``I'll stay with her,'' her husband said, both firm and evasive in his way, avoiding the question with an appearance of meeting it, and appearing selfless in order to shame her. But she felt the smile on her face persist as undeniably, as unerasably, as the sun on the field. Rob's face clouded, gathering itself to speak; Rafe interrupted, apologizing, blaming their slowness upon himself and his defective bindings. For a moment that somehow made her shiver inside--perhaps no more than the flush of exertion meeting the chill blue shade of the woods, here at the edge--the two men stood together, intent upon the mechanism, her presence forgotten. Rob found the misadjustment, and Rafe's skis came off no more.

In the woods, Rob and Jennifer fell behind, and Rafe slithered ahead, hurrying to catch up to his children and, beyond them, to his wife and Evan. Betty tried to stay with her husband and child, but they were too maddening--one whining, the other frowning, and neither grateful for her company. She let herself ski ahead, and became alone in the woods, aware of distant voices, the whisper of her skis, the soft companionable heave of her own breathing. Pine trunks shifted about, one behind another and then another, aligned and not aligned, shadowy harmonies. Here and there the trees grew down into the path; a twig touched her eye, so lightly she was surprised to find pain lingering, and herself crying. She came to an open place where paths diverged. Here Rafe was waiting for her; thin, leaning on his poles, he seemed a shadow among others. ``Which way do you think they went?'' He shounded breathless and acted lost. His wife and her lover had escaped him.

``Left is the way to get back to the car,'' she said.

``I can't tell which are their tracks,'' he said.

``I'm sorry,'' Betty said.

``Don't be.'' He relaxed on his poles, and made no sign of moving. ``Where is Rob?'' he asked.

``Coming. He took over dear Jennifer for me. I'll wait, you go on.''

``I'll wait with you. It's too scary in here. Do you want that book?'' The sentences followed one another evenly, as if consequentially.

From Updike, ``A constellation of events''