Simon read the email several times. He stared at it, seeing not the words but the spaces between them, looking at the screen as if it were a newly discovered Caravaggio and he the curator. He stood up and walked to the window, turned around and went back to his desk, where he sat again, looking for the word he was certain was missing. Your wife is having an affair, the message read. A typo, surely, Simon thought. A mistake. The sender must have meant to insert the critical not within that compound verb — Your wife is not having an affair — but in his haste had neglected to proof his work. And so Simon was left to do that for him.

The email had only a subject line, a simple Game point. The writer was Eli, Simon’s brother. It was, after all, supposed to be a game. They’d always played games, Simon and Eli, ever since Simon, the elder, had found himself a half-head shorter than Eli, the younger by eighteen months. “I’ll bet you can’t climb that fence.” “I’ll bet I can swim across the river.” When they learned to play tennis, they wanted to play only against each other, even when the coach threatened to reassign their spots on the club’s youth team.

“I’ll bet you can’t follow Lisette around for a whole day without her noticing,” Simon had said one afternoon. “I’ll bet you two hundred dollars.” They were in the kitchen, Simon layering ricotta cheese and macaroni while the oven preheated. Eli, who might have been expected to ask why, instead asked if there were any particular day Simon had in mind or if he should just choose one on his own. After all, it wasn’t something that Simon himself could do himself. Simon’s life went no farther than the eight rooms he shared with Lisette or, on particularly optimistic days, on the front porch or, after Lisette herself over a three-day weekend meticulously laid paving bricks in a precisely symmetrical herringbone pattern, the backyard patio. It had been almost two years since Simon walked — scuttled, really, on that last afternoon — as far as the mailbox, returning flushed and dizzy, barely able to catch his breath. Agoraphobia is treatable, Lisette kept insisting, but Simon would cancel each appointment.

Simon had forgotten the wager. Then Eli’s email arrived.

What did she do all day? Simon had replied. Was it today? What did you find out? It was only natural, he thought, to want to know everything. Tell me what you saw, he wrote, but in his hurry he conflated the words, so what Eli saw was, Tel whtusaw.

Simon leaned into his monitor, clicking on the mail icon every few minutes, as if he’d forgotten that the program brought his messages to the screen on its own. When hours later Lisette unlocked the front door, he was still at his desk, the lights off. Eli, Eli, answer, he wrote, while Lisette took off her shoes — he could hear her open the closet door and toss them in — and carried groceries into the kitchen — the plastic shopping bags crackling as she walked. She didn’t know he was home. He could hear her open the refrigerator, the glass bottles clink against the glass shelves, she mutter to herself — the house, though large, offered little privacy: one room led into another, the upstairs hall opened onto the foyer below, and every sound carried to all the rooms throughout. It was the one flaw he’d missed in the design, keeping him always aware of his wife, of what she said and did. And that knowledge, that awareness, had become a habit.

She was climbing the stairs now, singing softly to herself. She still thought she was alone. Now, he thought. Now. “Lisette?”

Silence. What thought had he interrupted? Again, he called her name.

“Oh. Simon. I didn’t know you were home. Why didn’t you say something? And why are you sitting in the dark?”

Are these questions that I have to answer? Simon thought. He waited until she reached his door and he could see her, the light from the window, faint as it might be, illuminating her form. He could see the expression on her face, the wonder at finding her husband sitting by himself in the near dark.

“How was your day?” he said. She continued to stand at the door, leaning against the frame, but reached in from where she stood and flicked the light switch, so that suddenly they were both sharply outlined.

“Were you napping?” she said. She should be fidgeting, he thought, pulling at her sleeves, biting her lip. Anything but standing there in the doorway to his study, looking put out.

“How was your day?” he repeated. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Nothing special. Work.”

“Tell me exactly. Everything you did.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Lisette sighed. “I just walked in the door, Simon. Let me change at least.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but turned impatiently and went into their bedroom. He heard the bathroom door close and the lock turn. A minute later he heard the shower. He went downstairs. “I can’t just stand here listening,” he thought. There was a bottle of Glenlivet 21, still in its box, on a shelf in the hall closet. He took it into the kitchen and poured a generous shot into a juice glass, drank it in two quick gulps, then put the bottle under the sink behind the pipes. He took a deep breath and thought about starting dinner, which had now become his responsibility. He could hear Lisette walking around upstairs — their bedroom was over the kitchen — and wondered how long she’d be, how much time he had to practice what he would say to her. He was so caught up that he didn’t hear the bottom step creak as she came down the stairs and so was startled when he turned around and suddenly she was there, in a lose shirt and sweatpants, her face pink from her shower.

“Who did you think it would be?” she asked. “It’s just the two of us here, after all.”

And that other one, Simon thought. That one whose name he would ask Eli to figure out, for an extra fifty, cash — two hundred if he came up with an address and phone number.

“And you haven’t even put away the groceries. Or started dinner.”

“I thought we’d go out.” He hadn’t thought any such thing. “I thought Truvo’s.”

She stared at him, hands on her hips. “I’ll make sandwiches,” she finally said, and Simon knew from the detachment of her stare that he’d just given her all the reason she needed for whatever she’d done. He wondered how long he’d be able to keep his eyes locked on hers.

“I thought we’d go out for dinner. So you could tell me. Exactly. How. You. Spent. Your. Day.” Simon’s voice was soft — if Lisette had been across the room she might not have heard him. As it was, she did hear him. Very. Well. And in the time it took him to get each word out, she decided there was no point in deception.

“He’s no one, actually. It’s not a big deal.”

What Simon had expected was denial: You’ve got to be kidding. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. You’re spending too much time alone. On second thought, of course let’s go out — you need a break. Or declaration: I fell in love. I couldn’t help myself. It’s bigger than both of us. What he didn’t expect was indifference.

“How did you find out?”

“Eli saw you.”

“Eli said he saw me?” Disbelief — Simon had forgot about that one.

He should have asked where. He should be able to tell her that, to prove it. He could tell her that Eli had told him but he had forgotten. It would be hard to put forth the case for his hurt and anguish if he had to admit that his brother hadn’t told him where. Hadn’t actually given him a single particular, hardly even hinted. He would be better off throwing it back at her: And you know where. But that could lead to childish argument: Do not. Do, too. What he said was this: “I didn’t ask him where or even when or how often. I couldn’t stand that he knew.”

“Knew what?”

Simon wasn’t sure how to answer.

“He said he saw me doing what?”

What indeed? Had Eli said anything even remotely definitive? thought Simon, shrugging shoulders, his hands lifted slightly, palms out as if in supplication.

Lisette, who had taken a defensive posture, her chest thrust out with her arms at her sides, ready for anything, squared her shoulders. “So he just called you out of the blue and said he saw me, and you from that deduced what?”

“That you’re having an affair. You just said so.”

“No I did not. What I said was that I spent part of the day with someone.” Lisette’s brow creased, as if straining to come up with the right answer. “So fucking what?”

Too late, Simon realized the untenability of his position. She was upright again, ready to take him on, that first dull “fucking” just a taste of what was to come. He started to unload one of the grocery bags, stacking the perishables on the counter next to the refrigerator.

“Well?” she said.

How had she done that? he wondered. Twisted his well-practiced self-righteousness until it all seemed to be his fault. “How about going out for dinner?”

“No need,” she said, grabbing the keys from the pegboard and darting out to the porch, where he expected her to wait for him. Just in case. Just in case today would be different. He had just found his shoes when he heard her car pull out of the garage. She gunned the engine as she shifted from reverse into first gear. Damn, he thought. Nonetheless, he felt some relief and set about emptying the grocery bags, folding each one so it could be used again. The proposed excursion would have ended as others had: Simon standing in the doorway, calling, “You know what? Let’s just get something delivered.”
When he went back upstairs there were two messages from Eli waiting for him. The first said simply, She has someone. The second, with the subject Sorry said, Need another day. Tell you more tmrw? Am sorry, bro. Simon wasn’t sure which he wanted less:  confirmation of Lisette’s affair or the humiliation of its coming from his brother. He hit reply and wrote, Not necessary. Was her cousin — downstairs now, having din w/us. All is well. btw, you win, will mail check. Then he logged out.

At eleven o’clock he turned on the outside lights and went upstairs, resisting the urge to start calling her friends and feign worry when in fact all he wanted was to know where she’d gone and whether she’d be back. He called Lisette’s cell but he was immediately routed to voicemail. Eli didn’t have a cell phone. Not that he would call Eli, not that he would say he didn’t know where his wife was, not that he really needed Eli to keep track of her.

He was in the kitchen boiling water for the coffee press. It was 7 a.m., early for him. Had Lisette been there, she might have expected to still have the house to herself. His hair was matted and his clothes were rumpled and musty, as if he’d pulled them out of the laundry hamper. When the doorbell rang, he was sure it was her, that she’d forgotten her key again and had seen him through the kitchen window, the lights having been left on. He opened the door with a mixture of reluctance and anticipation, his breath quick and shallow.

“Sir, my name is Jonathan. I am wondering whether you are ready to accept God within your heart today?” The young man standing on the porch was slight, almost wraithlike, with sandy blond hair in a neat buzz cut.

“Excuse me?”

Shifting from foot to foot in an awkward two-step, the boy started again. “Sir, I am wondering. . . .”

“I heard you. It’s just — Jonathan is it? You’re asking me seriously? At seven in the morning?”

“Your lights are on,” Jonathan said. He’d wanted a dry run, a chance to try out the patter that the hall’s visiting missionary had drilled him on, so that later in the day when he went out with the other new witnesses, he’d be the one to know what to say. It wasn’t vanity, he’d told himself. It was a better way to serve.

Simon regarded him for a moment. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d like to talk with you about God’s good news.”

Talk with you — Simon noted the locution. Talk with, not talk to — the implication being an exchange of ideas and this interested him. They would discuss the word of God, he and this vaguely charming missionary, dressed in a starched white shirt, black tie, and black pants with a sharp crease. His voice was delicate, still devoid of maturity’s roughness. The first soft rays of sunlight were stretching out over the lawn — the dew hadn’t burned off, the sky wasn’t quite blue.  Simon thought how nice it would be to sit on the steps and talk with someone, with this boy. He excused himself and turned off the burner. Instead of coffee, he poured two glasses of Acqua Panna and carried them outside.

“I brought you some water,” Simon said, a feeling of unease rising through him.

Jonathan stood on the bottom step now, leaning against the rail. He riffled through a worn canvas messenger bag, pulling out an assortment of booklets. “Sir, I have some literature I’d like to share with you. It’s customary, but not necessary, to make a small donation for each one.” He held them out, but Simon, a glass in each hand, shook his head. They were, Simon knew, at a standoff, Jonathan with his pamphlets, Simon with his drinks. It was Simon who would have to act. To insist that the boy come back up to the porch, to indicate the wicker chairs that Lisette had lacquered cherry red, would appear to signal receptivity, might lead to another visit the next day and the day after. Simon felt his ankles tingle, like a swarm of moths flittering inside the cuff of his pants as he took a stiff step forward, then another to the edge of the porch, and another down to the first riser, then the second, the third, where, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, he knew he had to stop. He breathed deeply for a few moments, until he felt himself relaxing, even enjoying the heat of the sun blanketing his shoulders. If Lisette came home now, she’d see him there, on the middle step of the porch, debating the spiritual route to earthly paradise.

“There is a plan, sir. Did you know that? For the sake of your eternal soul, we’re hoping that you will accept Jesus into your heart and follow his plan. It is the only path to salvation. These are last days. You can still repent your sins and dedicate yourself to our Lord.” Jonathan hoped his face radiated the intensity of his belief.

He had taken the glass that Simon offered and put it on the railing, holding out the booklets again, almost thrusting them against Simon’s chest. Simon stepped back up to the porch. This wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted, he realized, had nothing to do with the salvation of his soul. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,” said Simon.

Jonathan missed the vague impatience of Simon’s tone, heard only the words, and still thought he’d made a good choice in stopping at this house first. “We’ve all made mistakes. We all have reasons to repent. But God has sent me to you. He loves you. He loves murderers and liars and adulterers. There is no sin that God will not forgive for the truly repentant. This is the way to heaven.”

“No, I mean you’ve made a mistake. I’d be happy to talk with you, but not to have you talk like this.”

This is called, ‘witnessing’.” Jonathan looked uneasy now. Sweat glinted on his forehead; the pamphlets shook in one unsteady hand while he sipped at the water, some of which dribbled onto his shirtfront. The missionary had told them that they might have such encounters, that they should wait for an opportunity to redirect the conversation, that these are the people whose conversion is the most rewarding.

“How old are you?” Simon asked, and Jonathan swallowed hard.

“It doesn’t make any difference, sir.”

“I know, but how old are you?”

“Seventeen. But I’ve already been saved. I’m out this morning to spread the good word.” Again he tried to thrust his pamphlets into Simon’s hands, his tremor increasing the longer Simon wouldn’t take them. “If you’d like, you can witness to me,” the boy said. “It would be a start.”

Simon felt a surge of triumph. He could pull the boy off script now, make him listen while Simon spoke, while Simon tested the purity of his intentions, while Simon led him through justifications of each presumption until his beliefs were worn to platitudes. But, he decided, it wasn’t right at this time. “Whatever it’s called, please take it down the road. Finish your water if you’d like,” he told the boy.

“God can help you fight your desires.”

It wasn’t his desires that he had to fight, Simon thought. He went back into the house, turning off the porch lights and then the kitchen lights. He bolted the door, though he knew this wasn’t necessary. He went upstairs and checked for messages on both his cell phone and the house line, in case he hadn’t heard the ring, then logged in to his email. Without thinking, he picked up his cell phone and hit redial. This is what you do if your wife is lost, he thought. You try to find her.

“Hello?” The voice was even more familiar than Lisette’s.

“Eli? Why do you have Lisette’s phone?”

“Shit, Simon. I thought you were Lisette. She left her phone. She. . . .”

Simon cut him off. “You mean you took her phone. As proof.” He heard only Eli’s light breathing. “I don’t understand,” he said, although as he heard Lisette’s car turn into the gravel drive he understood very well. He stepped back onto the porch and saw that Jonathan was already across the street, approaching someone else’s door. It seemed like hours, Lisette’s car idling at the foot of the drive, until she cut the ignition and, in what seemed like slow motion, got out. They faced each other over the expanse of the lawn, a pungency of spring grass and jasmine mixing on the breeze.

“I called you just a second ago,” he said.

She frowned. “No, you didn’t.” She patted her pockets, searching.

“You didn’t hear it ring because you don’t have it with you.”

Lisette shook her head. For a moment it looked as if her composure might slip. Then her lips curled, and she met his look. “It’s in the car,” she said, crossing her arms.

“I just called your number and spoke with Eli.” Simon wasn’t sure where he wanted this to go, but he knew it had to go somewhere. There had to be a resolution.

“It’s in the car,” she said again. “Come look.”

It was a taunt, that “Come look,” and he knew it.

“Come look, Simon.” She strutted back and forth, daring him. “No? Well, I can look. I can go anywhere I want. I can even do this.” She took a few running steps into a cartwheel that brought her nearly to the hedge that divided their lawn from their neighbor’s. “Come on, Simon.” She was breathless now, her hair matted against her sweaty skin, bits of dew-slick grass stuck to her palms. “I say my phone’s in the car. See for yourself.”

He strode into the kitchen and brought his cell phone back out, holding it up as with a flourish he pressed each of the nine numbers, then hit speakerphone at full volume so that the thrum-thrum-thrum echoed across the street, where Jonathan, standing on another porch, turned toward him at the sound. Then Lisette’s voice chanting the mechanical, “I’m not here to take your call. Please leave your name and number at the beep.” Then Jonathan, turning away to press the doorbell, hand raised as if in benediction. Then Lisette, mouth slightly open, pulling her hair away from her neck. Then the long, insistent tone and Simon panting into the mouthpiece while Lisette shut the car door behind her. Then Simon left on the porch, waiting for his phone to ring, for Eli to call him back.