“We’re both from Cleveland,” Anne said.
“I’ve never actually been there,” Roger said, sipping his wine. “Have you, Francie?”
“Yes,” she said, stupidly adding, “it’s very nice.”
“I’m sure it is,” Roger said. “And what brought the two of you here?”
“Ned did postdoc work at B.U. We liked it so much, we stayed.”
“Your field, Ned, if it’s not rude to ask?”
“Psychology.”
“You teach at B.U.?”
“I have. Now I’m in private practice.”
“Don’t be so modest, Ned,” Anne said. “He’s also on the radio five days a week.”
“Really?” said Roger. “In what capacity?”
“Ned has his own show.”
“Psychology instruction?”
“More like advice,” Anne said. “It’s called Intimately Yours. Boston Magazine ’s doing a piece next month.”
“Dear Abby of the air?” said Roger.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Ned said.
“My apologies.”
“None necessary. I just try to help the callers think things through on their own.”
“From what perspective?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Roger shrugged. “The usual suspects. Freud? Jung? Adler? Frankl?”
“All and none. I take what I need from what’s out there. I’ve found that sticking to dogma usually makes things worse.”
Roger looked thoughtful. “Taking what you need,” he said. “Sounds interesting. I’ll be sure to listen in.”
“WBRU,” said Anne. “Ninety-two point nine.”
The waiter returned and started clearing the first course. “And what do you do, Roger?” Ned asked.
“Nothing as sexy as that,” he said. “I raise private investment capital. Very drab.”
“What’s the name of your company?”
“That,” said Roger, “I’m not at liberty to say at this moment.” Then he winked at Ned; Francie had never seen him wink before, would almost have thought him incapable of it.
“Finished, sir?” the waiter asked Ned, seeing he’d left three oysters uneaten.
“Yes.”
“Can’t let those go to waste,” said Roger, lifting one off Ned’s plate. “Mind if I emulate you?” he asked, and ate it off the shell; his lips glistened. “You’re so right,” he said. “There’s no other way.”
“Excuse me,” Francie said, and went to the bathroom.
Her face in the mirror: still looking normal. How was it possible, with Roger at his very worst? With what she was doing to Anne? And Ned-why was he asking questions he knew the answers to? Yet there was her face. Normal. Why wasn’t it an ultrasound of what was happening inside, like Anne’s? She splashed cold water on it anyway.
Anne came in, talked to her in the mirror. “Isn’t this fun?” she said. “You never told me Roger was so smart.”
Anne went into the single cubicle, and then came the tinkling sound of her urine flowing into the bowl. “And so distinguished-looking,” she continued unself-consciously, as though they were sisters. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure,” Francie said, and in the mirror her expression changed. It was the eyes: they grew alert, like an animal’s, even those of a dangerous one.
“Why didn’t you and Roger have children?”
Finally, something that made her face change. It crumpled.
“Francie? Have I said something wrong?”
“No.” Face still crumpled, but voice even. “We wanted them but it was a physical impossibility.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It happens all the time. We got over it.”
Francie heard her tear off a strip of toilet paper. “Em was so impressed with you.”
“It was mutual,” Francie said. Her face began to smooth itself out.
“Really? You liked her?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Anne came out of the cubicle. “What nice soaps,” she said, and washed her hands. Their gazes met in the mirror. “Do you have any sisters, Francie?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. I always wanted one.”
Francie handed her one of the plush little towels folded on the granite sink top.
“Are you mad at me?” Anne said.
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“The way I played. Will you ever forgive me?”
“I don’t think like that.”
“Oh, I know you don’t, Francie. You’re like a lion-that’s how I think of you — strong, proud, loyal.”
“Stop it.”
“If only you’d told me about that”-Anne lowered her voice-“pressure gauge”-and raised it-“earlier, we would have won that goddamn match.”
“Next year,” Francie said, although she knew she couldn’t bear a whole year of dinners like this, ski weekends, double-dating, conspiracy.
Anne grinned. “Is that a promise?”
“Francie’s promised we’re going to try again next year,” Anne said.
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” Roger said before calling for another bottle of Montrachet.
He went to the bathroom between the entree and dessert, as Francie knew he would. She’d been his wife for a long time, was familiar with his bladder capacity.
“How awful would it be if I stole one of those soaps?” Anne said.
“Which one?” Francie asked.
“Guess.”
“The oatmeal.”
“She knows me so well, Ned.” And to Francie: “Do you think it would be all right?”
“I’m sure they budget for it,” Francie said.
So Anne went, too. And then they were alone.
Their eyes met. “You never told me what a shit he is,” Ned said.
“Didn’t I?”
“No. Why the hell did you marry him? Or is that out of bounds?”
“You can ask me anything,” Francie said. “He was different then.”
“No one changes that much.”
“And maybe I misjudged him. He seemed so… original to me then.”
“Original? He’s a throwback, Francie.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said. She didn’t like the way Ned was looking at her, as though her stock had fallen in his eyes because of the company she kept. “And please, don’t bring out your tool bag. It’s been a long, slow decline, maybe worse since he lost his job, which you knew about, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I was just making conversation.”
“Were you?”
“No.” He smiled, a rueful, boyish smile, and looked… adorable, even at a time like that. Francie reached out with her foot, felt for his, found it.
“A long, slow decline,” she said. “I didn’t realize the extent of it, until…”
