question. I sang it slowly, not without a little twang. “O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?” Then I sat down. The three of them applauded, Isabel slapping her thigh with one hand.
“Very nice,” Robin said to me. “You never sing enough,” she added, ambiguously. Her smile to me was effortful and pinched. “Now I have to go,” she said, and she stood, leaving Pat’s painting behind on the chair, and walked into the lit hallway, after which we heard the light switch flick off. The whole house was plunged into darkness again.
“Well, I’m glad we did that,” I said on the way back home. I was sitting alone in the back, sneaking some of the gin—why bother ever again with rickey mix?—and I’d been staring out the window. Now I looked forward and noticed that Pat was driving. Pat hadn’t driven in years. A pickup truck with the bumper sticker NO HILLARY NO WAY roared past us, and we stared at its message as if we were staring at a swastika. Where were we living?
“Redneck,” Isabel muttered at the driver.
“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” I said.
“What is?” asked Pat.
“This place!” exclaimed Isabel. “Our work! Our houses! The college!”
“It’s all a trap!” I repeated.
But we did not entirely believe it. Somewhere inside us we were joyful orphans: our lives were right, we were zooming along doing what we wanted, we were sometimes doing what we loved. But we were inadequate as a pit crew, for ourselves or for anyone else. “It was good to see Robin,” I continued from the back. “It was really good to see her.”
“That’s true,” said Isabel. Pat said nothing. She was coming off her manic high and driving took all she had.
“All in all it was a good night,” I said.
“A good night,” agreed Isabel.
“Good night,” Robin had said the last time I’d seen her well, standing in her own doorway. She had invited me over and wehad hung out, eating her summery stir-fry, things both lonely and warm between us, when she asked about the man I was seeing, the one she had dated briefly.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, a little sad. At that point I was still sitting at her table and I found myself rubbing the grain of it with one finger. “He seems now also to be seeing this other person—Daphne Kern? Do you know her? She’s one of those beautician-slash-art dealers?” All the restaurants, coffee shops, and hair salons in town seemed to have suddenly gotten into hanging, showing, and selling art. This dignified, or artified, the business of serving. Did I feel I was better, more interesting, with my piano and my violin and my singing?
“I know Daphne. I took a yoga class once from her, when she was doing that.”
“You did?” I could not control myself. “So what’s so compelling about her?” My voice was not successfully shy of a whine. “Is she nice?”
“She’s pretty, she’s nice, she’s intuitive,” Robin said, casually ticking off the qualities. “She’s actually a talented yoga instructor. She’s very physical. Even when she speaks she uses her body a lot. You know, frankly? She’s probably just really good in bed.”
At this my heart sickened and plummeted down my left side and into my shoe. My appetite, too, shrank to a small pebble and sat in stony reserve in the place my heart had been and to which my heart would at some point return, but not in time for dessert.
“I’ve made a lemon meringue pie,” said Robin, getting up and clearing the dishes. She was always making pies. She would have written more plays if she had made fewer pies. “More meringue than lemon, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m just full,” I said, looking down at my unfinished food.
“I’m sorry,” Robin said, a hint of worry in her voice. “Should I not have said that thing about Daphne?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “That’s fine. It’s nothing.” But soon I felt it was time for me to go,
“Very nice,” Robin said to me. “You never sing enough,” she added, ambiguously. Her smile to me was effortful and pinched. “Now I have to go,” she said, and she stood, leaving Pat’s painting behind on the chair, and walked into the lit hallway, after which we heard the light switch flick off. The whole house was plunged into darkness again.
“Well, I’m glad we did that,” I said on the way back home. I was sitting alone in the back, sneaking some of the gin—why bother ever again with rickey mix?—and I’d been staring out the window. Now I looked forward and noticed that Pat was driving. Pat hadn’t driven in years. A pickup truck with the bumper sticker NO HILLARY NO WAY roared past us, and we stared at its message as if we were staring at a swastika. Where were we living?
“Redneck,” Isabel muttered at the driver.
“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” I said.
“What is?” asked Pat.
“This place!” exclaimed Isabel. “Our work! Our houses! The college!”
“It’s all a trap!” I repeated.
But we did not entirely believe it. Somewhere inside us we were joyful orphans: our lives were right, we were zooming along doing what we wanted, we were sometimes doing what we loved. But we were inadequate as a pit crew, for ourselves or for anyone else. “It was good to see Robin,” I continued from the back. “It was really good to see her.”
“That’s true,” said Isabel. Pat said nothing. She was coming off her manic high and driving took all she had.
“All in all it was a good night,” I said.
“A good night,” agreed Isabel.
“Good night,” Robin had said the last time I’d seen her well, standing in her own doorway. She had invited me over and wehad hung out, eating her summery stir-fry, things both lonely and warm between us, when she asked about the man I was seeing, the one she had dated briefly.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, a little sad. At that point I was still sitting at her table and I found myself rubbing the grain of it with one finger. “He seems now also to be seeing this other person—Daphne Kern? Do you know her? She’s one of those beautician-slash-art dealers?” All the restaurants, coffee shops, and hair salons in town seemed to have suddenly gotten into hanging, showing, and selling art. This dignified, or artified, the business of serving. Did I feel I was better, more interesting, with my piano and my violin and my singing?
“I know Daphne. I took a yoga class once from her, when she was doing that.”
“You did?” I could not control myself. “So what’s so compelling about her?” My voice was not successfully shy of a whine. “Is she nice?”
“She’s pretty, she’s nice, she’s intuitive,” Robin said, casually ticking off the qualities. “She’s actually a talented yoga instructor. She’s very physical. Even when she speaks she uses her body a lot. You know, frankly? She’s probably just really good in bed.”
At this my heart sickened and plummeted down my left side and into my shoe. My appetite, too, shrank to a small pebble and sat in stony reserve in the place my heart had been and to which my heart would at some point return, but not in time for dessert.
“I’ve made a lemon meringue pie,” said Robin, getting up and clearing the dishes. She was always making pies. She would have written more plays if she had made fewer pies. “More meringue than lemon, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m just full,” I said, looking down at my unfinished food.
“I’m sorry,” Robin said, a hint of worry in her voice. “Should I not have said that thing about Daphne?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “That’s fine. It’s nothing.” But soon I felt it was time for me to go,
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