Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [102]
“Oh, that’s very nice of her. No, thank you.”
“What if he’s gone a long time? You might need it.”
“No.”
“What if he’s gone through the weekend and it interferes with a puppet show?”
“I’ll cancel it.”
“Or I could come in his place. Why not? I’ll come as Leon.”
“I’ll just cancel.”
They looked at each other. Emily seemed paler than usual. She kept smoothing her skirt, but when she saw him watching she stopped abruptly and folded her hands in her lap. The strain was affecting her, he supposed. She was not accustomed to deceit. Neither was he, really—not to this kind. He wished they could just tell everyone and have done with it. Leon would say, “I understand,” and Morgan could move in and the four of them would be happy as larks, complete at last; they would laugh at how secretive they had been at first, how possessive, how selfish.
There was a blue tinge around Emily’s eyes that gave her a raccoon look.
He stood up and said, “I have to go. Will you see me out?”
“Yes, certainly,” Emily said, and she stood too, smoothing her skirt again with a nervous gesture that wasn’t like her.
They went down the hall, passing the kitchen, where Emily poked her head in and said, “Gina, I’ll be right back.”
“Oh. Okay,” Gina said. She was covered with flour and she looked harassed and distracted.
Morgan took Emily by the hand and led her out the door. But halfway down the stairs they heard footsteps coming up and he let go of her. It was Mrs. Apple in a bushy Peruvian poncho, briskly jingling her keys. “Oh! Emily. Dr. Morgan,” she said. “I was just stopping in to ask about Leon’s father. Is he going to be all right? Have you had any news?”
“Not so far,” Emily said. “Leon said he’d phone me tonight.”
“Well, I know how anxious you must be.”
Morgan leaned against the banister, exasperated, waiting for this to end.
“Oh, but with modern medicine,” Mrs. Apple said, “these things are nothing. A heart attack’s so simple. Everything’s replaceable; they’ll give him a Teflon tube or a battery or something and he’ll go on for years yet. Tell Leon he’ll go on forever. Right, Dr. Morgan?”
“Right,” said Morgan, staring at the ceiling.
If he inched his hand up the banister, he could just touch the back of Emily’s skirt—a slink of cool, slippery cloth with a hint of warmth beneath it. His fingertips rested there, barely in contact. Mrs. Apple didn’t notice. “If he’s not home by tomorrow night,” she was telling Emily, “you and Gina come for supper. Nothing fancy; you know I’m a vegetarian now …”
When she finally let them go, Morgan strode rudely down the stairs and out the door without saying goodbye. Emily had to run to catch up with him. “I can’t abide that woman,” he said.
“I thought you liked her.”
“She repeats herself.”
They walked fast, crossing the street and heading up the block toward Morgan’s pickup. It was a cool, windy night with a white sky overhead. A few people were out on the sidewalk—teenagers hanging around a lamppost, some women on their stoops. When Morgan reached the pickup, he took hold of the door handle and said, “Let’s go someplace.”
“I can’t.”
“Just a short way. Just to be alone.”
“Gina will start wondering.”
He sagged against the door.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“Do?”
He looked at her. She stood with her arms folded, gazing at some fixed point across the street. “I’m thinking of leaving,” she said. “Getting out.”
It must be Leon again. Morgan thought she’d stopped being bothered by all that, by whatever it was … he had never quite understood, although he’d tried. It seemed he kept missing some clue. Were they talking about the same marriage? Emily, what is your problem, exactly? he sometimes wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He leaned against the pickup door and listened carefully, tilting his Panama hat forward over his eyes.
“I’m even packed,” she said, “or half-packed. I’ve been packed for years. This morning I woke up and thought, ‘Why don’t I just leave, then? Wouldn’t it be simpler?