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She’d already had the one cigarette she allowed herself each day as an indulgence, Nancy had, but now she was considering treating herself to another, and even that would make Sid angry, which was why she was always careful to stub out the butt and take it with her when she finished, burying it deep inside the coffee grounds where it wouldn’t be seen. And Nan was always scolding her about it, how they told her in school that it was bad for you and would kill you. I don’t want anything to happen to you, she would say. Which is why she always waited until Nan was at school.

So Nancy lit up, tucking the pack back in her purse (Sid hadn’t started searching that yet), while the radio chatted away in the background. It’s twenty-three minutes past nine on this fine Tuesday morning, December 14, 1965, here on thirteen-ten, WIFE—the home of the Good Guys! Lee Masters, keeping you company this morning. Remember, only eleven shopping days until Christmas, folks, so if you haven’t started yet, better get moving! And to put you in the holiday spirit, here’s a little sparkle from Bobby Helms and his “Jingle Bell Rock.” The jolliness didn’t reach her. She thought of the station’s billboard she’d seen the other day: While you’re away, we’ll be here with your WIFE.

Well, there was always that.

A rap at the back door; Trudy, from down the street. Now that they’d gotten their girls off to school and their husbands off to work, she’d come over for some serious business. Nancy waved her in, turning at the same time to grab another coffee cup from the cabinet. Trudy wasn’t a close friend—the kind you’d trust with your innermost secrets (a fact Trudy was about to demon-strate)—but Jill and Nan went to school together, and occasionally Trudy and her husband Jerry would come over, and the four of them would play bridge on the card table in the living room.

They sat down at the kitchen table, smoking and drinking coffee while catching up on the latest gossip. There was an extra excitement in Trudy’s voice, and it soon became obvious why.

—You’ll never guess what I heard, she said.

—What?

Trudy looked both ways, as if she’d stopped at a railroad crossing, and when she spoke it was in a voice too low for anyone to overhear, even though there was nobody else on the street and you’d have had to plant a bug, like those Red spies, to catch her.

—Debbie... she began, then stopped, teasing.

—Yes?

—You know that good-looking young man who’s been working on the yard over at Mrs. Callahan’s? The one who works in his T-shirt when it really gets hot?

Nancy nodded, and when Trudy held the note for a beat, she exclaimed—No!, suddenly figuring out where it was going.

—Yes! Trudy said.

—Where did you hear that?

—Dorothy said she saw him over there.

—Maybe he’s just doing some work for her. Her husband’s awfully busy, you know.

—Not that kind of work, Trudy said. —She said she saw him going in the side door, the one that leads to the kitchen. Said he kept looking around, like he was making sure nobody saw him. Now why would he be doing that if it was something all that innocent, if there wasn’t…

Nancy listened with growing excitement. This was real news, not like the stories she heard on TV about blackouts and rockets and the war in Vietnam. She didn’t mean to be rude to those families who’d lost someone in the war, but she didn’t know any of them personally, not like the people in her own neighborhood. And besides, the death of a marriage was just as much a tragedy, in its own way, as the death of a soldier somewhere nobody’d ever heard of until a few years ago. Later on, as she was cleaning up after Trudy had gone to her next stop, she would think about it some more. Pretty soon everyone on the block would know that Debbie was getting some afternoon delight from Mrs. Callahan’s gardener. Everyone but Tom, her husband, that is. Oh, he’d find out about it eventually, when someone slipped up and made a mistake. But for now…

—and he’s at least ten years younger than she is, Trudy was concluding.

—I suppose she’s entitled to her fun, Nancy said.

—Aren’t we all?

True enough.

The talk stayed pleasant for a while—about the Ayres windows downtown, the grocer’s new stock of ribbon candy, how hard it was to find wrapping paper that didn’t look cheap this year. Then somehow Sid’s name came up. His long nights at the office, mentioned in that tone that could be either admiration or something else, depending on how you heard it. Someone had said business wasn’t as good as it used to be. Trudy smiled, drawing it out. —You’re too wild, Nancy. Always rushing here and there.

Said half in jest, half in reproof. Then, with that small satisfied look of hers: —I saw you got that new washing machine. Sid must be doing all right.

—Oh, that. The old one was about to fall apart.

—Still. You’re lucky.

Nancy smiled and let it go. After Trudy left, the kitchen felt heavier—or maybe it was just the cigarette smoke hanging around—and she cracked the window to let the outside air in. Too bad it couldn’t clear out the doubts that weighed on her mind. There had been no choice about the washing machine, even though she’d had to fight to convince Sid about it. She wasn’t about to lug three baskets of dirty clothes to the laundromat every week. So it was nice, but exciting?

It would be nice, she thought, to have something to look forward to. Not like a reward exactly, just something she could get excited about, knowing it was out there somewhere, waiting for her. In a way, it would be more about the anticipation than the event itself, and she wondered if she even needed the event, or if the anticipation alone would suffice—if there were some way to keep pushing it just far enough into the future.

Probably not, she decided; eventually, anticipation would eat her alive unless there was some way to let it out, like steam from a pressure cooker. Looking at the tree in the living room, sparkling in the morning sun, she remembered how she’d looked forward to Christmas as a girl—and how Nan did now.

And that was the point: sooner or later, there had to be a payoff. Unless you could keep fooling yourself into believing it was just around the corner. Her thoughts turned to Debbie, cheating on her husband with that to-die-for handyman, wondering if she’d felt the same way until she decided to act on it, leaving Tom holding the bag. Tom, that poor fool, who from all appearances didn’t deserve to be played like a sap. Maybe it was the lure of the forbidden, the secretiveness (or so Debbie might have thought, though who knew how many people knew by now), that made it exciting. The thought of it sent a shiver through her, though she couldn’t tell if it came from fear or excitement—or both. So many things could go wrong. Against that, how do you measure any possible good that might come of it? Then again, how do you weigh the anticipation against the event itself? The event might not be worth it, but what about the preview of coming attractions?

She awoke with a start.

Her daydream had carried her off for a few minutes—more than a few; it was just past noon, time to start the laundry. Have a quick bite, get that going, then start on dinner. Then walk over to school to meet Nan at three, and walk her back home. Odd, considering what she’d just been thinking—about not having anything to look forward to—that she didn’t look forward to her daily walk. Not that she resented Nan, or disliked their reunion—God no, she adored her. It was the event itself, she thought, not the consequence of it. It came as an unwelcome interruption to the day, even though it didn’t really interrupt anything. Was she projecting, she wondered, imagining it interrupted not the day itself but the potential of the day—the chance it might become something else? Even if she had somewhere to go, something to do, someone to see, the school walk would prevent it. At least for a couple of years, until Nan was old enough to walk by herself or take the bus.

There was no question that would be something to look forward to. The question was whether she could wait that long for satisfaction.