“They talk of fights. Disorderly conduct. Drunkenness.”

“Are there some men who came down to cause trouble? Sure. But there are good men, men working hard to send money back to their families. Men who simply need a break. We’ve all been through something that changes you, and most of us are trying to get by.”

“I’ve noticed you keep to yourself. It must get lonely. Your family must miss you.”

“I don’t know about that. I do just fine.”

“Are you married?”

It’s pretty much impossible to spend your day waiting on people and not form a curiosity about their lives. Sometimes I wonder about them to distract myself from the other things on my mind, and other times, I genuinely want to know.

He’s silent for a moment that stretches on in the night. “No. I never married. How long have you been married?” he asks me.

“Nine years.”

“Long time.”

Sometimes it seems like an eternity, as though my entire life has been defined by my marriage to Tom, and I suppose in a way it has. The girl I was before him belongs to someone else’s memories.

I take a deep, shaky breath, staring up at the inky night sky. “I wonder sometimes—”

How my life would have changed if I’d said “no” when Tom asked me to marry him . . . If things would be different if I’d never gone out to the docks that day his boat was coming in full of fish and smelling of the sea . . . if I’d gone north to my aunt Alice the first time he hit me rather than believing him when he said it would never happen again . . . if we hadn’t lost all those babies . . . if the Depression never came . . . Would our marriage be something different now if fate hadn’t crashed into us so decisively? Or were we always on this course and I couldn’t see it?

“What do you wonder?” he asks, and I realize I’ve stopped speaking entirely.

It’s not like me to share such intimacies with a stranger, much less a strange man, but there’s something soothing in his manner. Perhaps by offering so little of himself, he naturally invites the other person to fill the spaces where polite conversation would normally lie.

And truthfully, my days are spent asking others what they’d like, what they need, and I can’t resist the urge to speak.

“It seems wrong, I suppose, to bring a child into all of this.”

“Is there no one else? Do you have family?” he asks me.

“My parents are dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Do you think there’s something better out there?” I ask. “Something better than this?”

Another pause. “I hope so,” he replies. “What does ‘something better’ look like for you?”

I can hardly tell him the truth, about the daydreams and the rest of it. Good women don’t dream of their husband’s death.

“Somewhere far away from here. Somewhere safe.”

“You could leave,” he says.

The familiar yearning fills me at those words, at the possibility of them. How many times have I considered it? Planned it?

“How? Where would I go? With what money? A woman’s place is with her husband.”

At least, that’s the pretty excuse that’s used to cover up all manner of sins.

“Maybe a man loses his right to be called a husband when he raises his fists to someone he should be protecting.”

Bitterness threads through me. “That’s a nice thought.”

“I’ve angered you.”

Perhaps he has a little, poking and prodding at things he has no understanding of. It’s easy to judge when you’re on the outside staring in.

“I shouldn’t have spoken as I did earlier,” I say instead. This strange night has loosened my tongue. “What’s between a man and his wife is no one’s business.”

“Wouldn’t your friends help you? I’ve seen how the other staff treat you, how the owner dotes on you.”

“Ruby has enough to worry about trying to keep a business afloat. She has mouths to feed. Responsibilities. She doesn’t need to be concerned over my troubles.”

“Maybe she’s already worried about you and she’d be happy to help.”

“And you? You said you’d left your family. Who helps you? Every time you dine in the restaurant, you’re alone. Where are the friends you lean on? Since you’ve been coming in the restaurant, you’ve never said anything to me, never bothered to make polite conversation.”

I hardly recognize myself, the ability to speak my mind heady indeed.

He looks momentarily abashed, the effect unexpected, transforming his face to something younger, softer. “You’re right. I’m not good at taking my own advice.”

“No, I shouldn’t have said anything. That was rude of me—I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize. You’re right. I could do better. And I’m sorry if I came off as rude at the restaurant. It was never my intention to give offense.”

“Not rude. Just not particularly talkative.”

“I’ve found it difficult to be at ease with people since I came home.”

I smile despite my earlier annoyance. “You’re doing a pretty good job of it now.”

“You’re easy to talk to.”

“I suppose that comes with the territory in my line of work.”

“It’s more than that. There’s something calming about you.”

“Calming?”

He nods, tilting his head away from me.

I think I’ve embarrassed him, even as I am left with the unmistakable sensation that I have made a friend.

* * *

—

We speak less and less the nearer we get to my house, John trailing a step behind me as he follows my path. When we reach the last turnoff, I slow my pace. We’re closer to the water now, but it’s too dark and we’re too far away for me to tell if Tom’s boat is moored, if he’s back from his fishing trip. His schedule has always been unpredictable, and I’ve done the best I can to anticipate his needs, to never be home too late in case he is waiting for me; no doubt he knows exactly how long it should take me to walk home from Ruby’s, even if most nights he steps off his boat and heads to the nearest bar rather than darkening our door with his presence.

“I’ll go the rest of the way by myself,” I say, stopping in my tracks and facing John.