Advice for Frank

The brochure had been on Frank's kitchen table for three weeks. It showed a white town on a hill above a blue sea, with orange roofs and a narrow street of steps going down to the water. PORTUGAL IN SPRING, it said. SIX WEEKS. SLOW TRAVEL FOR SENIORS.

Frank had moved it four times: to the counter, to the window sill, under the newspaper, under the cat, who had lived with them for twelve years and was the only one in the house who never offered an opinion. Each time, the next morning, Margaret moved it back to the middle of the table.

On a Sunday in November, she put her coffee cup on top of it.

"Frank," she said. "I have been patient for forty-one years."

"I know."

"I waited while you taught teenagers for thirty-one years. I waited while you taught in Room 4. I waited in hospital cafeterias. I'm seventy-one. You're sixty-four. Your heart is fine now, the cardiologist says so. The doctors don't say 'fine' to people our age very often." She pushed the brochure toward him. "March and April. Six weeks. I want to see the sea before my knees decide I can't climb those steps."

Frank looked at the white town on the hill.

"And Tuesdays?" he said.

Margaret looked at him for a long moment.

"That," she said, "is exactly the problem, isn't it?"