Where the God of Love Hangs Out: Fiction by Amy Bloom Read Free Book Online Page A

indigo, Clare lit two dozen candles and they got into their pile of quilts and pillows.
    “All right,” William said. “Let’s have it. You’re shipwrecked on a desert island. Who do you want to be with—me or Nelson Slater?”
    “Oh my God,” Clare says. “Nelson. Of course.”
    “Good choice. He did a great job with the firewood.”
    William kept the fire going all night. Every hour, he had to roll sideways and crouch and then steady himself and then pull himself up with his cane and then balance himself, and because Clare was watching and worried, he had to do it all with the appearance of ease. Clare lay in the dark and tried to move the blankets far to one side so they wouldn’t tangle William’s feet.
    “You’re not actually helping,” he said. “I know where the blankets are, so I can easily step over them. And then, of course, you move them.”
    “I feel bad,” Clare said.
    “I’m going to break something if you keep this up.”
    “Let me help,” Clare said.
    When the cold woke them, Clare handed William the logs. They talked about whether or not it was worth it to use the turkey carcass for soup and if they could really make a decent soup in the fireplace. William said that people had cooked primarily in hearths until the late eighteenth century. William told Clare about his visit to his cardiologist and the possible levels of fitness William could achieve. (“A lot of men your age walk five miles a day,” the doctor said. “My father-in-law got himself a personal trainer, and he’s eighty.”) Clare said maybe they could walk to the diner on weekends. They talked about Clare’s sons, Adam and Danny, and their wives and the two grandchildren and they talked about William’s daughter, Emily, and her pregnancy and the awful man she’d married (“I’d rather she’d taken the veil,” William said. “Little Sisters of Gehenna”). When the subject came up, William and Clare said nice things about the people they used to be married to.
    *  *  *
    It had taken William and Clare five years to end their marriages. William’s divorce lawyer was the sister of one of William’s old friends. She was William’s age, in a sharp black suit and improbably black hair and bloodred nails. Her only concession to age was black patent flats, and William was sure that most of her life, this woman had been stalking and killing wild game in stiletto heels.
    “So,” she said. “You’ve been married thirty-five years. Well, look, Dr. Langford—”
    “‘Mister’ is fine,” William said. “‘William’ is fine.”
    “‘Bill’?” the woman said and William shook his head no and she smiled and made a note.
    “Just kidding. It’s like this. Unless your wife is doing crack cocaine or having sex with young girls and barnyard animals, what little you have will be split fifty-fifty.”
    “That’s fine, Mrs. Merrill,” William said.
    “Not really,” the woman said. “Call me Louise. Your wife obviously got a lawyer long before you did. I got a fax today, a list of personal property your wife believes she’s entitled to. Oil paintings, a little jewelry, silverware.”
    “That’s fine. Whatever it is.”
    “It’s not fine. But let’s say you have no personal attachment to any of these items. And let’s say it’s all worth about twenty thousand dollars. Let’s have her give you twenty thousand dollars, and you give her the stuff. There’s no reason for us to just roll over and put our paws up in the air.”
    “Whatever she wants,” William said. “You should know, I’m not having sex with a graduate student. Or with porn stars.”
    “I believe you,” Mrs. Merrill said. “You may as well tell me—it’ll all come out in the wash. Who are you having sex with?”
    “Her name is Clare Wexler. She teaches. She’s a very fine teacher. She makes me laugh. She can be a difficult person,” he said, beaming, as if he were detailing her beauty. “You’d like her.” William wiped his