The Liar's Wife by Mary Gordon Page A

and from America sent a letter in which she said, “It isn’t possible for me to be your wife. I must stay here. I don’t belong with you, or in Ireland. This is my home.”
    Did she imagine he’d come after her? No. They had become ghosts to each other in the weeks starting with his father’s death, leading to John Kennedy’s death, even as she was living in the rooms she shared with him, sleeping with him, sharing meals and making love, she was not there and he was not there. They were two ghosts, eating, sleeping, making love. Only one of them knew who she was. A ghost.
    Somehow the legalities were sorted out. They were divorced. The grounds: desertion. The word stirred her; it was simultaneously true and untrue. She did not desert him, as you would desert a child, leaving it on a doorstep. But it was true, deeply true. She had deserted a belief. A dream.
    And here they were now, fifty years later.
    Half a century.
    A lifetime.
    â€œWhat made you decide to go back to Dublin now?” she asked. She was feeling pleasantly light-headed, pleasantly irresponsible, knowing she was risking seeming prying, even rude. But she wanted to know. Alcohol is a disinhibiter, she told herself, and I am giving up my inhibition against possibly rude curiosity.
    But seeing Johnny go silent, she regretted that she had asked.
    â€œA lot of things, Jossie. A lot of things coming together all at once.”
    â€œOh, come on, sweetheart, there’s no sense not being straight. It’s a little late for that. And Jocelyn can take it; I can tell she’s no wilting flower.”
    â€œNo, certainly not,” Jocelyn said. “Certainly not.” Why did the two of them always make her feel unnatural in her speech? Why did they always seem to make her repeat clichéd phrases, so that they were twice as unnatural, twice as bad?
    â€œWe don’t need to trouble her with our woes, Linnet,” Johnny said. “Not on our one night together.”
    â€œWell you have to tell her now. But I know you; you never want to be a downer. I’m not that polite though; I’m just going to barge right ahead like I always do. I’ll tell you why we’re going back to Ireland, Jocelyn. It’s the Big C.”
    For a minute, Jocelyn thought they were talking about the circus. The Big Tent. The Big C. She saw a big neon “C” in front of a tent, and then she saw a “C” in the sky, smoky, and a plane making the letters. Skywriting. Then it occurred to her, and she was ashamed at her own delay. She had to say the word.
    â€œCancer,” she said. “Oh, Johnny, I’m sorry.”
    â€œLungs,” he said. “Well, I came by it honestly. A lifetime of Marlboro Reds.”
    â€œWe don’t have insurance,” Linnet said, pronouncing the word with the accent on the first syllable. “And in Ireland, it’s all on the state. The state’ll take care of him. It won’t cost him a thing.”
    Johnny. Cancer. She looked at him more closely now. She had to think of him differently, as someone who was dying. Was this why he was so thin? But why did he still look so young, so vital? Was this just another of his lies?
    She put her hand on his, and he squeezed her hand. The touch was so familiar, and so strongly evocative of youth and past love, that tears came to her eyes, and she didn’t try to stop them. He took several napkins out of the dispenser on the table and wiped her eyes.
    â€œI hate to break this up,” Tony said. “But it’s time to sing for your supper.”
    He handed Johnny a guitar, which he’d clearly left the last time he’d been here. Was it lunch, only a few hours ago? Had he earned such a welcome in one lunchtime, two or three hours? Tony walked up to the microphone and tapped it twice, making an unpleasant click.
    â€œI’ve got a special treat for you tonight. Just to show that we’re not stuck in the