candles with matches, ready to light. She might be wrong about the music—at least, it might be nice to have some music playing just as the first few people show up—but why argue? I agree that since there’s a nice breeze we don’t need air-conditioning.
In a little while, Marie comes down. She does not have on a sundress. She is wearing a blue linen dress I’ve never been fond of, and she is carrying a suitcase. She is not smiling. She looks, suddenly, quite drawn. Her hair is damp, and pulled back in a clip. I blink, not quite believing it.
“There isn’t any party,” she says. “I’d like you to see what it’s like, to have food prepared—even though you didn’t prepare it—and then just to wait. To wait and wait. Maybe this way you’ll see what that’s like.”
As fast as I think
“You couldn’t possibly be so childish,” I say.
But she’s out the door, going down the walk. Moths fly into the house. One flies across my mouth, tickling my skin. “What are you going to say about this to Dr. Ford?” I say.
She turns. “Why don’t you ask Dr. Ford over for cocktails?” she says. “Or do you think the sight of real life might be too much for him?”
“Are you quitting?” I say. But I’ve lost heart. I’m out of steam, nearly out of breath. I say it so quietly I’m not sure that she heard. “Are you ignoring me?” I holler. When she doesn’t answer, I know she is. She gets in the car, starts it, and drives away.
For a minute I’m so stunned that I sink down in one of the porch chairs and just stare. The street is unusually quiet. The cicadas have started to send up their sound. As I sit there, trying to calm myself, the boy on the bike pedals slowly up the hill. The neighbor’s poodles start barking. I hear her shushing them. Then the barking subsides.
What was Marie thinking of ? I can’t remember the last time I was late for dinner. It was years ago. Years.
Katrina Duvall comes by. “Mitch?” she says, raising her hand over her brow and looking at the porch.
“Yes?” I say.
“Have you gotten your paper the last couple of Sundays?”
“Yes,” I call back.
“We stopped it when we went to Ocean City, and we can’t get it started again,” she says. “I knew I should have just asked you to take it in, but you know Jack.” Jack is her son, who is slightly retarded. She either does everything to please Jack or says that she does. The implication is that he is a tyrant. I know very little about him except that he slurs his words and once, during a snowstorm, he helped me dig out my driveway.
“All right, then,” she says, and walks away.
In the distance, I hear rock and roll. There is loud laughter in the Vandergrifts’ house. Who is having such a good time, if the child is sick? I squint hard at the house, but where the windows are lit it’s too bright to see in. A squeal, and more laughing. I get up and walk across the lawn. I knock on the door. Molly, breathless, answers.
“Hi,” I say. “I know this is a silly question, but did my wife invite you for drinks tonight?”
“No,” she says. She smooths her bangs off her forehead. Behind her, her daughter zooms by on a skateboard. “Take it easy!” Molly hollers. To me, she says, “They’re coming to refinish the floors tomorrow. She’s in heaven, being able to do that in the house.”
“You didn’t speak to Marie on the phone tonight?” I say.
“I haven’t even seen her in a week. Is everything all right?” she says.
“It must have been somebody else she invited over,” I say.
The little girl whizzes by again on the skateboard, doing wheelies.
“Jesus,” Molly says, putting her hand over her mouth. “Michael went to Dulles to pick up his brother. You don’t think Marie asked Michael and he forgot to tell me, do you?”
“No, no,” I say. “I’m sure I’m mistaken.”
Molly smiles her usual radiant smile, but I can tell I’ve made her nervous.
Back in my house, I turn the light down a notch and stand at the front window, looking up at the sky. No stars tonight. Maybe in the country, but not here. I look at the candles and figure what the hell. I strike a match to light them. They’re in ornate, heavy silver candlesticks—a hand-me-down from my aunt, who lives in Baltimore. As the candles burn, I look at the window and see the flames, and myself, reflected. The breeze makes the wax bead and drip, though, so I watch the candles burn only a few seconds more, then blow them out. They smoke, but I don’t lick my fingers and pinch the wicks. After looking again at the empty street, I sit in a chair and look at the table.
I’ll show her, I think. I’ll be gone when she gets back.
Then I think about having a few drinks and some food.
But time passes, and I don’t leave and I don’t get a drink. I haven’t touched the table when I hear a car coast to a stop. The blinking lights get my attention. An ambulance, I think—I don’t know how, but somehow she hurt herself, and for some reason the ambulance is here, and . . .
I spring up.
The caterer is standing at the door. She is frowning. Her shoulders are a little hunched. She has on a denim skirt, a tube top, and running shoes. Behind me, the house is entirely quiet. I see her peer around me, toward the light in the front room. Her puzzlement is obvious.
“It was all a joke,” I say. “My wife’s joke.”
