The return address says “John F. Kennedy.”
“Oh,” I say. “A friend in publishing.” I look up at him. I realize that that hasn’t explained it. “We were talking on the phone last week. He was—People are still talking about where they were when he was shot, and I’ve known my friend for almost ten years and we’d never talked about it before.”
The UPS man is wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. He stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket.
“He wasn’t making fun,” I say. “He admired Kennedy.”
The UPS man crouches, runs his fingers across the grass. He looks in the direction of the garage. He looks at me. “Are you all right?” he says.
“Well—” I say.
He is still watching me.
“Well,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Let’s see what this is.”
I pull up the flap, being careful not to get cut by the staples. A large paperback called
“Were you all right when I pulled in?” he says. “You were sitting sort of funny.”
I still am. I realize that my arms are crossed over my chest and I am leaning forward. I uncross my arms and lean back on my elbows. “Fine,” I say. “Thank you.”
Another car pulls into the driveway, comes around the truck, and stops on the lawn. Ray’s car. Ray gets out, smiles, leans back in through the open window to turn off the tape that’s still playing. Ray is my best friend. Also my husband’s best friend.
“What are you doing here?” I say to Ray.
“Hi,” the UPS man says to Ray. “I’ve got to get going. Well.” He looks at me. “See you,” he says.
“See you,” I say. “Thanks.”
“What am I doing here?” Ray says. He taps his watch. “Lunchtime. I’m on a business lunch. Big deal. Important negotiations. Want to drive down to the Redding Market and buy a couple of sandwiches, or have you already eaten?”
“You drove all the way out here for lunch?”
“Big business lunch. Difficult client. Takes time to bring some clients around. Coaxing. Takes hours.” Ray shrugs.
“Don’t they care?”
Ray sticks out his tongue and makes a noise, sits beside me and puts his arm around my shoulder and shakes me lightly toward him and away from him a couple of times. “Look at that sunshine,” he says. “Finally. I thought the rain would never stop.” He hugs my shoulder and takes his arm away. “It depresses me, too,” he says. “I don’t like what I sound like when I keep saying that nobody cares.” Ray sighs. He reaches for a cigarette. “Nobody cares,” he says. “Two-hour lunch. Four. Five.”
We sit silently. He picks up the book, leafs through. “Pretty,” he says. “You eat already?”
I look behind me at the screen door. Hugo is not here. No sound, either, when the car came up the driveway and the truck left.
“Yes,” I say. “But there’s some cheese in the house. All the usual things. Or you could go to the market.”
“Maybe I will,” he says. “Want anything?”
“Ray,” I say, reaching my hand up. “Don’t go to the market.”
“What?” he says. He sits on his heels and takes my hand. He looks into my face.
“Why don’t you—There’s cheese in the house,” I say.
He looks puzzled. Then he sees the stack of mail on the grass underneath our hands. “Oh,” he says. “Letter from John.” He picks it up, sees that it hasn’t been opened. “O.K.,” he says. “Then I’m perplexed again. Just that he wrote you? That he’s already in Berkeley? Well, he had a bad winter. We all had a bad winter. It’s going to be all right. He hasn’t called? You don’t know if he hooked up with that band?”
I shake my head no.
“I tried to call you yesterday,” he says. “You weren’t home.”
“I went into New York.”
“And?”
“I went out for drinks with some friends. We went to the fireworks.”
“So did I,” Ray says. “Where were you?”
“Seventy-sixth Street.”
“I was at Ninety-eighth. I knew it was crazy to think I might run into you at the fireworks.”
A cardinal flies into the peach tree.
“I did run into Bobby last week,” he says. “Of course, it’s not really running into him at one o’clock at Le Relais.”
“How was Bobby?”
