A Simple Thing by Kathleen McCleary Page B

who likes adventure and change . Betty saw how hard it was for him to get out of bed on weekday mornings, how he’d lie there long after the alarm clock had rung, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with his hands on his chest, until he’d roll over with a heavy sigh and get up. She felt the sinking mood that settled over him on Sunday nights, noticed the flatness in his voice when he talked about work.
    They talked about it. He wanted, needed something more. They debated likely jobs for him. Forest ranger? Fishing guide? Bill kept coming back again and again to homesteading in Alaska. Betty couldn’t imagine it: In addition to Bill’s job at the base, they’d have to build their own house and farm their land. It seemed impossible. Yet when they talked about leaving Boeing, or leaving Seattle, Bill’s whole face changed. His smile widened, the deep vertical crease between his brows softened, the tight muscles around his jaw relaxed. She couldn’t kill the hopefulness in him.
    He was grateful to her for considering it, and brought home flowers unexpectedly, sometimes twice a week. They made love more often than ever, lingering in bed while Bill sketched out the outlines of a log cabin on a notepad, or read books on farming. “Maybe in two years,” he said. “We could save as much as we can for two years, then we’d have something to help us get started once we move.”
    Betty never agreed, but she never said no, either. The next spring, when she found out she was pregnant again, she waited three months to tell him, to make sure she wouldn’t miscarry, that this one would stick. She saw the hope die in his face as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
    â€œWe could still move,” she said. “We just have to wait until after the baby comes.”
    â€œAnd then we’ll have to wait until the baby is older,” Bill said.
    Betty saw what he saw, the future unfurling and the relentless grip of responsibility and duty and routine tightening their hold.
    He tried to smile. “It’s good about the baby. The doctor says you’re okay?”
    â€œThe doctor says I’m fine. I’m past the point where I might have a miscarriage.”
    â€œThat’s good.”
    Later that night he picked up his hat and coat and went out for a walk. She assumed he was going out to drink, but he came home sober, his face and hands cold and smelling of the fresh Seattle night air. He got undressed and climbed into bed beside her and lay there staring at the ceiling without saying a word, for as long as she was awake and, she guessed, probably longer.

Chapter 8
    Susannah 2011
    Susannah loved Betty’s kitchen right away, with its warm oak floors and blue tile counters and pale yellow metal cupboards. Low-watt lights cast a soft glow, and the open window above the sink let in the cool night air and the quiet murmur of waves in the bay. She paused several times during dinner—listening, waiting, only to realize at last that what she was waiting for was noise . The humming, throbbing, buzzing sounds of home—furnaces, refrigerators, dishwashers, clothes washers, computers, televisions—were absent. No cars or trucks revved outside; no sirens wailed; no phones or radios or televisions blared. The only sign of technology was a laptop computer, sitting in a corner on the counter next to a tin breadbox.
    They had eaten at a long pine table with benches on either side, like at a logging camp or a ranch. Katie chatted with Hood and Baker throughout the entire meal, while Barefoot and Quinn talked turtles, and Jim and Betty told Susannah stories about other Sounder residents. Now they’d cleared the dishes away, put them to soak, and sat at the table drinking Barefoot’s plum wine, which was sweet but also spread a pleasant warmth in Susannah’s chest and belly. The kids were in the other room playing cards. And after the long past few months of