But Lily’s awareness, mid-postcoital embrace, that she didn’t think of the fisherman reminds her of the fisherman, specifically of the fisherman’s hands, which might after all do something differently than Adam’s hands, something astonishing, something that would transport her further, or more completely, or maybe even transform her, into …? And then into her mind drifts the moment Adam first got home and sniffed the air, and she realizes that in that instant he smelled the olives and she is angry again, though at what she isn’t sure. Is she secretly angry at herself, for not taking note of her husband’s aversion, and angrier still that a little part of her cares? Vira wouldn’t have cared, she thinks. Vira was a killjoy feminist, the kind of ragey, righteous woman Lily’s mother became for a while around the time that Lily’s father had his affairs and left, presumably in part because his wife had become a killjoy feminist. (A Well-Kept House …) Vira was worse, maybe, coming a generation later and marrying in the awkward ’00s, when feminism was uncool. She had an idea about “natural states,” according to Adam. Lily’s red lace getup would make Vira smirk. But Lily likes it. Adam liked it. He likes it when she takes control and dominates him. This is empirically true. Yet it’s also true that he wants her to know, as if by osmosis, that he doesn’t like olives.
Is it possible that Lily should try harder? She did not take the tenure-track job, after all. She took this. Is it possible that the line she seems to have drawn—lingerie, yes; utter attentiveness to Adam’s palate, no—should go? Vira, and perhaps Lily’s mother, would say no. Vira would say Adam wants Lily to fulfill some dream he has of being a man coming home to a wife and family—a dream a man like Adam is not allowed to talk about in 2016—but that he also wants Lily to resist his wanting this. He wants her to go further than sneering, as she did about the olives; he wants her to take a stand, say No, go screw yourself, and while you’re at it, uncure this! That’s what Vira would do. Based on what went unsaid in Adam’s stories—back when he used to talk about Vira—resistance was his first wife’s main mode of turning him on. And she did turn him on, Lily thinks, in a way Lily never has. There was an energy to that marriage, an electric fence between them, charged by their fights.
Between Adam and Lily, there is something else.
And no, not just the children.
Another kind of fence shared, this one around them. A determination to be people who stay.
Also, and related: comfort.
Maybe Adam wants everything. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with this. He wants Lily to behave like she’s married to a deputy director and he wants her to skewer him for his shriveled idealism. He wants her to tidy herself with a razor and he wants a full bush. He wants her to be Lily and Vira at once.
Asleep now, on his back, lit by the city’s perpetual glow, he appears peaceful. With each breath, his nostrils whistle; the shock of hair at his brow quivers. An old scar on his cheek glistens. It’s from his childhood, obtained during a sandbox altercation with a shovel, and usually it’s invisible, or at least blends in with other wear, but from where Lily lies at this moment it appears as if still wet. She nudges him, so that he rolls away from her, and wraps her arm around him. She noses his smooth back, digs her feet under his warm calves. She is glad that they are hairy and that his back is not, and glad that he is always willing in the morning to stay a few minutes late while she runs down to get the laundry. She won’t have to haul the girls down with her, fighting about who gets to clean the lint screens. Her toes are warm, and deep within she is warm, and Adam’s back is smooth and smells good and she is glad for all of this, and grateful. She can continue living the life she already has. Second wife. Mother. Seamstress in training. Esther.
As her eyes close, Lily does not think about the fact that Esther is an orphan. She hasn’t once thought of it—there are too many orphaned heroines for their orphanness to be notable—let alone wondered what it might mean for her. When her phone rings in the kitchen, she decides to wait it out, then, thinking of the shrill, penetrating beep that will follow once whoever is calling her at 11:30 has left a message, she scuffs down the hall and grabs her phone to switch it to vibrate. But it’s her brother Lionel calling, her oldest brother, who almost never calls and always texts beforehand when he does. “Li?” she says, instantly understanding, so that when he says, “Sorry to wake you, I just got a call from Mom,” she is already thinking about driving north tomorrow, to her mother, who must be dying. Never mind that their mother lives in Lily’s city now, a twenty-minute walk away, in Prospect Heights. Years ago, when Ruth still lived in Massachusetts and Lily told her she hadn’t gotten the job and was quitting academia, her mother had hung up,
