1 4 8
C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m
“Is he always the tolerant, understanding husband?” Zack said automati-
cally, even as he understood too late that he’d missed a key sentence. He
needed to give his full attention to Fay. He wasn’t helping her, or himself ei-
ther, by using her concerns to think about his own.
He spent the last ten minutes of the session fully focused on Fay. They dis-
cussed Yancy at length, his virtues and faults, her mother’s dislike of him—he
made a note to talk more about Fay’s mother next time—and how his work as
an attorney intimidated her.
“I worried for the longest time that I wasn’t smart enough for Yancy. But
then we joined the church and I saw he had his spiritual side, his frightened
side.”
Zack scribbled in his notes: “fear of Gd makes hsbnd lovable?”
“You don’t like me talking about religion, do you?”
She must have seen Zack frowning. “Not at all. It’s just that I can discuss
religion only as psychology, not theology. I’m afraid I don’t do it justice.”
“Well, theology only confuses me,” Fay admitted.
They finished for the day, and he walked her to the door.
“That was Yancy at the movie theater with me.”
“Oh yes. Of course.” The night seemed like months ago, but it was only
two weeks.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come over and introduce him.”
“You don’t have to apologize. It’s a tricky social situation.” Zack remem-
bered feeling that the husband didn’t want to be introduced.
“Did you and your friends enjoy American in Paris?”
“Some of us enjoyed it very much. I love the music.”
“They don’t tell stories like that anymore,” said Fay. “All innocent and
sweet. But times have changed.”
“They have. But the big change is we can tell all our stories now. Back
then, we had to keep most things a secret. And life looked simpler.” Zack
paused. Who was that for? “Goodbye,” he told Fay. “See you next week.”
Her crabby son sat in the Jeep Cherokee parked out front. They had
agreed that Fay wouldn’t resume driving until after Thanksgiving. Zack
watched her get into the car, and he closed the front door.
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
1 4 9
He assumed his mind would immediately fill back up with the thoughts
he had fought off during the session. But no, his mind remained calm. He
couldn’t understand where the sudden questions had come from today. He
was fine about Daniel and Abbas—for the most part. He was perfectly fine
about them going to New York this weekend. After all, he was the one who’d
suggested it. If they spent forty-eight hours together, they might get their fill
of each other. They could pack into a single weekend what otherwise would
take months to learn. They could finish their affair—or run off together.
Whatever. Zack was looking forward to the break, its peace and quiet, the
long walks with Jocko.
He was back in his office now, sitting in his chair, holding the notebook
with the Fay Dawson notes in his lap, but he didn’t read them. He set the
book down, opened his address book, picked up the phone and dialed.
“Elena? Hi. Zack here. I just had an idea. How would you and the kids
like to come over for dinner this weekend? What? I could come over there.
Yes! That’s much better anyway. I’m a terrible cook. Will you let me bring
dessert?”
22
Draw me a picture!”
The boy slid the paper and crayons across the table.
“Sorry. I draw badly.”
“He cannot make pictures,” declared Mina. “Only Papa can make pic-
tures.”
“Many people make pictures,” said Zack. “But not me.”
It was Friday night, and he had just finished dinner with Elena and the
children. While Elena washed the dishes—she refused Zack’s help—he sat
with the kids at the dining room table, trying to get to know them better.
“Why don’t you draw a picture?” he told Osh.
“Picture of what?”
“Whatever you like. How about your family?” Which was what psychia-
trists always told kids to draw, but Zack didn’t know what else to suggest.
“You, too, Mina. There’s plenty of paper and crayons.”
“I’m too old for pictures,” said Mina, sounding absurdly haughty. She
went up on her elbows, however, and watched while her brother began to
sketch and scribble.
They were lovely kids, both of them. Osh had delicate fingers and the most
beautiful eyes, large and dark, with heavy lids above and below. It would take