him out, but I couldn't really let him stay much longer. After the first couple days, I started putting up cards."
"It was good of you to do that," I said. "To go to the trouble."
She nodded. There was a slightly awkward pause. "Well..." she said. She looked a little embarrassed. "I hate to rush you, but I'm expecting friends...."
"Oh, no problem," I said. "We can go now." I turned to Charles. "Come along, Charles." I thanked her again, and we left.
Walking back in the dark, we didn't say much to one another. I thought he owed me an apology at least, but Charles seemed absorbed in watching his feet as we picked our way down the uneven, badly lit sidewalks, stepping cautiously over tree roots that had pushed up through the bricks.
When we came to my door, he stood passive and motionless while I rummaged in my purse for my keys. "Threw them away, did you?" I asked, a slight edge in my voice. He didn't reply. I found the keys and opened the door.
Inside, he went right to his favorite chair, plopped himself down in it, and picked up that morning's New York Times. I went into the kitchenette and heated up a couple of frozen dinners. We ate in the livingroom, in silence, with the TV on. We watched the news, an old StarTrek episode, and an hour and a half special on the Dick Van Dyke Show. Mary Tyler Moore looked so young, back then. I suppose we all did.
I was happy to have him home and he seemed pleased to be there. It was easy to fall right back into our old habits. We avoided the whole topic of the fight and his leaving and what he did while he was gone. No recrimination, no explanation.
When we went to bed he made love to me, but it wasn't the same as before he left. To be honest, I just couldn't respond at first. But he was persistent, and I let him explore my body with his hands. He seemed curious, as if discovering new topographic features. And I'd never noticed that his feet were so sensitive.
The next day, my friend Barbara came by. "Charles looks so different without his beard," she said."Is he planning to grow it back?"
"We haven't discussed it," I said.
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