White Dog Fell From the Sky by Eleanor Morse

in, and
then the whole thing had fallen on its side. Hal would never tell this story. He would
only try his best not to think about it.
    After the Swedish cake and granadillas and
coffee, Alice asked Hasse to play for them, assuming they’d all come listen, but
she was the only one who followed him into the other room.
    “What do you want to hear?” he
asked, lifting the heavy lid of the grand piano and propping it open.
    “A lizard-gobbling tune.”
    “That sickened you.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well I’ll play something to
soothe your nerves, shall I?” He sat on the bench and began the second movement of
Beethoven’s
Pathétique
.The music was deeply
reassuring, settled into itself, melancholy tinged with hope. The melody repeated itself
an octave higher. Hasse lingered over this note, that one. He played beautifully, but
Alice felt something aloof in it, some part kept in reserve, uncommitted. He had dark
brown hair, a cleft in his chin, and intelligent-looking, heavily lidded eyes framed by
round, rimless glasses. His mouth was the most expressive part of him, both lips full, a
little amused—by himself? by the world? by Beethoven? He looked as though he’d
play with a woman like that cat with the lizard. He leaned away from the keyboard and
closed his eyes, then slowed down before beginning the more agitated middle section. He
hesitated, opened his eyes, and stopped playing.
    “What’s wrong?”
    He looked at her. “Your husband is
sleeping with my wife.”
    She heard a sound inside her, like something
falling.
    A mixture of emotion played over his face:
sadness, resignation, and a small touch of pity or triumph—was she imagining it?—that he
was in control of this information and Alice was not. “You didn’t
know?”
    “No. I don’t believe
you.”
    “Observe.”
    She thought about it a moment. “How
long?”
    “It began several months
ago.”
    “How did you find out?”
    “She told me.” He didn’t
say Erika. He seemed unable to utter her name.
    He started the adagio again, played a few
measures, and stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe I
shouldn’t have told you.”
    She shook her head. It could have meant yes
or no.
    “Why in god’s name did you ask
us to dinner?”
    “
She
asked, not
me.”
    “What for?”
    “For appearances. For everything on
the surface to look normal.”
    Some bitter sound came from her.
    “And you?” he said. “What
will you do?” He stood up, came to her side, and put a hand on her shoulder. She
closed her eyes, leaned into him a little. His hand was broad, music lingering in
it.
    “I don’t know.” The hurt and
rage hadn’t come yet, just the burning shame.
    “I’ve always liked your
eyes,” he said. “Beautiful gray eyes. Would you like to meet
sometime?”
    She snapped to. “No,” she
said.
    “Perhaps I could make you
happy.”
    “I’m not looking for
that.” Yes, she said to herself. Play me the way you play Beethoven. “I need
to go,” she said.
    They returned to the dining room, and a
familiar-looking man wearing a moss green safari suit sat with his chair pushed back at
an angle. The man had quietly festive eyes. “I’m ready to go,” she
said to him. She watched what he did as they said good-bye, where his eyes went. She saw
them slide gently under the cerulean blue sleeveless blouse of Erika Lunquist and heard
a voice inside her say, This is what grownups do.

10
    Marriages survive such things. Hundreds of
thousands, millions do, she told herself. Putting his arms around her in bed, Lawrence
said that they’d be stronger for this. He seemed more animated, more present than
he’d been in months. “Will we?” she asked. Wretchedness—what’s
too much to bear? And then the idea of “stronger” caught hold for a moment,
the spidery feet of a bird closing around a branch. Yes, perhaps they’d be better
off, perhaps this would dislodge some torpor in them, cause something to flare into
life. They were still sleeping in the