At twenty-seven, Anna is the oldest. With black hair and dark eyes, her looks reflected her saturnine personality growing up. She was a brooder who spent her teenage years locked in her room, listening to gloomy music and writing in a diary. She was a stranger to me back then; days might pass before she would say a single word in my presence, and I was at a loss to understand what I might have done to provoke this. Everything I said seemed to elicit only sighs or shakes of her head, and if I asked if anything was bothering her, she would stare at me as if the question were incomprehensible. My wife seemed to find nothing unusual in this, dismissing it as a phase typical of young girls, but then again, Anna still talked to her. Sometimes I’d pass by Anna’s room and hear Anna and Jane whispering to each other; but if they heard me outside the door, the whispering would stop. Later, when I would ask Jane what they’d been discussing, she’d shrug and wave a hand mysteriously, as if their only goal were to keep me in the dark.
Yet because she was my firstborn, Anna has always been my favorite. This isn’t an admission I would make to anyone, but I think she knows it as well, and lately I’ve come to believe that even in her silent years, she was fonder of me than I realized. I can still remember times when I’d be perusing trusts or wills in my den, and she’d slip through the door. She’d pace around the room, scanning the bookshelves and reaching for various items, but if I addressed her, she’d slip back out as quietly as she’d come in. Over time, I learned not to say anything, and she’d sometimes linger in the office for an hour, watching me as I scribbled on yellow legal tablets. If I glanced toward her, she’d smile complicitly, enjoying this game of ours. I have no more understanding of it now than I did back then, but it’s ingrained in my memory as few images are.
Currently, Anna is working for the Raleigh News and Observer, but I think she has dreams of becoming a novelist. In college she majored in creative writing, and the stories she wrote were as dark as her personality. I recall reading one in which a young girl becomes a prostitute to care for her sick father, a man who’d once molested her. When I set the pages down, I wondered what I was supposed to make of such a thing.
She is also madly in love. Anna, always careful and deliberate in her choices, was highly selective when it came to men, and thankfully Keith has always struck me as someone who treats her well. He intends to be an orthopedist and carries himself with a confidence that comes only to those who’ve faced few setbacks in life. I learned through Jane that for their first date Keith took Anna kite flying on the beach near Fort Macon. Later that week, when Anna brought him by the house, Keith came dressed in a sports coat, freshly showered and smelling faintly of cologne. As we shook hands, he held my gaze and impressed me by saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lewis.”
Joseph, our second-born, is a year younger than Anna. He’s always called me “Pop,” though no one else in our family has ever used that term, and again, we have little in common. He’s taller and thinner than I, wears jeans to most social functions, and when he visits at Thanksgiving or Christmas, he eats only vegetables. While he was growing up, I thought him quiet, yet his reticence, like Anna’s, seemed directed at me in particular. Others often remarked on his sense of humor, though to be honest, I seldom saw it. Whenever we spent time together, I often felt as if he were trying to form an impression of me.
Like Jane, he was empathetic even as a child. He chewed his fingernails worrying about others, and they’ve been nothing but nubs since he was five years old. Needless to say, when I suggested that he consider majoring in business or economics, he ignored my advice and chose sociology. He now works for a battered women’s shelter in New York City, though he tells us nothing more about his job. I know he wonders about the choices I’ve made in my life, just as I wonder about his, yet despite our differences, it’s with Joseph that I have the conversations that I always wished to have with my children when I held them as infants. He is highly intelligent; he received a near perfect score on his SATs, and his interests span the spectrum from the history of Middle Eastern dhimmitude to theoretical applications of fractal geometry. He is also honest—sometimes painfully so—and it goes without saying that these aspects of his personality leave me at a disadvantage when it comes to debating him. Though I sometimes grow frustrated at his stubbornness, it’s during such moments that I’m especially proud to call him my son.
Leslie, the baby of our family, is currently studying biology and physiology at Wake Forest with the intention of becoming a veterinarian. Instead of coming home during the summers like most students, she takes additional classes with the intention of graduating early and spends her afternoons working at a place called Animal Farm. Of all our children, she is the most gregarious, and her laughter sounds the same as Jane’s. Like Anna, she liked to visit me in my den, though she was happiest when I gave her my full attention. As a youngster, she liked to sit in my lap and pull on my ears; as she grew older, she liked to wander in and share funny jokes. My shelves are covered with the gifts she made me growing up: plaster casts of her handprints, drawings in crayon, a necklace made from macaroni. She was the easiest to love, the first in line for hugs or kisses from the grandparents, and she took great pleasure in curling up on the couch and watching romantic movies. I was not surprised when she was named the homecoming queen at her high school three years ago.
She is kind as well. Everyone in her class was always invited to her birthday parties for fear of hurting someone’s feelings, and when she was nine, she once spent an afternoon walking from towel to towel at the beach because she’d found a discarded watch in the surf and wanted to return it to its owner. Of all my children, she has always caused me the least worry, and when she comes to visit, I drop whatever I’m doing to spend time with her. Her energy is infectious, and when we’re together, I wonder how it is I could have been so blessed.
Now that they’ve all moved out, our home has changed. Where music once blared, there is nothing but stillness; while our pantry once shelved eight different types of sugared cereal, there is now a single brand that promises extra fiber. The furniture hasn’t changed in the bedrooms where our children slept, but because the posters and bulletin boards have been taken down—as well as all other reminders of their personalities—there is nothing to differentiate one room from the next. But it was the emptiness of the house that seemed to dominate now; while our home was perfect for a family of five, it suddenly struck me as a cavernous reminder of the way things ought to be. I remember hoping that this change in the household had something to do with the way Jane was feeling.
Still, regardless of the reason, I couldn’t deny that we were drifting apart, and the more I thought about it, the more I noticed how wide the gap between us had become. We’d started out as a couple and been changed into parents—something I had always viewed as normal and inevitable—but after twenty-nine years, it was as if we’d become strangers again. Only habit seemed to be keeping us together. Our lives had little in common; we rose at different hours, spent our days in different places, and followed our own routines in the evenings. I knew little of her daily activities and admitted to keeping parts of mine secret as well. I couldn’t recall the last time Jane and I had talked about anything unexpected.
Two weeks after the forgotten anniversary, however, Jane and I did just that.
“Wilson,” she said, “we have to talk.”
I looked up at her. A bottle of wine stood on the table between us, our meal nearly finished.
“Yes?”
“I was thinking,” she said, “of heading up to New York to spend some time with Joseph.”
“Won’t he be here for the holidays?”
“That’s not for a couple of months. And since he didn’t make it home this summer, I thought it might be nice to visit him for a change.”
In the back of my mind, I noted that it might do us some good as a couple to get away for a few days. Perhaps that had even been the reason for Jane’s suggestion, and with a smile, I reached for my wineglass. “That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “We haven’t been to New York since he first moved there.”
Jane smiled briefly before lowering her gaze to her plate. “There’s something else, too.”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s just that you’re pretty busy at work, and I know how hard it is for you to get away.”
“I think I can clear up my schedule for a few days,” I said, already mentally leafing through my work calendar. It would be tough, but I could do it. “When did you want to go?”
“Well, that’s the thing . . . ,” she said.
“What’s the thing?”
“Wilson, please let me finish,” she said. She drew a long breath, not bothering to hide the weariness in her tone. “What I was trying to say was that I think I might like to visit him by myself.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
“You’re upset, aren’t you,” she said.
“No,” I said quickly. “He’s our son. How could I get upset about that?” To underscore my equanimity, I used my knife to cut another bite of meat. “So when were you thinking about heading up there?” I asked.
“Next week,” she said. “On Thursday.”
“Thursday?”
“I already have my ticket.”
Though she wasn’t quite finished with her meal, she rose and headed for the kitchen. By the way she avoided my gaze, I suspected she had something else to say but wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. A moment later, I was alone at the table. If I turned, I could just see her face in profile as she stood near the sink.
“Sounds like it’ll be fun,” I called out with what I hoped sounded like nonchalance. “And I know Joseph will enjoy it, too. Maybe there’s a show or something that you could see while you’re up there.”
“Maybe,” I heard her say. “I guess it depends on his schedule.”
Hearing the faucet run, I rose from my seat and brought my dishes to the sink. Jane said nothing as I approached.
“It should be a wonderful weekend,” I added.
She reached for my plate and began to rinse.
“Oh, about that . . . ,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I was thinking about staying up there for more than just the weekend.”
At her words, I felt my shoulders tense. “How long are you planning to stay?” I asked.
She set my plate off to the side.
“A couple of weeks,” she answered.
Of course, I didn’t blame Jane for the path our marriage seemed to have taken. Somehow I knew I bore a greater portion of the responsibility, even if I hadn’t yet put together all the pieces of why and how. For starters, I have to admit that I’ve never been quite the person my wife wanted me to be, even from the beginning of our marriage. I know, for instance, that she wished I were more romantic, the way her own father had been with her mother. Her father was the kind of man who would hold his wife’s hand in the hours after dinner or spontaneously pick a bouquet of wildflowers on his way home from work. Even as a child, Jane was enthralled by her parents’ romance. Over the years, I’ve heard her speaking with her sister Kate on the phone, wondering aloud why I seemed to find romance such a difficult concept. It isn’t that I haven’t made attempts, I just don’t seem to have an understanding of what it takes to make another’s heart start fluttering. Neither hugs nor kisses were common in the house where I’d grown up, and displaying affection often left me feeling uncomfortable, especially in the presence of my children. I talked to Jane’s father about it once, and he suggested that I write a letter to my wife. “Tell her why you love her,” he said, “and give specific reasons.” This was twelve years ago. I remember trying to take his advice, but as my hand hovered over the paper, I couldn’t seem to find the appropriate words. Eventually I put the pen aside. Unlike her father, I have never been comfortable discussing feelings. I’m steady, yes. Dependable, absolutely. Faithful, without a doubt. But romance, I hate to admit, is as foreign to me as giving birth.
I sometimes wonder how many other men are exactly like me.
While Jane was in New York, Joseph answered the phone when I called.
“Hey, Pop,” he said simply.
“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he said. After what seemed like a painfully long moment, he asked, “And you?”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “It’s quiet around here, but I’m doing okay.” I paused. “How’s your mom’s visit going?”
“It’s fine. I’ve been keeping her busy.”
“Shopping and sightseeing?”
“A little. Mainly we’ve been doing a lot of talking. It’s been interesting.”
I hesitated. Though I wondered what he meant, Joseph seemed to feel no need to elaborate. “Oh,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice light. “Is she around?”
“Actually, she isn’t. She ran out to the grocery store. She’ll be back in a few minutes, though, if you want to call back.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Just let her know that I called. I should be around all night if she wants to give me a ring.”
“Will do,” he agreed. Then, after a moment: “Hey, Pop? I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Did you really forget your anniversary?”
I took a long breath. “Yes,” I said, “I did.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I remembered that it was coming, but when the day arrived, it just slipped my mind. I don’t have an excuse.”