Chapter 4: Anything You Say Sounds Like Hunger

The car went north out of Iron Harbor with the lake on the left, and the houses on the right thinned out until there was nothing between the road and the water but walls and trees.

Eli rode with his hat on the seat between them and said nothing about the hall, or Pauline, or the four men standing in the sun at the curb. Clara watched the avenue and the turn onto the shore road and gave him nothing else.

“You’ll want to say something about this morning,” she said.

“No.”

He looked out at the water. She looked at the water too, and then at the road, and counted the turns, because a road you have counted is a road you can leave by.

The gate was iron and standing open. The drive was gravel and made the tires loud. The house was long and low and shingled gray, with a screened porch on the lake side, a terrace with chairs on it, a dock, a boathouse, and a flagpole with no flag on it. Whoever built the house had not been planning to leave it in a hurry. One road in and the same road out. She counted the doors: front door, terrace doors, a service door at the side of the house where the kitchen would be.

A woman in a white apron came out onto the step and held the screen door. “It’s set in the dining room, Mr. Kessler. It’s cooler there.”

“Thank you.”

The hall floor had been waxed that morning. The whole house smelled of furniture polish and cut grass and something that had finished baking hours ago. The dining room had windows on three sides, a table with six chairs, and two places set. The woman brought in a platter of cold chicken, a dish of wax beans, potatoes with butter melted over them, and a basket of bread under a napkin. She set everything down. She looked at Eli. He moved his chin about a quarter of an inch, and she went out and pulled the door shut behind her, and in the hall a man’s shoes went away toward the front of the house.

Clara sat down. The chair was heavy; she had to move it with both hands.

Eli sat at the head of the table, opened his napkin, and said, “You wanted to see me.”

She waited until the shoes had stopped. Then she said, “The same thing as last time.”

He turned the fork over once in his fingers. “I’ve been busy. I don’t keep a list of everything I’ve said. Remind me.”

“Mrs. Kessler wants the engagement ended.”

The fork stopped. It was in his hand, above the plate, and it stayed there while the ice settled in the pitcher.

Then he said, “Have something to eat.”

“I’ll agree to it.” She had said it in her head four or five ways on the road and it came out plain. “I’ll agree, and I have one condition. Two gold bars.”

He looked at her. His eyes were brown and did nothing.

“Two gold bars,” he said. “That’s the whole of it.”

“That’s the whole of it.”

“Eat first.”

“Mr. Kessler—“

“Eat first, and then say it again.” He set the fork down. “Right now, anything you say to me I’m going to hear as hunger. So eat, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll hear it properly.”

She took a slice of bread out of the basket and broke it. She ate half of it dry. She did not take the butter. She did not take the chicken, or the beans, or the potatoes, and she set the other half of the bread on the edge of her plate.

“There’s butter,” he said.

“I know there’s butter.”

He ate his lunch. He did not hurry and he did not look at her, and he finished everything on his plate.

When he had finished he wiped his mouth and put the napkin beside his plate. There was still bread in the basket, and half a slice on the edge of her plate, and every other dish stood exactly where the woman had set it.

“I’ve eaten,” Clara said. “Now hear it properly.”

“Not at the table.” He stood. “Come and sit where it’s cool.”

The living room had a sofa, two chairs, a rug with the broom lines still in it, and windows all down one wall. She sat on the sofa. He took the chair, and the light came off the lake and moved on the ceiling over his head.

“Do you agree?” she said.

“No.”

She waited.

“Miss Whitaker, I’ve never once thought about ending it. I’m going to marry you.”

“Why?”

He let the question sit.

“We don’t know each other,” she said. “Those years in Europe, people made assumptions. They thought we were living together. I saw you a handful of times, and half of those in a room with thirty other people in it. I could count them.”

“I know how many times.”

She waited for the rest of it. It did not come.

“That isn’t an answer,” she said.

“It wasn’t meant as one.”

“Then give me one. One reason. Any reason. I’ll take a bad one.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Then pay me and let it end,” she said. “Two gold bars. You’ve heard the price.”

“No.”

She stood. He stood when she did, and went to the door and opened it.

“Tell him to bring the car around,” he said, down the hall. Then, to her: “Do you want coffee before you go?”

“No.”

“It’s already made.”

“I don’t want it.”

He held the door. She went past him. He had his hat in his hand.

The car was at the step. The woman in the apron stood aside in the hall with her hands folded and said, “Ma’am,” and Clara said, “Thank you for lunch,” and meant it.

The gate was open. The car went through it and turned south along the water, and when she looked back through the rear window the house was already small, and the woman was on the step with the tray, carrying the chicken back inside.

She did not turn around again.