Safe Passage Read Free Page B

found some woman. She'd always known eventually he would. The outlying suburbs were often foggy, but Patrick liked the challenge of driving in fog or snow or downpour. At one time he had even invented some interesting-unsuccessful-fog lights for their car. She took the phone.
          "What the hell do you mean, the fog's too thick?" she asked.
         "It's not the fog," Patrick told her. "I have a splitting headache and I think there's something wrong with my eyes. You know how the pupil closes down when you go into the bright sunshine? Well, mine seems to be doing that now, only it's dark outside. I think it's some sort of migraine."
         "Patrick, at least go back to Izzy's . What if you need a doctor? Izzy can call a doctor."
         "No, Izzy has some girl there. I'll just wait it out. I've already paid for this place, I might as well stay. I'll come home in the morning when the weather clears up. I should be fine by then. I'll see the doctor at home."
         They hung up. Mag was not at all sure she believed the story about his eyes. She had never heard of a migraine that caused the pupils of a person's eyes to close. She pictured Patrick with another woman. She didn't sleep. She didn't know until later that Patrick's pupils had shut down all the way after they talked. He spent two hours sitting in the motel room, completely blind. He did not call a doctor or an ambulance or anyone else. When she asked him later what he thought about, he said, "I don't remember. I was scared shitless, of course." He said that in such a matter-of-fact way. But he never really told her anything. When she pressed, he said finally, "I wished to hell I wasn't allergic to liquor and could have had a couple of stiff drinks." Later that night his eyes had relaxed and the pupils gradually opened. His vision had stayed blurry, but he could see. He took two aspirin and went to sleep. The next morning he drove home. He didn't go to a doctor until it happened again nearly three weeks later. Now, after a year, they didn't know much more than they did then.
         They moved into the kitchen, and Patrick put the kettle on. He could never get out of bed without immediately preparing himself a cup of tea. He stood by the stove until the water boiled. He took a mug from the rack and a tea bag from the cannister . He poured the water on top of the tea bag and dangled it up and down in the cup six times. He always did precisely that. Then he let the bag steep. When the water was almost black, he threw the tea bag into the sink. Later Mag would remove the tea bag to the trash. They had been doing this for twenty-five years. She had always hated cleaning up after him. She had resented his freedom to leave trash in the sink and her need to remove it. But she didn't hate it now. She thought: He'll be able to make tea for himself even if he can't see. He could do it in his sleep. She thought often of the tasks she would have to perform for him if he went blind and those she wouldn't. He would hate needing her help-he was so independent-and she would resent giving it. For years the boys had demanded so much from her that a clinging husband would have been unbearable. Now, with the boys mostly grown, she looked forward to abandoning her domestic-servant role, and she did not relish the thought of taking care of a blindman . She was ashamed of herself for being glad he would at least be able to make his own tea, but she couldn't help it. Her sense of menace clung to her. Patrick would say she must not imagine things. She must be practical. They must discuss the issue of Alfred as if he were all right.
         "I'm too young to be a step-grandmother," she said.
         Patrick squinted at her. "You're not that young. You have a few wrinkles."
         "Blond hair, though. No gray." Patrick said he had married her because of her blond hair. She believed this. He said he stayed married to her because she had a nice ass. Her ass was not as nice