If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

that.”

“Will you stop!” A. P. Hill shook her head. “This is not how people facing a murder charge ought to talk. You should be contrite, tearful. You should be terribly sorry that you were overcome by emotion. You should be grieving for your loss.”

“Oh, honey, I did all that when we went through the divorce. All I did this morning was finalize the decree.”

“But why did you shoot them? Lots of women end up being divorced after years of marriage, and they don’t resort to violence. Why didn’t you just say, ‘Screw the bastard,’ and get on with your life? That’s what a jury will want to know.”

Eleanor Royden smiled bitterly. “Why? Because my husband considered divorce trials a blood sport.”

MACPHERSON & HILL ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW DANVILLE , VIRGINIA

(I would get my own printed, but I’m not sure what it ought to say. No job; apparently no husband, no life. A real identity crisis. How about: WATCH THIS SPACE? Elizabeth.)

Dear Cameron:

This is probably a letter that I would stick in a drawer even if I did know where to reach you, because the last thing my self-esteem needs is for me to publicize more evidence of my family’s eccentricity. I’d be afraid that someone, somewhere, would be saving it all up for my commitment hearing. (Hmmm. I suppose the same could be said for writing letters to you… People keep telling me I have to come to terms with your… um… absence, and get-on-with-my-life. I guess I would if I had one.)

I could talk about this new family development with Dr. Freya, but she would pretend not to know why I was upset, which would only make it worse. She loves to be politically correct, and seems to prefer it to common sense every time. And Bill always seems on the verge of crisis, so I can’t add to his burdens. Cousin Geoffrey, who actually can be sympathetic, though he tries not to have it known, would be no help, either. So I might as well pretend that I’m telling you. If you can’t be honest-and politically incorrect-in unmailed letters, when can you tell the truth?

So here goes.

I had lunch with Mother today so that she wouldn’t feel too alone, what with us kids grown and Dad in his second childhood with his Girl Banker. We all thought she was bearing up wonderfully well after the divorce. She seems busy, and cheerful-not at all bitter about Dad’s defection after nearly three decades of marriage. (I did wonder if all this serenity had been prescribed in tablet form by the family doctor, and if so, whether she could get me some of the same, but no, she is not medicated. Mother is just naturally a calm and forgiving person. A recessive trait, apparently.)

We went to the Long River Chinese Restaurant out at the shopping mall, because Daddy never cared for Chinese food. Mother seems to think that Oriental food isn’t fattening. As she says, Asian people are so little and delicate. In the interests of diplomacy, I do not say a word about sumo wrestlers.

Mother wanted to know how Bill was, and how I was, and if there was any word about your boat. It must be hard to get out of maternal gear after all these years of putting everyone else first.

“Let’s talk about you,” I said, because nothing is ever new with Bill, and if I tried to talk about you, I’d have started to cry right there over the kung pao chicken, which would have completely defeated the purpose of the luncheon, which was to Cheer Up the Aging Parent. “How have you been?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she said with a little smile. “I’m starting to meet new people. Now that I’m not tied down in the evenings by a comatose man in front of a television, I can get out more and socialize.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, thinking to myself how brave she was to put up such a good front. “You’re playing a lot of bridge, I guess?”

“Oh, no. I’ve taken up photography. Casey and I are doing a multimedia show about women in transition. Would you like to model for me? I could use a few more portrait shots.”

“Oh, sure, whenever,” I murmured. “But I didn’t know you were into photography.”

“I used to be very interested in portrait studies,” she said, toying with her shrimp lo mein. “I took it up again because Casey saw some of my work and said it was a shame to let my talent go to waste.”

“Casey?” I said, keeping my voice light. “This isn’t the fellow you went white-water rafting with, is it?”

Mother looked pleased. Her favorite sport lately has been shocking the children, meaning Bill and me. Big brother and I have tried to remain calm and behave like adults while our fiftyish mother went hurtling about on a killer river with a blond undergraduate named Troy. I have sweaters older than Troy. But with frozen smiles and careful attention to controlled breathing exercises, we managed not to get worked up over Mother’s little pregeriatric rebellion. It helped not to picture having a stepfather with an earring and light-up L.A. Gears. Now, sure enough, it appeared that Troy was history. Or at least he had been supplanted by Casey. Please, I thought to my fairy godmother, who has come to resemble Joan Rivers in my imaginings, don’t let him be the paperboy.

“So,” I said. “This is news. Tell me about Casey.”

Mother looked amused. “You’ll probably be relieved to hear that Casey is nothing like Troy. Much older, for one thing.”

“Really? Be still my heart. A senior, perhaps?”

“No, Elizabeth. Casey is an assistant professor in the English Department. In fact, we are about the same age. In fact, we have a great deal in common: bridge, a fondness for the big-band sound, and Frank Capra movies. It’s very pleasant.”

Pleasant, indeed, I thought. In fact, too good to be true. “I don’t suppose Dr. Casey is married, by any chance?” I said. I thought we might as well deal with the problems at once, because it has been decades since Mother had to deal with men, and I didn’t want her to be gulled by an aging philanderer like-well, like Dad.

“Married?” Mother raised her eyebrows and gave me a shocked expression-as if she had caught me wearing white shoes after Labor Day. “Certainly not, Elizabeth! As if I would consider such a thing. I do think you ought to have more faith in my character than that.”

I blushed, and busied myself with the fried rice. “You’re at a difficult age, Mother,” I muttered.

“I think you’d like Casey very much,” she said, ignoring me. “In fact, I was thinking of inviting you and Bill over to get acquainted.”

“Meeting the family?” I said faintly. “This does sound serious. Is it serious?”

After a moment’s pause, Mother said, offhandedly, “Well, dear, we’ve decided to live together.”

“What?” I dropped a chopstick. “Isn’t this a bit sudden? How long have you known this man?”

Mother giggled. “Casey isn’t a man, dear. She’s Dr. Phyllis Sturgill Casey. Everybody calls her Casey for short.”

I patted my chest, probably to restart my heart. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother!” I said. “You scared the liver and lights out of me. Why didn’t you just tell me you were getting a roommate, instead of putting me through this romantic melodrama? Boy, did you have me going there! And all you wanted to tell me was that you have a nice middle-aged lady for a roommate. Thank heaven!”

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” Mother said briskly, giving me first choice of the fortune cookies. “Of course, your generation is much more broad-minded about these things than we ever were.”

“What things?” I said. The cookie crumbled in my fist.

The fortune said: THOSE CLOSE TO YOU OFTEN THE HARDEST PERSONS TO SEE.