Unexpectedly, he stands, not making a sound. At first I think he’s going to walk right past me and disappear into his endless house, but as he passes me he stops. He stands there for what feels like a long time, and his hand comes down to rest on my shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is tired and soft.

“If you want, send Pearl out to the dock early tomorrow morning. Around eight. I’ll teach her to swim. If she’d like.”

I think about you jumping off the dock, vanishing into the cobalt water.

I nod, not saying anything. When his hand lifts from my shoulder, the movement is so subtle that at first I don’t realize he’s taken it away. It’s only when I hear the back door of the house open and close that I register the absence of his touch.

I sit on the deck for a long time.

So, it was Tom who took those photos, Tom who captured Mary in that loving gaze. He saw something of her in those photos that I never saw. Everything about that time of my life—everything about Tom and Mary and Shirley—it all shifts in my mind. Questions knock on the door of my brain, but I don’t want to let them in.

We have a certain way of recalling the past. Our mind relives those old days in particular ways, travels comfortable paths, but do we ever really know the whole story?

I stand up and dump my coffee over the deck. I need to check on you.

A Wedding and a Ring

Maybe I got the suit and tie from Tom. He would have had to sneak home to retrieve it, out from under the nose of his parents. The pants and coat were navy blue, almost black, and the tie was a yellow paisley. This was, what, thirty years before you came into this wild world?

I was waiting with Mary in the back of Tom’s car on that hot day. My skin flamed up, and sweat gathered around the tight shirt collar and under my arms and trickled down the small of my back. Mary was in a plain white dress that made her look like a fairy or a princess. Her dark hair was braided, and the two braids formed a crown around the top of her head. When she smiled at me, when she reached over and took my hand, my heart soared.

“Are you sure you want to marry me?” I asked her, so earnest it hurt. “If you want to wait, we can wait.”

“I’m so sure,” she said, leaning over and putting her head on my shoulder as we waited for Tom and Shirley to come out. I could see her forehead and the small rivulets of sweat welling up.

It was the end of that first summer we’d spent at the cabin, a month after I proposed with the twist-tie ring, and Mary and I had persuaded Tom and Shirley to drive us across the state line to get married. In Nysa, you could only get married before you turned eighteen with your parents’ permission. I knew my parents wouldn’t give me permission, and Mary knew her mom would be depressed and her dad would kill us. Or at least he’d kill me. We had to drive about four hours, into the next state, where the legal age was seventeen.