she said, “But he didn’t, Bernie. I asked him—when Mandela got released from prison—I asked my father if he had invested in South Africa and he said, ‘No, Suzanne.’ He told me that.”
Bernie put the papers back into a folder.
“I’m giving it all away. Every penny. I don’t want it.” Suzanne sat back. “My God,” she said.
Bernie said, “Do with it whatever you like.”
He told her she would have to cover the costs of cleaning the lot up—although there was insurance—and then they would put it on the market. “It should go, I think,” Bernie said. “It’s a great location, right there as you come into town. Someone will want it.”
“Or not,” said Suzanne; she was absolutely shocked about the amount of money.
“Or not.” Bernie gave a small shrug.
Finally Suzanne rose, and Bernie stood up as well. She went and put her arms around him, and after a moment he put his arms around her too. She hugged him more tightly, and then she felt him pull away just slightly, so she stopped hugging him and said, “Thank you, Bernie. You’ve been wonderful.”
As she headed for the door, he said, “Suzanne.” She turned to him. “Why do you need to tell your husband about your…indiscretion?” He was standing with both hands loosely on his hips.
She said, “Because he’s my husband. We can’t live with this between us, it would be so, you know, so awful.”
“As awful as getting divorced?”
“What are you saying, Bernie? That I should live with this lie forever?”
He turned slightly, putting one hand to his chin, and then he turned back and said, “You’re the one who made the decision to have the affair. I think you should be the one who takes responsibility for it. Not your husband.”
She shook her head. “We’re not like that, Bernie. There have never been any secrets between us, and this would be too awful. I have to tell him.”
“There are always secrets,” Bernie said. “Let’s go.” He extended his hand toward the doorway, and she went before him down the stairs. She had forgotten that he was to drive her back.
* * *
Beneath the clouds—which were even lower now—sat the jagged part of the corner of the house that was still standing, and the gruesomeness of its remains looked exactly like what they were: remains. “Thank you,” Suzanne said. She got her car key from her handbag.
“It’s okay.” He turned his car off, and a faint thrill went through Suzanne, that he did not want to leave her yet. After a moment Bernie said, “You know, it’s not my business, but I wonder if you could see someone, a therapist. There has to be a good therapist in Boston. Just for now while you sort all these things out.”
“Oh, Bernie,” said Suzanne. She touched his arm briefly. “I’ve been to a therapist. That’s who I had my stupid affair with.”
Bernie closed his eyes for a long moment, then he opened them and stared straight ahead through his windshield. He said, “Suzanne, I’m sorry.”
“No, it was kind of my fault. I let him come on to me.”
“It was not your fault, Suzanne.” He looked at her now. “It was very unprofessional, what he did. How long had you been seeing him?”
“Two years.” Suzanne added, “Since my mother went into that home is when I started seeing him.”
“Oy vey,” said Bernie.
“But it was just the last few months—oh, it’s so sordid, the whole thing, and you know he’s—oh, no offense, Bernie—but he’s old. You know.”
“Yes,” said Bernie. He added, “Of course he is.”
“Please don’t worry. Please.”
“He should be reported,” Bernie said, and Suzanne said, “I’m not going to report him.”
He raised a hand then and said, “Goodbye. Good luck, Suzanne. Call if you need me.” Then he started his car, and she felt a terrible desolation return.
She got out, and went and sat in her car while he drove out of the driveway. A few orangey leaves had fallen onto the hood from the tree above the car. She saw on her phone that her husband had texted to see if she was okay, and she texted back that she would call him soon. She looked through the car window at the charred remains of the house where she had grown up. Try, she thought to herself with a kind of fury, and what she meant was: Try and have a good memory come to you.
She could not do it.
She could almost find no memories at all, just tiny fleeting