The Poplar Standard

"LET'S talk this thing out," Janice had said. "For good and all." And he had agreed. Not enthusiastically. He thought he knew what it would be like. She was going to be very calm, very noble, very much the long-suffering, patient wife who will go no farther.

"All right, my dear. If you want one more talk, I'm game. Just so it doesn't end in another row."

He became slightly noble himself. Now that it was all over with them he was suddenly courteous. He spoke to her in a tone he might have used toward any good-looking woman not his wife:

"Where would you like to sit while you pronounce sentence?"

She knew at once. She must have been thinking about that.

"Not here," she said. "Would you mind if we went down to the cabin?"

The cabin. How long had it been since he had seen the inside of that two-roomed affair beside the river?

This and what had made her want to go there, of all places?

"Not in the least," he said. "We'll need wraps."

They dressed for the raw December day and went out the west door.

Crossing the lawn she took his arm. That was unexpected. And also a little uncalled for, he thought, under the circumstances. Why should she make a game out of splitting up?

Thinking that, he stiffened and she felt it. But she did not release his arm.

"Remember the first time we came down here together?" she asked.

"Can't say I do."

"You mean you don't want to. It was after our honeymoon. And you held my arm." Her voice was low and uneven and somehow queer.

"Oh," he said. "What's the matter? Getting a cold?"

"No. Not used to fresh air, I suppose. It'll be all right soon."

"In the Nevada climate, you mean?" She did not answer. Maybe she hadn't meant that. To speak of the advantages of Reno while he remained East would not fit her present mood.

There had been times—plenty of them—when the important small niceties of conversation between them had been forgotten, giving way to bitterness and recrimination. But he admitted she had never been crude. To cover his own remark he said:

"Has the cabin been kept clean?"

"Quite. It's always in good order. No telling when someone might want to use it. There's some wood there, I'm sure. And you remember how that fireplace heats. Will."

"That's right. I do remember."

The worst of it was that he remembered too well, all at once. They had lived there—he and Jan—for a while after their honeymoon. The big house was too big. Too many people around. Too many distractions from each other. So they had moved to the cabin. . . . They had changed a great deal since then. Not in looks. Ten years wasn't very long. In themselves, somehow. But the cabin had not changed. It was precisely as it had been then. Seemed a bit smaller, but then time always does that to distances and dimensions. He busied himself with the kindling. There was only one big chunk of wood. Enough for a little while. The fire caught nicely. Jan held her hands to the growing flames. "Feels good," she said. And when the chill had been taken from the room she sat on the sofa and asked him, with a restrained, almost fearful little gesture, to sit beside her. He did, and waited—again very nobly—for her to begin this last talk she wanted.

At last she did. "This is where we started, Will," she said. "Here in this little two-by-four. Do you ever think about that time?"

"Thought of it just a moment ago," he admitted.

"We were happy then, weren't we?"

He shrugged.

"Suppose we were, Jan. But I'm afraid we haven't been very happy since."

"No, not very. . . . And why, Will? Do you know? How did we lose what we had then? Not that it makes any difference, of course. Here we are, and how we got here doesn't really matter, or even who's to blame. . . . Right, Will?"

"Right." He stared into the roaring fire and considered that she was being exceptionally calm. Better than he had hoped.

"The first day we came here you carried me through the doorway. *The first time we came here you carried me through the doorway, Will.* Somehow we could patch it up. Try again. But we've done that too often, haven't we?"

"Too often, Jan."

He couldn't help smiling at that. Jan really was in a state, to talk like that. But it disappeared when he turned toward her. She was so close to tears.

"And now, Will, look at us. We've made a wretched mess of things, haven't we?"

"Damned if we haven't." He was nearly noble enough to admit, furthermore, that it had been almost entirely his own fault, but he didn't. She might have agreed with him, and then the row would start. He was quiet for a long while, and then he said: "But fires do go out eventually, and I guess ours has."

"Yes. And what's the use of blowing on cold ashes? . . . But that's why I brought you here to the cabin, Will. I had the wild idea that"

The room was hushed, after that, for many minutes. Hushed, except for the crackling of the one big chunk and the rush of air through the chimney. And even that slowly decreased. The fire he had built and not replenished was burning out. Just like the fire Jan had spoken of. Burning out. It was a simple thing to throw more wood on a fire. But was it so simple to rekindle their own flame? He decided he was getting morbid.

There were only deep red embers between the andirons when she rose. "I told you last night that nothing would keep me from Reno," she said. "I meant it, then, but Will, I'll stay if you want me. I'll do my best to make us happy. We were once. Maybe, in some way, we could be again." She waited. He did not move; did not raise his eyes. The embers glowed.

"Will, I said I'd stay if you want me to."

Glowed.

"Must I get down on my knees to you? Is that what you want?"

Glowed dully.

"Too late, then. . . . All right, dear, I'll be packed and on my way in an hour. Would you—do you mind if I kiss you goodbye? Just for old times' sake. I—won't bother you any more."

He permitted it quite nobly, and when she had leaned and kissed him full on the lips he turned away from her and toward the fire once more. The door closed behind her.

An hour, she had said. Well, he would wait that long before going back to the house. No use having more farewells.

He did not stir for a long while, frowning at the fireplace. The one big chunk had only a tiny bit of redness along one edge. The rest was cold gray ash, smoking fitfully and not pretty to look at. She had been right. They had been exactly like the fire, blazing up for a time and then cooling to drabness.

"I won't bother you any more."

What had she meant by that? Never see him again? He realized suddenly that he WANTED to see her again. It wouldn't be right not to. You can't live with a person ten years and simply forget it, like that. Maybe they could even be good friends, after the divorce, and have some of the fun they missed before. Without the ties of marriage, or the restraints—

He knew he was being very foolish, thinking things like that. It was all over, and she would be strange and distant whenever—IF ever—they met. Friends? Hardly. Jan was out of his life for good—that was settled.

The cabin was getting cold. He had no idea how long he had been sitting alone. Was the hour up? He rose to stir his aching legs and considered hunting more wood for the fire. With the tongs he probed at the ashy big chunk and at his touch the wood which had seemed so cold—so lifeless—jumped into flames. Warm, surprising, beautiful.

A single touch had done that. HIS touch.

He gazed open-eyed. And then in quick, bounding leaps he ran up the hill and into the house. Up the stairs. Through a door he had not opened for so very long. The hour was not yet gone.

"Jan," he said. "...Jan, you're as slim as you ever were. I'll carry you over again."