Pascal's Wager by Nancy Rue

barolo—that’s the beef braised in red wine sauce—”
    â€œEnough with the menu, Max. What happened?”
    â€œI told her, ‘Go upstairs and take a hot bubble bath and when you come down, it will be a feast to die for.’ While she was up there—God forgive me—I went through every cabinet, every closet, the pantry Not a drop of alcohol, just like always. Nothing. Nada. Not even a cork in the trash can.”
    â€œYou went through the garbage?” I said. “Tell me you weren’t wearing your velvet jacket.”
    â€œSilk shirt. I hope the coffee grounds come out at the cleaners.”
    â€œCoffee grounds? Since when did she start drinking coffee?”
    â€œShe didn’t. It was left in the pot from the last time I was over. I had just dumped it into the trash, then I stuck my arm in there. Maybe I’m the one with the problem?”
    â€œWhen was the last time you’d been over there?” I said.
    He paused. “Two weeks ago.”
    I switched the phone to the other ear. “What are you thinking?”
    â€œNothing. I’m not thinking. I don’t want to think. But you go over there, Jill. You check on her.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to do, dismantle the garbage disposal? You went through everything. She’s obviously not drinking at home.”
    â€œIt’s not that.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    The usual rich tenor of his voice was thinning out until it was almost shrill.
    â€œI got her talking about her work,” Max said. “And she says to me—you won’t believe this, Jill—I couldn’t believe it myself—”
    â€œTry me.”
    â€œShe says ‘I was looking through the…the…oh, that thing, that instrument we use to see things magnified.’”
    â€œThe microscope.”
    â€œYeah. Exactly. That’s what I had to say. She talked all around the word, and that wasn’t the only time.”
    â€œBut she wasn’t drunk.” I said. “You’re sure?”
    â€œYou know what I think? I will
tell
you what I think. I think she’s depressed.”
    â€œThat’s everybody’s answer to every malady they can’t figure out,” I said.
    â€œNo, depression affects the mind, the powers of concentration. I know musicians who suffer—oh, it’s terrible—they can’t even tune an instrument.”
    â€œShe’s not some melodramatic artist—no offense—but she would never let herself fall into something like that. You’ve never heard her lecture about antidepressants and support groups? She could’ve pulled Sylvia Plath right out of the oven with that one.”
    â€œThen show me I’m wrong,” Max said. “Go over there and find out I’ve built another mountain out of a mole hill. I will kiss your feet. I’ll cook you whatever you want. You want lo schinco? You always loved my schinco.”
    â€œYou don’t have to ply me with food,” I said. “I’ll go over there. When did she say we were having lunch?”
    â€œShe was vague. Next week was what she said.”
    â€œOkay, so maybe I’ll just drop in Saturday. You think she’ll be home?”
    â€œThat I know. She’s always home on the weekends. She won’t put her nose out unless I carry her.”
    â€œI have a life-sized picture of that,” I said, sarcasm dripping.
    â€œYou’ll call me when you’ve seen her?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDay or night. You have my number?”
    â€œYeah, Max.”
    â€œDon’t make me wait. I won’t sleep until I know.”
C’mon, Max
, I thought as we hung up.
I thought I was obsessing. A little Valium wouldn’t hurt you any
.
    I got through the rest of the week by keeping things in their proper cubbyholes. I prepped for and taught classes and held office hours and tutored Tabitha during the day, and then after my Loop