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Helene, or anyone else, for that matter. It’s been a long, long time since he was surprised at the way people entered and exited his life. Some people might even consider him detached—a doctor once told him: You refuse to dip your toe in the stream running right outside your own front door. It’s unfortunate, but that’s how it is. There are a thousand ways to get by, Joe knows, and nine hundred and ninety-nine of them involve messing other people up. Truthfully, he doesn’t feel unfortunate at all. One thing he’s noticed is that if there’s anything worse than bad memories, it’s the insidious good ones. Remembering too far back makes his heart feel like a balled-up washcloth. His heart hurts, his head aches, it hurts to look out the window and smell October coming. Who needs that kind of pain? Not Joe, who once stood on the roof of the Sears Tower wearing only a loincloth, and another time served paella to Natalie Wood. When you let go, life is one fabulous day at a time.
    He wishes Helene could learn to relax, though he doesn’t see it as his business to teach her. He wishes she wouldn’t think about their ages. He knows she thinks a lot about loving him, what it means to love him, and he wishes she wouldn’t. His love for her isn’t anything he thinks about; it’s like a birthmark—he would never doubt its permanence. One night he broiled a chicken for their dinner, and when he cut half from his plate for her she stared at him so intensely he told her to stop it, she was being too romantic about the whole thing. But this was a mistake; he doesn’t want to tell her how to act. He would no more patronize her than patronize his own big toe. “Think about moving in with me,” he says. When he sees her expression, he says, not unkindly, “Jesus, here we go.” But then she laughs, and he thinks:
Maybe there is hope
. He can’t focus on all her fears, all her trying, who she thinks she is or who she tries so hard to be. He sees only Helene, and senses the inevitable unknown, waiting, asit always does, for the right moment. Which is okay with Joe, because he can wait forever.
    â€¢ • •
    Summer is over, and Helene is not sleeping well. She wakes up in the middle of the night and believes she is missing a self. She’s positive there were two, and now there’s only air next to her in the bed. One is supposed to be the child, and one the woman. Which one is still here? She hasn’t decided whether or not to move in with Joe, and it’s driving her nuts. During the day she rushes impatiently through her rituals; she spends less time on her hair, less time at lunch, and less time actually working. She finds ways to streamline, to take shortcuts in her work. She is definitely hurrying, but hurrying toward what?
    â€œYou sure are jumpy,” Jan says.
    â€œI know it,” Helene says. “If I could just figure out what to do about the Joe situation …”
    â€œOh, situation schmituation!” Jan says. “You’re still
in
love with him.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Helene says.
    â€œYou’ve got to get past
that
, if it’s going to work,” says Jan. “Every relationship should have its disillusionment.” She picks nonchalantly at the edge of Helene’s desk blotter.
    Helene is suddenly annoyed. “There’s a big difference between you and me,” she says. “You’re divorced!”
    â€œThe difference between you and me,” Jan says, “is that I know how to have a good time.”
    Lately Joe has been suggesting that they shop for furniture, but Helene has a revelation: she suggests they go buy that goldfish he’s been wanting. They drive way out in the west suburbs on a mild Saturday in September. The day is clear and warm, but rather fainthearted—the smell of fall is everywhere. They drive so far they have to pay three tolls.