PARTISAN REVIEW
533
I'm not. You're simply wrong. That's all. There's nothing the
matter, and there's nothing going on. I just haven't had much to
say lately, that's all. Been busy and kind of preoccupied, I guess.
Really? she said, sneering. Well, I
know
you, mister, and I know
what it means when you go silent on me.
If
you're wise, you'll talk
to me, and you'll do it now, while I can still be sympathetic. We've
been through all this before, too many times, and we both know what
the consequences are, and we both know how to avoid those conse–
quences. So
talk!
Listen, I said. I've got to spend all day cutting wood for the
stoves and shoveling snow. We can't spend all day talking about some–
thing that doesn't exist. Tonight we'll talk,
if
you still think there's
something going on. But really, it's nothing.
Yes, I'm sure that's what you think. And that's wny you're
keeping silent, so you can go on thinking that it's nothing. For once
in our lives, I ought to let you go ahead and try to live with your
silent self.
If
I had enough distance on you, believe me, I'd just keep
quiet and let your silence take you as far as it could. Then, finally,
you might believe me when I tell you that something has happened.
Wal, I can't say as how I believe you this morning. And since
we happen to be discussing
my
life, I guess I'll just have to pull
rank and act as the final authority. I gave her a friendly smile.
She grimly said nothing. I put on my coat and went out into
the snow. Usually, when I go from the house to the bam, I go by
way of the connecting shed - the long narrow structure that runs
like an umbilical cord from the house to the barn, a building that
yearly comes a little bit closer to approximating a finished studio–
but this time, with the first snow falling, I wanted to come into my
studio from outside, stamping my feet and brushing snow off my
sleeves, shedding the heavy <:.oat and going right to work.
The man stumbles into the carpeted lobby of the motel, waking
the half-asleep room clerk with the blast of wind and snow that
enters with him. The clerk looks up at the man, who towers over the
impeccable counter - a tall man, hatless, wearing a dark blue, wool
overcoat, ice and snow laid down in thick strips across his head and
shoulders. He plops his scarlet hands heavily down on the counter
in front of the clerk, a small, old man wearing a flannel shirt and
wool necktie. Forty-seven, the man in the overcoat says. His voice is
