Chapter 22: Not Yet Is an Answer

The house on Wyoming Street smelled of fresh paint and somebody else's lemon oil.

Brennan carried the last box up the porch steps on the morning of the fifteenth and set it on the boards beside the door.

It was labeled Kitchen in my handwriting.

"That's everything," he said. "Your mother's chair is in the back bedroom. The mattress is coming at noon."

"You rented a chair?"

"I bought it. It's the one she likes at Maple Court. They said it was fine."

I stood in my own doorway with my own key in my hand and looked at him.

He had on jeans and an old gray sweatshirt, and his hair was not combed.

"It's the fifteenth," he said carefully. "May I ask you something?"

"Not yet."

His face did not change, but I saw him decide to be fine with it.

"I filed this morning at nine," I said. "Dot witnessed. The court says the decree comes in June, so I'm technically still your wife for a while."

"Then I'm a lucky man."

"Read this first."

I took a folded page from my back pocket.

It was a diner order pad sheet, grease-spotted at the corner, in my handwriting.

He read it standing on my porch.

One. You may ask me anything, and I may say not yet. Not yet is an answer.

Two. Nothing is billed monthly.

Three. No audience unless I invite one.

He read it again from the top.

"Not yet is an answer," he said slowly.

"It's the one I'll use most."

"I can live with that." He folded the sheet along its crease and held it out, and I shook my head.

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