explain Jonah’s affair with a divorcee to the Whisperers Monday at lunch. How can I spin it? What words can I use? I finally decide that I can’t tell them anything because I don’t know how to say it, and they wouldn’t know how to understand it either. The Whisperers think that Jonah and I are in love with each other. And maybe that’s okay after all because we were in love—no,
are
in love—in the story I’ve been telling. And the story hasn’t changed, no matter what’s happening in the house.
I settle on down among the shrubs, telling myself how everything is just fine, but soon enough my throat begins to ache. And after a second, I’ve got my face pressed into my arm and I’m crying. And it’s not so good, with the ants and all. They start crawling from my arm onto my face, and I don’t even care enough to brush them off. In fact, I want them there because they make the whole thing worse with their tickling feet, and I can sort of convince myself that I’m crying about the ants instead of about Jonah. I’m crying about those ants.
When the sirens start up, I stop outright crying and settle for sniffling so that I can hear them better. I expect them to fade off like sirens usually do, but instead they get louder, which means that they’re coming my way. Then I can see them—two police cars and an ambulance, all three wailing.
Suddenly everything that was still a second ago is moving—the houses, too. Their curtains flick open, and people start to peek out; they try to stand far enough back so that no one will see them looking.
The emergency cars stop in front of the house that Jonah went into, and Jonah is out on the porch with an old lady (I mean,
ancient
old) at his side. The idea of Jonah’s affair slips away, along with all the words I could have used to explain it.
Jonah shakes hands with the officers, who are up on the porch now, and then everyone—the officers, the old woman, me behind the bush—is looking at Jonah, waiting for what’s next. Jonah presses his fist to his mouth like a drain stopper. We wait and wait, and just when it seems like he’s never going to talk at all, he lifts his head and does. The officers listen and take notes in those tiny notebooks that they have. One of them says something, which causes Jonah to step off the porch and walk around the side of the house. Most of theofficers and the ambulance workers follow him, all except one, who disappears back inside with the old lady.
I wait there in the garden for about half an hour. My papers aren’t delivered and I have to keep pulling my sleeves down over my hands to keep the cold from stinging them, but I tell myself that there are things more important than newspapers and hands. Another couple of cars pull up, and more men get out of them. These men aren’t in uniforms, but I can tell that they’re police. They say a few things into their radios and troop back into the woods after Jonah and the others.
I wait some more. Every once in a while, one of the neighbors wanders out onto his lawn and stands there swaying for a second before losing his nerve and going back inside. But no one comes out onto the front lawn that I’m hiding in, and no one bothers me in my garden; in fact, no one even sees me except for one young policeman who just happens to glance my way as he walks by. He stops and stares as if he doesn’t think I’m really there. He’s all freckled, and it looks funny, the combination of freckles and uniform, like he’s just a kid dressing up as a policeman and not a real cop at all. For a second, I’m afraid that he might order me to go away. But when I raise a hand and wave at him, he waves back, a little mystified, and then walks on.
Most of the policemen have been going into the woods along the far side of the house from where I’m hidden, so to me, they appear and disappear like actors walking on-and offstage. To pass the time, I give them stage names: White Mustache, Likes His Hat, and
are
in love—in the story I’ve been telling. And the story hasn’t changed, no matter what’s happening in the house.
I settle on down among the shrubs, telling myself how everything is just fine, but soon enough my throat begins to ache. And after a second, I’ve got my face pressed into my arm and I’m crying. And it’s not so good, with the ants and all. They start crawling from my arm onto my face, and I don’t even care enough to brush them off. In fact, I want them there because they make the whole thing worse with their tickling feet, and I can sort of convince myself that I’m crying about the ants instead of about Jonah. I’m crying about those ants.
When the sirens start up, I stop outright crying and settle for sniffling so that I can hear them better. I expect them to fade off like sirens usually do, but instead they get louder, which means that they’re coming my way. Then I can see them—two police cars and an ambulance, all three wailing.
Suddenly everything that was still a second ago is moving—the houses, too. Their curtains flick open, and people start to peek out; they try to stand far enough back so that no one will see them looking.
The emergency cars stop in front of the house that Jonah went into, and Jonah is out on the porch with an old lady (I mean,
ancient
old) at his side. The idea of Jonah’s affair slips away, along with all the words I could have used to explain it.
Jonah shakes hands with the officers, who are up on the porch now, and then everyone—the officers, the old woman, me behind the bush—is looking at Jonah, waiting for what’s next. Jonah presses his fist to his mouth like a drain stopper. We wait and wait, and just when it seems like he’s never going to talk at all, he lifts his head and does. The officers listen and take notes in those tiny notebooks that they have. One of them says something, which causes Jonah to step off the porch and walk around the side of the house. Most of theofficers and the ambulance workers follow him, all except one, who disappears back inside with the old lady.
I wait there in the garden for about half an hour. My papers aren’t delivered and I have to keep pulling my sleeves down over my hands to keep the cold from stinging them, but I tell myself that there are things more important than newspapers and hands. Another couple of cars pull up, and more men get out of them. These men aren’t in uniforms, but I can tell that they’re police. They say a few things into their radios and troop back into the woods after Jonah and the others.
I wait some more. Every once in a while, one of the neighbors wanders out onto his lawn and stands there swaying for a second before losing his nerve and going back inside. But no one comes out onto the front lawn that I’m hiding in, and no one bothers me in my garden; in fact, no one even sees me except for one young policeman who just happens to glance my way as he walks by. He stops and stares as if he doesn’t think I’m really there. He’s all freckled, and it looks funny, the combination of freckles and uniform, like he’s just a kid dressing up as a policeman and not a real cop at all. For a second, I’m afraid that he might order me to go away. But when I raise a hand and wave at him, he waves back, a little mystified, and then walks on.
Most of the policemen have been going into the woods along the far side of the house from where I’m hidden, so to me, they appear and disappear like actors walking on-and offstage. To pass the time, I give them stage names: White Mustache, Likes His Hat, and
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