I didn’t answer.
For several seconds, I honestly didn’t understand the words.
“You what?”
Adrian stood slowly.
“My position was eliminated.”
“When?”
“About three months after we got married.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You worked at Delmar Systems.”
“For three months.”
“You stayed there almost a year.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“What are you saying?”
“I lost the job in November.”
“And I didn’t find another permanent one until March.”
Four months.
I sat down again.
“No.”
Adrian leaned against the wall.
“Nora—”
“You left every morning.”
“Yes.”
“In a tie.”
“Yes.”
“With your briefcase.”
“Yes.”
“You kissed me goodbye.”
He looked sick.
“Yes.”
“And came home at five or six.”
“Usually.”
I looked at the shoes in my hands.
“You were unemployed.”
“Yes.”
“For almost four months.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
The anger did not arrive immediately.
Shock came first.
Then memories.
Adrian pouring coffee.
Adrian checking the clock.
Adrian standing near the door knotting his tie.
Me packing sandwiches some mornings.
“Have a good day.”
“You too.”
Every weekday.
For months.
I whispered:
“Where did you go?”
“The library.”
“Employment offices.”
“Job fairs.”
“Interviews.”
“Temp agencies.”
“Sometimes I rode buses around between appointments because it was warmer than walking.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“I was terrified.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Everything.”
Fifteen years earlier, Adrian and I had been poor in the ordinary newlywed way.
Not starving.
Not homeless.
But every dollar had a job before it arrived.
Our apartment at 27 Willowmere Lane cost more than we could comfortably afford because we wanted to live close to my graduate program and Adrian’s office.
We owned one car.
Our sofa came from my aunt.
Our dishes did not match.
We had a kitchen drawer that fell completely out if you pulled it more than halfway.
I worked part-time while finishing coursework.
Adrian’s salary paid most of the bills.
I had known that.
What I had not known was how close everything came to collapsing after he lost it.
I said:
“Why didn’t you tell me the first day?”
“I thought I’d have another job in a week.”
“And when you didn’t?”
“I thought two weeks.”
“And when you didn’t?”
He sat across from me on the hallway floor.
“Then I got ashamed.”
I stared at him.
“Of losing a job?”
“At first.”
“Then I became ashamed of lying.”
“So you fixed the lie by continuing it?”
