It was Isa who had done the splitting, finding some man in a painting class that David, ironically, had pestered her to sign up for because he thought she was getting depressed, and David was livid, absolutely went to pieces. There were times he came to the Smalls’ house and just wept, and Shelly had a hard time seeing that, to be honest. It was probably very old-fashioned of her, but she did not like to see a grown man cry. Richard was good—it irritated him, he found it tiresome, but he took it in stride, as any good friend would do.
And then after a couple of years of different women that David brought around, oh, Shelly wasn’t going to go into them because they weren’t the point. The point was Annie. Annie Appleby. Here Shelly sat up straighter, bent slightly toward Dottie, and said, “She was really special.”
Dottie did not find it hard to listen to this.
“The thing about Annie—well, first you must realize she is very tall. About six feet, and she’s thin, so she seems really tall, and she has long, dark, wavy, almost corkscrew hair—honestly I often wondered if there wasn’t something else mixed in there, you know, maybe something else, along with some North American Indian. She comes from Maine. Her face was lovely, lovely, the finest features and blue eyes, and—oh, how can I say this? She just made you happy. She loved everything. And when David first brought her around—”
Dottie asked how they had met.
Shelly’s cheeks flushed red. “Richard would kill me for telling you, but she was a patient of David’s. Well, he could have lost his license, but he did it the right way. He said he couldn’t be her psychiatrist anymore— Look, the point is this happens sometimes, and it happened with them, and he brought her around—though it had to be a real secret, of course, how they met, they made up a story that her mother had known him in college, which was absolute nonsense. Annie was from a potato farm in Maine, for heaven’s sake. But she’d been an actress since she was sixteen, just left home, apparently no one cared, and even if she was twenty-seven years younger than David, it didn’t seem to make a bit of difference, they were happy. You just loved being around them.”
Shelly paused and chewed on her lip. Her hair, which was the pale strawberry blond of someone who had once been a redhead, was thinning the way older women’s hair is apt to do, and she had it cut—“appropriately” is the word that came into Dottie’s mind—right above her chin; there was probably nothing very daring about Shelly, there probably never had been.
“You know,” she said, “Richard was not sure he wanted to move to the lake.”
Dottie raised her eyebrows, although she did think that Easterners tended to go on without the need of encouragement; this would not be the case with anyone from the Midwest. Incontinence was not valued in the Midwest.
“But that’s a different story,” Shelly said. “Well, sort of,” she said.
—
For no reason she could think of, and it may have been nothing more than the way the sun was slanting right then across the hardwood floor, Dottie was suddenly visited by the memory of one summer of her childhood when she was sent to Hannibal, Missouri, to spend a number of weeks with an ancient and unfamiliar relative. She went alone—her beloved older brother, Abel, had secured a job in the local theater as an usher and therefore stayed at home—and Dottie was terrified; in the way of some children who are accustomed to deprivation, she understood little and did as she was told. Why her decent Aunt Edna could not take her, as she had done before, to this day Dottie did not know. The only memory she brought back was that of an article she read in a Reader’s Digest stacked among meaningless magazines on a dusty windowsill, offering up the tale of a woman whose husband had served in Korea. At home with small children at the time, this wife—the woman who wrote the article—lived in the United States somewhere and raised the children and waited for each letter from her husband. He finally returned and there was much rejoicing. And then one day, about a year later, while her husband was at work and the children were at school, a knock came at the door. A small Korean woman stood there with a baby in her arms. Dottie was just at the age when she read this that her heart, so na?ve in spite of what she had already learned about life, or rather what she had already absorbed about life, because people absorb first and learn later, if they learn at all, Dottie had been, at the time she read this article, at the age where her heart almost came through her throat as she imagined the woman who opened the door. The husband confessed: He was very sorry for all the disturbance, and it was decided he would divorce his steadfast wife and marry the Korean woman and raise the baby with her, and the steadfast wife, while brokenhearted, helped out, meaning, she allowed her children to visit her husband’s new home, and she gave advice to the young woman, got her into an English class, and when the husband suddenly died, the first wife took in the young woman and her child and helped them get onto their feet until they could move somewhere else and get settled, and even then, at the time she was writing the article, she was helping to put the child through college, a truly Christian story if there ever was one. All this had made a rather significant impact on Dottie. She wept silently and fulsomely, young girl tears rolling down her cheeks, dropping onto the pages; the woman, betrayed and largehearted, became a heroine to Dottie. The woman forgave everybody.