A Good Marriage by Stephen King Page A

do.
    Increasingly the answer seemed to be that she would do nothing.

- 14 -
    On an unseasonably warm day two weeks before Christmas, Bob came home in the middle of the afternoon, shouting her name. Darcy was upstairs, reading a book. She tossed it on the night table (beside the hand mirror that had now taken up permanent residence there) and flew down the hall to the landing. Her first thought (horror mixed with relief) was that it was finally over. He had been found out. The police would soon be here. They would take him away, then come back to ask her the two age-old questions: what did she know, and when did she know it? News vans would park on the street. Young men and women with good hair would do stand-ups in front of their house.
    Except that wasn’t fear in his voice; she knew it for what it was even before he reached the foot of the stairs and turned his face up to her. It was excitement. Perhaps even jubilation.
    “Bob? What—”
    “You’ll never believe it!” His topcoat hung open, his face was flushed all the way to the forehead, and such hair as he still had was blown every which way. It was as if he had driven home with allhis car windows open. Given the springlike quality of the air, Darcy supposed he might’ve.
    She came down cautiously and stood on the first riser, which put them eye-to-eye. “Tell me.”
    “The most amazing luck! Really! If I ever needed a sign that I’m on the right track again—that we are—boy, this is it!” He held out his hands. They were closed into fists with the knuckles up. His eyes were sparkling. Almost dancing. “Which hand? Pick.”
    “Bob, I don’t want to play g—”
    “Pick!”
    She pointed to his right hand, just to get it over with. He laughed. “You read my mind . . . but you always could, couldn’t you?”
    He turned his fist over and opened it. On his palm lay a single coin, tails-side up, so she could see it was a wheat penny. Not uncirculated by any means, but still in great shape. Assuming there were no scratches on the Lincoln side, she thought it was either F or VF. She reached for it, then paused. He nodded for her to go ahead. She turned it over, quite sure of what she would see. Nothing else could adequately explain his excitement. It was what she expected: a 1955 double-date. A double- die, in numismatic terms.
    “Holy God, Bobby! Where . . . ? Did you buy it?” An uncirculated ’55 double-die had recently sold at an auction in Miami for over eight thousand dollars, setting a new record. This one wasn’t in that kind of shape, but no coin dealer with half a brain would have let it go for under four.
    “God no! Some of the other fellows invited me to lunch at that Thai place, Eastern Promises, and I almost went, but I was working the goddarn Vision Associates account—you know, the private bank I told you about?—and so I gave Monica ten bucks and told her to get me a sandwich and a Fruitopia at Subway. She brought it back with the change in the bag. I shook it out . . . and there it was!” He plucked the penny from her hand and held it over his head, laughing up at it.
    She laughed with him, then thought (as these days she often did): HE DID NOT “SUFFER!”
    “Isn’t it great, honey?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I’m happy for you.” And, odd or not ( perverse or not), she really was. He had brokered sales of several over the years and could have bought one for himself any old time, but that wasn’t the same as just coming across one. He had even forbidden her to give him one for Christmas or his birthday. The great accidental find was a collector’s most joyous moment, he had said so during their first real conversation, and now he had what he had been checking handfuls of change for all his life. His heart’s desire had come spilling out of a white sandwich-shop paper bag along with a turkey-bacon wrap.
    He enveloped her in a hug. She hugged him back, then pushed him gently away. “What are you going to do with it, Bobby?