The Bridges of Madison County / Мосты округа Мэдисон. Роберт Джеймс Уоллер

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to feel the old clumsiness he always suffered around women to whom he was attracted.

      Francesca

      Deep autumn was birthday time for Francesca, and cold rain beat against her house in the south Iowa countryside. She watched the rain, thinking of Richard. He had died on a day like this, eight years ago, from something with a name she would rather not remember. But Francesca thought of him now and his kindness, his steady ways[84], and the life he had given her.

      The children had called. Neither of them could come home again this year for her birthday, though it was her sixty-seventh. She understood, as she always did. Always had. Always would. They were both in midcareer, running hard[85], managing a hospital, teaching students, Michael starting his second marriage, Carolyn struggling with her first. Secretly she was glad they never seemed to arrange a visit on her birthday; she had her own ceremonies reserved for that day.

      This morning her friends from Winterset[86] had stopped by with a birthday cake. Francesca made coffee, while the talk ran to grandchildren and the town, to Thanksgiving[87] and what to get for Christmas for whom. The quiet laughter and the rise and fall of conversation from the living room were comforting and reminded Francesca of one small reason why she had stayed here after Richard's death.

      Michael had touted Florida, Carolyn New England. But she had remained in the hills of south Iowa, on the land, keeping her old address for a special reason, and she was glad she had done that.

      Francesca had watched her friends leave at lunchtime. They drove their Buicks and Fords[88] down the lane, turned onto the paved county road, and headed toward Winterset, wiper blades[89] pushing aside the rain. They were good friends, though they would never understand what lay inside of her, would not understand even if she told them.

      Her husband had said she would find good friends, when he brought her here after the war, from Naples[90]. He said, “Iowans have their faults, but one of them is not lack of caring[91].” And that was true, is true.

      She had been twenty-five when they met – out of the university for three years, teaching at a private school for girls, wondering about her life. Most of the young Italian men were dead or injured or in POW[92] camps. Her affair with Niccolo, a professor of art at the university, who painted all day and took her on wild, reckless tours of the underside of Naples at night, had been over for a year, by the strong disapproval of her traditional parents.

      She wore ribbons in her black hair and had her sweet dreams. But no handsome sailors were looking for her, no voices came up to her window from the streets below. Finally, she recognized that her choices were limited. Richard offered a reasonable alternative: kindness and the sweet promise of America.

      She had studied him in his soldier's uniform as they sat in a cafe in the Mediterranean sunlight, saw him looking earnestly at her in his way, and came to Iowa with him. Came to have his children, to watch Michael play football on cold October nights, to take Carolyn to Des Moines for her prom dresses. She exchanged letters with her sister in Naples several times each year and had returned there twice, when each of her parents had died. But Madison County was home now, and she had no wish to go back again.

      The rain stopped in mid-afternoon, then resumed its ways just before evening. In the twilight, Francesca poured a small glass of brandy and opened the bottom drawer of Richard's desk. She took out a manila envelope[93] and brushed her hand across it slowly, as she did each year on this day.

      The postmark read “Seattle, WA[94], Sep 12 '65.” She always looked at the postmark first. That was part of the ritual. Then to the address written in longhand[95]: “Francesca Johnson, RR 2, Winterset, Iowa.” Next the return address, carelessly scrabbled in the upper left: “Box 642, Bellingham, Washington.” She sat in a chair by the window, looked at the addresses which contained the movement of his hands, and she wanted to bring back the feel of those hands on her twenty-two years ago.

      When she could feel his hands touching her, she opened the envelope, carefully removed three letters, two photographs, and a complete issue of National Geographic along with clippings from other issues of the magazine. There, in gray light, she sipped her brandy, looking over the rim of her glass to the handwritten note clipped on one of the letters. The letter was on his stationery, that said only “Robert Kincaid, Writer-Photographer” at the top.

      September 10, 1965

      Dear Francesca,

      Enclosed are two photographs. One is the shot I took of you in the pasture at sunrise. I hope you like it as much as I do. The other is of Roseman Bridge before I removed your note tacked to it.

      I sit here recalling every detail, every moment, of our time together. I ask myself over and over, “ What happened to me in Madison County, Iowa?” And I struggle to bring it together.

      I look down the barrel of a lens[96], and you're at the end of it. I begin work on an article, and I'm writing about you. I'm not even sure how I got back herefrom Iowa. Somehow the old truck brought me home, yet I barely remember the miles going by.

      A few weeks ago, I felt self-contained[97], reasonably content. Maybe not really happy, maybe a little lonely, but at least content. All of that has changed.

      It's clear to me now that I have been moving toward you and you toward me for a long time. Though neither of us was aware of the other before we met, there was a kind of mindless certainty[98] that we would come together. Like two solitary birds flying the great prairies, all of these years and lifetimes we have been moving toward one another.

      The road is a strange place. Driving along, I looked up and you were there walking across the grass toward my truck on an August day. In retrospect, it seems inevitable – it could not have been any other way – a case of what I call the high probability of the improbable[99].

      So here I am walking around with another person inside of me. And I am stalked now by that other entity[100].

      Somehow, we must see each other again. Anyplace, anytime[101].

      Call me if you ever need anything or simply want to see me. I'll be there, pronto[102]. Let me know if you can come out here sometime – anytime. I can arrange plane fare, if that's a problem. I'm off to southeast India next week, but I'll be back in late October.

      I Love You,

      Robert

      P. S. The photo project in Madison County turned out fine. Look for it in NG[103] next year. Or tell me if you want me to send a copy of the issue when it's published.

      Francesca Johnson set her brandy glass on the wide oak windowsill and stared at an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of herself. Sometimes it was hard for her to remember how she had looked then, twenty-two years ago. In tight fadedjeans, sandals, and a white T-shirt, her hair blowing in the morning wind as she leaned against a fence post[104].

      Through the rain, from her place by the window, she could see the post where the old fence still went around the pasture. When she rented out the land, after

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