Marry Me by John Updike

that.’
    ‘Jerry.’
    ‘Mm?’
    ‘Don’t blame yourself. You told me not to come.’
    ‘But I wanted you to come. You know that. That’s why you came.’
    ‘I came for myself, too.’
    He sighed. ‘Oh, Sally’ he said. ‘You’re so kind to me.’ He looked at the tickets in his hand and put them into his side coat pocket and looked up at her wearily. A little smile of regret brightened his face. ‘Hey?’
    ‘Hi.’
    ‘Let’s get married.’
    ‘Please, Jerry.’
    ‘No, let’s. The hell with this. We can’t get back. God has spoken.’
    ‘I don’t think you mean it.’
    His voice was listless. ‘No. I do. You act like a wife to me. You look like Mrs Conant to me.’
    ‘But I’m not, Jerry. I’d like to be.’
    ‘O.K., then. Proposal accepted. I don’t see any other way but to go back to the hotel and call up Ruth and Richard and eventually get married. It’s the only thing I can think of. I’m tired right now, but I think I’ll be very happy.’
    ‘I’ll try to make you happy.’
    ‘I think we can get your children. The courts don’t really care who commits the adultery any more.’
    ‘Are you sure it’s what you want?’
    ‘Of course. I didn’t think it would come quite this way, but I’m glad it’s come.’ Still he didn’t move. She waited there beside him, her heart a perfect blank. Joy and sorrow, fear and hope – all the things that had been crowding upon her had dispersed. There was even an empty space of floor around them. People were clamouring and gesturing, but she heard only silence. She became aware that she was thirsty and that the blisters on her heels hurt. She could take off her shoes in the hotel room. Later, they could get a drink in the bar.
    The girl with unnaturally white hair advanced into the empty space around them. ‘Mr and Mrs Conant? I’ve found Mr Cardomon.’ She was followed by a sandy man wearing an airlines jacket and carrying a clipboard. Sally had seen him before; when?
    Jerry lurched explosively away from her. He pulled out his tickets. They were tattered and looked worthless. He explained, stammering, ‘We’ve been trying to get on a New York plane since three this afternoon and turned down a car rental because we were told there was going to be a section.’
    Mr Cardomon asked, ‘Could I have your numbered standby passes?’ While he examined them, he rubbed the underside of his nose with a knuckle. Then he examined both their faces, constantly returning his fingers to the itch on his nose. Sally felt that she and the white-haired girl were standing on tip-toe. A tender, very distant scent of sweat came to her from Jerry’s neck. Mr Cardomon wrote on the clipboard, saying to himself, ‘Conant, two.’ Then he lifted up his youthful head of sandy curly hair and showed Sally that his eyes weregrey, the colour of aluminium. He knew. He told Jerry, ‘Miss March will staple boarding passes to your tickets.’
    ‘You mean there is a plane?’ Jerry asked.
    Cardomon looked at his wristwatch. ‘It should be leaving in thirty minutes, from Gate Twenty-eight.’
    ‘And we’re on it? My God, thank you. Thank you. We had just decided to go back to the hotel.’ And, unable to convey his gratitude sufficiently to Mr Cardomon, who had turned his back, Jerry turned to the girl and gushed, ‘You know, I’ve grown to love your hair. Don’t ever dye it back.’
    He went off with her and came back with two blue squares stapled to the tickets and picked up his suitcase containing toys for his children and walked with Sally down the corridor. She knew all the posters by now. Shows she would not see, islands she would not visit. An apprehensive mob, scenting redemption, had gathered at Gate 28 , and in time the Negro appeared, his sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket, and slowly, enjoying it, read off a list of names. Theirs was the last name on the list. Conant. They passed through the gate, and in glancing behind her Sally thought she saw, amid the