“Oh, hi. Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?”

“Well, because you don’t call me back. I assume you’re either too busy or you’re bored with me.”

“No, it’s not that—”

“Then what is it?”

It took her a moment to realize what a wreck I was. She said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m great, I’m—No, I’m not.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to say this, but you’ve made a mistake about me.” It was all I could do not to drop to my knees and puke my toxic heart and guts out onto the floor. “I’m not who you think I am.”

She just laughed.

I said it slower, clearer: “I’m not a good man.”

“Oh, but you are, you are . . .”

“Listen,” I said, grabbing her firmly. “A good man doesn’t moan out your name when he’s making love to his wife.”

She froze at this news.

Bingo.

“Oh,” she said, as if she’d suddenly noticed a big stinky smell. I thought, I better get used to this. Her cold stare, the instant hate in her eyes. It was that easy and awful. How quickly it had turned. Now I was dead to her. And I knew what was coming next. I could even say the words: I don’t want to see you ever again, Tim. I don’t want to talk with you. You disgust me . . .

But what did Anna say?

“I know you love Kate very much.”

“I do.” I laughed as the tears came. Why do they always come?

“I know you’d never want to hurt her.”

“That’s right.”

“Even the thought of hurting her . . .”

“I better go.”

“Tim.”

“Yes?”

“So you’re just going to cut me off?”

“I see no other alternative.”

“Because you can’t control your feelings . . .”

“That’s right. And because I’m a bad man.”

Anna took me gently by the wrist and said, “We can work through this. We can get past it.”

“I don’t see how,” I said, grabbing Anna’s grocery cart and starting to push it to I didn’t know where.

“What are you doing?”

“I have no idea. I’m all mixed up.”

“Tim, stop.”

I stopped.

She told me to look her in the eye.

I did.

She seemed desperate, too.

“Tim, if it will help in any way . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ll give you a weekend.”

FOUR

FOUR

TIM

TIM

I’LL GIVE YOU A WEEKEND.

Five simple words—six if you count the contraction—strung together to form one simple sentence. But what did it mean? I spent much of January breaking it down.

I’ll . . .

Notice what she didn’t say: “I may.” Or “I might. I could/should/ would/can’t/won’t/don’t/ haven’t.” Or “I would never, ever in a million years.”

No, it was I’ll . . .

Meaning?

I, Anna Brody, will . . .

Give . . .