Free Say When by Elizabeth Berg

he’d practice being free. Maybe he’d start smoking cigars in the house. Definitely, he’d use only dishes that could go in the dishwasher—the hell with antique saucers for butter plates. He knew of a man who’d thrown out all the living room furniture after his wife left him, then put in a pool table. Nice move.
    At a stoplight, the car shimmied, then stalled out. It started right up again, but Griffin was nervous now. What the hell was that? He knew the names of things under the hood of a car but had never been too confident about mechanics in general. Was it safe to go far? Maybe he should call Ellen for a telephone diagnosis. Being a graduate of Mr. Wonderful’s class, she might be able to tell him whether the problem was minor enough to ignore. If not, she could call Points and Plugs himself. “Peter, darling,” she could say. “You know how my idiot husband knows almost nothing about cars? Well, he’s out on Lake Street having trouble. Do you think we should go and get him?”
    “Sure,” he would say. “Whatever it is, I’ll fix it for him. I’ll give him a discount, too.” Then, his voice silky and intimate, he’d say, “Aw, hey. I feel kind of sorry for him, you know?”
    “I know,” Ellen would say, sighing. “Me, too.”
    “Pick you up in five minutes,” Peter would say. “And bring Zoe—I got her a toy today. ‘The Invisible Car.’ I’ll teach her everything, so she doesn’t end up like her putz father.”
    “Oh, she’ll like that,” Ellen would say, and Zoe would. She’d work with him, assembling the thing. She’d—
    Enough.
    Off to the right, just ahead of him, Griffin saw a diner. There were no cars in the parking lot, but the neon OPEN sign was on. Griffin pulled in, started to turn off the ignition, then stopped when he heard a song come on the radio. It was one of his favorites, an oldie: “I Only Have Eyes for You.” He sat still, staring out the windshield and listening. He only had eyes for Ellen. It was true, he didn’t want anyone else. Not once, since he’d met her. But why? None of his friends had ever particularly liked her. His parents took a long time warming up to her, and Griffin thought they wished their son had married someone a little different, a little more…well, could they say it, did he mind? Normal.
    The only friend that Ellen had in college was a fellow misfit, a nervous gay man named Laurence who seemed unbearably sensitive, who was overwhelmed by simple tasks like registering for classes—Ellen went with him to do it, told Griffin later about how she had made a game of it for him. Laurence had died a few years ago of AIDS—Ellen had wept, reread all his letters, and then never spoken of him again. The only person Griffin knew of who really liked Ellen was Zoe. Ellen was her mother, of course, but it was more than that. Zoe saw Ellen, because Ellen let her.
    Griffin turned off the radio, cut the engine, thought of the last time he and Ellen were in bed together, before he knew anything—the night before the morning she told him. That was when he still thought their life together was secure. When, despite its oddities, it was comfortable to him, reliable and dear. That was when the thought of his wife was an anchor and not a chest-sized thorn.
    That night, Ellen had wanted some hand lotion, but she was too tired to get out of bed and get it. So she asked Griffin, “If I guess the number you’re thinking of between one and ten, would you get me the lotion?” He’d looked at her. What? “But you can’t cheat,” she went on. “You can’t tell me I was right if I was wrong. We have to follow the honor system.”
    He’d put down his magazine. “Ellen. If you want the lotion, I’ll get you the lotion.”
    “Oh,” she’d said. “Okay. Thank you.” Then, when he’d given it to her, she’d said, “Thanks. But was four the number you were thinking of?”
    He smiled at the memory. Well, that was why, he supposed; that was why he cared