He told her what Mike had said in the dark, about fishing. About the boy. Somebody's got to teach that kid how to do things.
She didn't cry while he talked. She sat very straight with her hands wrapped around her own mug, and she listened, and when he was finished she was quiet for a long time.
"He pushed you," she said.
"Yes."
"He pushed you out."
"Yes."
"Because there wasn't room for both of you."
"There might have been. If I'd been faster. If I'd —"
"Stop." She set the mug down. "Stop it. Don't you dare. Don't you dare sit at my kitchen table and tell me my husband didn't know exactly what he was doing." Her voice cracked then, for the first time, and steadied. "He knew. Mike always knew what he was doing. That was the most annoying thing about him. He did crosswords in pen."
"I know," Carter said. "I know he did."
And then she cried. Not for long. She put her face in her hands and cried for perhaps a minute, hard, with her shoulders shaking, and he sat across from her and did not touch her and did not look away, and when she was done she wiped her face with a dish towel and got up and put the kettle on again, and said, with her back to him, "You're not going to Arizona."
"I'm sorry?"