“I’m not sure I’ve ever tried one.”
“Live a little,” said Nora. She raised her glass. “Here’s to fuzzy balls.”
The bartender, used to Nora, didn’t even turn, but Anne’s face, still a little pink from tennis, went pinker. She took a tiny sip, said, “It’s very good,” put down her glass.
“While on that subject,” said Nora, downing half of hers, “I may be getting married this spring. Or next week.”
“Congratulations,” Anne said.
“She’s just being funny,” Francie said.
“Not true. Bernie wants to marry me.”
“Did you ever get his last name?”
“Does it matter? I’m not going to use it anyway.”
“I kept my maiden name,” Anne said. “My parents weren’t too happy about it.”
“Maiden name,” said Nora. “Can you believe an expression like that? If you ever started really thinking about things, you’d want to shoot everybody.” She refilled her glass. “With the exception of Bernie. He’s kind, sweet, and gentle. He does have that toenail thing, though.”
“Fungus?” said Francie.
“Whatever it is turns their nails all hard and yellow.” Nora went to the bathroom.
Anne, still pink, turned to Francie. “Nora mentioned your husband was quite a tennis player.”
“He was,” Francie said. “And yours?”
“He doesn’t play. I–I’ve tried to get him interested, but he has no free time.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a psychologist.” Anne took another sip of beer, bigger than the first, as though fortifying herself. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“I hope it’s not too pushy.”
“We’ll never know at this rate.”
Anne went pinker still, and Francie felt a little ashamed of herself. “Are you and Nora playing in the tournament?”
“What tournament?”
“The club doubles championship.”
“We don’t play together anymore. Not in tournaments.”
“But you won it a bunch of times-I saw in the trophy case.”
“We finally decided to preserve the friendship instead.”
“I know you’re joking. You’re both so supportive on the court.”
“Not of each other. The last tournament we played they called the police.” Anne’s eyes widened. “Now I am joking,” Francie said; how delicate this woman was. “What’s on your mind?”
“First,” said Anne, “I’d better confess I don’t usually play as well as I did tonight. Not nearly.”
“And second?”
“I wondered if you’d like to be my partner in the tournament.”
“How could I say no?”
Nora was back, Anne gone. “She’s not as fragile as she makes out,” Nora said. “See the way she went right at me with that overhead in the second set?”
“She probably assumed you’d be moving to cover the empty court.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m fat?”
“No. ‘ You’re fat’is my way of saying you’re fat.”
“So you’re not saying it?”
“My meaning is clear.”
“Because even supposing I’d put on three or four or fifteen pounds-did you notice how hard I’m hitting the ball?”
“You’ve always hit hard.”
“Not like this. I’m going to write an article for Tennis Magazine‘ Eat Your Way to Power. ’Just a little beefy hip rotation and pow-F equals MA.”
“You’re working on the M?”
“That’s what’s revolutionary about it.”
Nora ordered more beer; Francie signed. “Ready to talk about Roger?” Nora said.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Does he have that toenail thing, by the way?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“Meaning you don’t know?”
Francie said nothing.
“Meaning you’re not occupying the same bed? Of course. And that would be your Byzantine way of telling me. How long has this been the case?”
“Some time.”
“That would be months.”
“Many.”
Nora shook her head. “One month is my limit when it comes to abstinence-must be tied to the cycles of the moon, something tidal. After that, I need life support.” She studied Francie’s face, quite openly. “Can’t be good for you, either,” she said. “Someone like Anne, that’s different-modest sex drive at best.”
“How would you know something like that? Maybe she’s in bed with her husband as we speak.”
“Ironing his shirts is more like it,” Nora said. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you had an orgasm? In the company of another human being, that is.”
“What difference does it make when I had an orgasm?
Nuns-”
“You’re not a nun. Answer the question.”
The true answer was last Thursday, and not only one. Francie came very close to saying just that: her lips parted, the tip of her tongue curved up to form the L of “last,” and after that the whole tale-cottage, kayak, little bedroom-would come spilling out. Francie clamped her mouth shut, held it all inside; she could keep a secret.
“What?” said Nora. “What?”
Francie tried to think of some breezy diversion, some bridge to another subject, but nothing came to mind. Nora’s eyes narrowed. “This divorce can’t come too soon.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Francie.
“Why not?”
“Maybe if he had a job again, Nora, but right now it wouldn’t be fair.”
“Fair? You said fair?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe it’s time to consider a boyfriend.”
“And that would be fair?” Francie asked-very close to the first question she would have asked if the real story had come spilling out.
“You’re asking me if cheating on Roger would be fair?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“That’s the way people put it.” Nora thought, drank more beer, thought again. “Got anyone in mind?” she said.
“No,” said Francie, feeling Nora’s gaze and not even trying to meet it.
A long silence followed. Nora poured the rest of the beer, looking at Francie from the corner of her eye. “Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?” she said.
“Rose? I knew her.”
“But did I ever mention the time I called her number, six months after she died?”
“Why?”
