I took another drag.

“The phone,” she insisted.

When I looked at her, I saw what I expected to see, thin lips in a face gone pale. “Do you really want to do this?” I asked.

In one movement, she stooped and snatched up the phone. I didn’t try to stop her. She pushed the redial button and I turned away, to the strange man in his long coat. He drew nearer, his eyes downcast, his face all but hidden. I wondered if Vanessa would answer and hoped not; beyond that, I felt nothing, not anger or fear, not even regret. I heard Barbara disconnect, and her voice, when she spoke, was tight with anger. “I thought you were done with her.”

“I thought so, too.”

“How long?” she demanded.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Barbara. Not now.” I climbed slowly to my feet, hoping as I turned that I would see tears in my wife’s eyes, anything to show that she felt more than wounded pride. “I’m tired. I’m hung over.”

“Whose fault is that?” she snapped.

I pushed out a deep breath. “I’m going for that walk,” I told her. “We can talk later if you still want to.”

“Don’t walk away from me!”

“Walking won’t put any more distance between us.”

“Oh. So now your adultery is my fault.”

“I’m not talking about this now,” I told her.

“I may not be here when you get back,” she threatened. I stopped halfway down the steps.

“Do what you have to do, Barbara. Nobody can blame you for that, me least of all.” I turned away from her heavy breathing and started down the sidewalk, heading toward the street and the park, which shimmered with cold dew.

“She’s a dirty little whore. I’ve never understood your obsession with her,” Barbara said to my back, her voice climbing. “Never!” The last word was a shout.

“Careful, Barbara,” I said without turning to face her. “The neighbors will hear.” I heard the door slam and imagined that she’d locked it, too. I didn’t care. My life dropped away as I stepped off the property and onto the sidewalk. I was a man, like any other. I had taken action, stood my ground. I felt real and it felt good.

At the bottom of the yard, I waited for this man I’d seen a thousand times yet never really met. I got a better look at him as he approached. He was magnificently unattractive, with melted features and a grimace that pulled his lip over brown teeth, which showed only on the right side of his face. He wore grimy glasses with thick black frames and his hair hung limply from beneath the hunting cap.

“Mind if I walk with you?” I asked as he came level with me. He stopped and tilted his head at me. Green irises swam in a yellow sea and his voice, when he spoke, was a smoker’s voice. I heard the same heavy accent.

“Why?”

There was distrust there.

“Just because,” I said. “Just to talk.”

“Still a free country.” He resumed his walking and I fell into step with him.

“Thanks.”

I felt his eyes on my naked chest. “I’m not gay,” he said.

“Me neither.”

He grunted, said nothing.

“You’re not my type anyway.”

He barked a laugh that ended with a snort of approval. “A smart-ass, huh? Who’d have thought?”

We walked down the sidewalk, past the big houses and the length of the park. A few cars were on the streets and some kids were feeding the ducks. The morning mist was slowly burning off the lake.

“I’ve seen you,” he finally said to me. “Seen you for years-sittin’ up there on your porch. Must be one heck of a view.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s a good place to watch the world pass by, I guess.”

“Hmph. Better you should pass through the world.”

I stopped walking.

“What?” he asked.

“A blinding flash of the obvious,” I told him.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I think you are a very smart man.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you are right.” He laughed at my expression. “Come on. We’ll walk and you can compliment me. It’s a good plan.”

“I know your name,” I said as we left the park behind and moved toward Main Street and the poor neighborhoods that lined the tracks beyond.

“That right?”

“I just heard it around. Maxwell Creason, right?”

“Just Max.”

I held out my hand and he stopped, forcing me to stop alongside him. He held my eyes for an instant, then lifted up his hands to hold in front of my face. The fingers were broken and bent, twisted into claws, and I saw with horror that most of the nails had been ripped off.

“Jesus,” I said.

“You know my name,” he said. “And I don’t mean any offense when I say this, but let’s just leave it at that.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Look, I’m glad to talk to you-God knows, it’s been long enough-but I don’t reckon I know you well enough to talk about that.”

I stared down at his hands. They hung like deadwood at the ends of his arms.

“But…” I started.

“Why do you care?” he asked sharply.

“You interest me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Because you’re different.” I shrugged again, feeling the inadequacy of my words. “Because I believe you’ve never asked a person what he does for a living.”

“And that’s important to you?”

I thought about it. “I guess so.”

He began to shake his head.

“I want to know because you’re real.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I looked away from his face because there was a sudden nakedness there. “I’ve seen you, too, you know, here and there, walking. But I’ve never seen you with anybody else. I think there must be honesty in being that alone.”

“And you value that?”

I looked back at him. “I envy it.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you don’t know me, I guess. Because for once I’d like to be honest, too-tell somebody that I’d just as soon shoot my wife as look at her again, and that I’d gladly run over her friends on the street just to hear the thump.” I shrugged again. “Because I don’t think you’d judge me.”

Max Creason was not looking at me; he had turned away. “Ain’t no priest,” he told me.

“Sometimes things just need to be said.”

He shrugged. “So do something different.”

“That’s it? That’s your advice? Do something different?”

“Yes,” the park walker said. “Stop being a pussy.”

The word hung there between us, and on the other side was his face, his very serious face; and in the echo of that blunt honesty, I laughed. I laughed so hard, I almost split myself open; and long before I finished, Max Creason joined me.

Three hours later, I walked up my driveway wearing a blue T-shirt with black letters that read DIG MY ROOT and holding the leash of a nine-week-old yellow Lab I’d decided to call Bone. The Johnsons told me he was the pick of the litter, and I believed them. He was very much like my old dog.

I walked Bone to the backyard and saw my wife through the bathroom window. She wore Sunday church clothes and was practicing smiles in the mirror. I watched for a minute, then gave Bone some water and went inside. It was 9:45.

I found Barbara in the bedroom, clipping on her earrings as she bustled about, looking at the ground as if to find her shoes or the patience to deal with me. She didn’t look up, but her voice was chipper.

“I’m going to church. Are you coming?”

This was an old trick. Barbara rarely went to church, and when she did, it was because she knew I’d never go. It was a guilt trip.

“Nope. I’ve got plans.”

“What plans?” She finally looked at me. No other questions. No reference to our fight or to my infidelity.

“Guy stuff,” I told her.

“That’s nice, Work.” She started from the room, then stopped. “That’s just perfect.” She stormed out.

I followed her through the house and watched her grab her pocketbook and her keys and slam the door behind her. I poured a cup of coffee and waited. It took about five seconds.

The door flew open and Barbara scrambled inside, locking the door behind her and turning, horrified, to me. I leaned against the sink and sipped my coffee.