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Show Motherlunge a novel 223 They only ever talked about it once, Walter and Judith. It was when Walter had been working for Judith for ten years or so. He had recently moved out of our family's house into the little farmhouse down the street from the library. It was summer. He was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and reading while moths pelted the light fixture in a stupid and dusty compulsion overhead. Walter lowered the book onto its face. He pushed back from the table and stood up. He hitched up the back of his jeans with one hand and reached for the phone with the other. He dialed Judith's house. Her dog was barking in the background as she picked up. "Standish," Judith had said. "Do you mind?" Walter liked the way she talked to the dog-not in a baby voice, not yelling-but with an appealing weariness. Whatever he said after this point-not that he knew what he was going to say, or even why he had picked up the phone in the first place-he had heard in her voice that she wouldn't be shocked that he had called. "It's me. Walter." Walter said. "Just wondering what you're up to." She'd been reading, too, that night. They talked about what they'd each been reading, and agreed to swap books in a few days. "We could have coffee at 3Bs before work," Walter said. "It's near my new place." "New place?" Judith asked. |
