Complicated Truths

At the risk of immediately disqualifying myself, I’ll admit that I don’t remember the title. Or the author. It was in The Atlantic, around 1994. I was in my mid-twenties, living in Flint, Michigan, working as a newspaper reporter, soon to no longer be a newspaper reporter.

I would have read the story on my rust-colored sectional sofa, or in bed, in the 1920s-era apartment I rented for $450 a month, which included a spot in the garage. My now-husband and I kissed for the first time just outside that garage.

The story was set in an upscale, mid-sized town where—I’ll just give her a name—Amy is a real estate agent. She’s been having an affair with (let’s call him) David, a prominent man who plans to leave his wife, he tells Amy, just as soon as he can. Then David drops dead of a heart attack during a game of squash. Amy doesn’t find out until after the funeral is over. Her lover is simply gone. She can’t talk about it with anyone; their affair had been secret. There is no outlet for her grief. Then, some months after his death, David’s wife contacts Amy—to sell the home they had shared and raised their children in. She’s apparently ready to move on, a resolution Amy has been thoroughly denied.

The climactic scene: Amy, in real estate agent mode, goes to the house. She trails behind as the wife walks around, talking about square footage and half bathrooms. Surrounded by David’s things, seeing the fullness of the life he’d led without her, Amy realizes with crushing certainty the imbalance of their love. He’d been her most important relationship, yet she’d settled for so little from him. Finally, Amy blurts out a detail that reveals their affair. I don’t remember what the detail was, but I’ll never forget the wife’s response: she turns toward Amy and says coolly, “Yes, I thought there was someone.” Amy knows then, and perhaps always knew, that David was never going to leave his wife. That moment marks Amy’s first step out of mourning.

When I read this story, big, undefined changes were rushing at me—some new career, perhaps a new city, potential new love. I was susceptible to the thought that, Whoa, none of this may turn out the way you think. This story mesmerized me because I wanted bracing truths about life’s complications, not useless reassurances. I still do. Even if I have shamefully forgotten its title, this story showed me that great fiction is a place where I could always find that.