It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning and the regular time for the girls to meet for their knitting circle, but when Kathleen opened the door to greet the others, she was still wearing her pajama bottoms and a stained “The Best Girls Are from Los Angeles ” T-shirt. Her long brown hair was escaping in fly-away strands from her ponytail elastic, and around her eyes were traces of mascara and eyeshadow that clearly hadn't been completely washed off the night before.
Sari said, “You didn't have to dress up just for us.”
“Or clean up,” Lucy said. The huge foyer was strewn with glasses, bottles, crumpled napkins, and small plastic plates with food still on them.
“Give me a break,” Kathleen said. “The party went late and I only just got up. Come to the kitchen so I can make some coffee.”
They followed her toward the back of the house, their knitting bags slung over their shoulders. Sari caught a glimpse of the living room as they went by. It was easily four times the size of her entire apartment, but today it was as trashed as the rest of the house. She said, “I wouldn't want to be the one to have to get the stains out of the carpet.”
“Cleaning help comes tomorrow,” Kathleen said.
“You could at least pick up the trash,” Lucy said with a backward look of disgust at a Coke can that was lying on an antique side table in a sticky brown puddle.
“Cleaning help comes tomorrow,” Kathleen said again, irritably this time. They entered the kitchen. “You guys bring something to eat?”
“Bagels. Sorry, I know it's boring, but it was on the way.” Sari dropped the bag of fresh bagels onto the island, and then tossed her knitting bag and purse next to it. She hoisted herself onto one of the high leather-upholstered stools. When she sat, her feet dangled inches above the floor. “Why is the kitchen so much cleaner than the rest of the house?”
“Caterers. They cleaned up in here before they left. You both want coffee?”
“Of course we want coffee,” Sari said.
“You had caterers?” Lucy mounted the stool next to Sari. “Sounds fancy. What was the occasion?”
“The twins’ twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Wait a second,” Lucy said. “That doesn't make any sense. If it was their birthday, wouldn't it be your birthday, too?”
“You'd think,” Kathleen said. She was one of triplets. The other two were identical twins, which had made her, from birth, the odd man out.
“So what you're saying is, you had a birthday party and didn't invite us,” Sari said. “Should we be hurt?”
Kathleen was staring at the coffeemaker like she'd never seen it before. “God, my brains not functioning,” she said. “I think I’m still drunk from last night. I didn't even go to bed until after three. Don't be an idiot, Sari. You and I went out to celebrate my birthday two months ago. Don't you remember?”
“Oh, right,” Sari said. “We went to Bombay Café.”
“Why wasn't I invited?” Lucy said.
“You were. You were working late and couldn't come.” Sari turned back to Kathleen, who was filling up the coffee carafe with water at the sink. “But you turned twenty-seven.”
“I know.”
“So why were the twins celebrating their twenty-fifth birthday last night if they turned twenty-seven two months ago?”
“Good question,” Kathleen said. She carried the carafe back to the coffeemaker. She had overfilled it, and the water was trickling out, leaving a trail of drips on the wood floor behind her. “The party was a publicity event for their new movie. The twenty-five part is just a lie.” Kathleen's sisters had once had a successful sitcom on TV where they played identical twin sisters who confused a lot of people by exchanging places. It ran for six years. When it ended, they started making movies, in each of which they played identical twin sisters who confused a lot of people by exchanging places.
“They always seem younger than you,” Lucy said. “Are you sure you're the same age?”
“Yep,” Kathleen said. “We popped out all together. In fact, I was the last one out, which makes me the youngest. People just think I’m older because I’m so much taller. Plus I went to school while they were stuck on some set or another being quote unquote tutored so they have the intellect of ten-year-olds.”
“Was it a good party?” Sari asked, looking around. “It looks like it was a good party. The house is trashed.”
“I honestly don't remember much about it. There was a cute bartender who was extremely talented. He made the best pomegranate margarita…” Kathleen poured the water into the coffee-maker. “I talked to him, helped him out by tasting some new variations-” She stuck the carafe in its place and turned to look at them. “I have a bad feeling, though-”
“About what?”
“I don't know. Like I did something last night I shouldn't have.”
“Maybe you slept with the bartender,” Lucy said. She tore a bagel in half, then carefully dug out the insides with her long, slender fingers. She piled the discarded bread in a neat pyramid on the counter in front of her.
Kathleen shook her head. “No, that would have been a good thing. And it's more that feeling you get when someone's mad at you.”
“Maybe the bartender had a girlfriend.”
“Will you forget about the bartender?” She pushed the start button on the coffeemaker. “It'll be ready in a few minutes. You guys want to stay in here or move to the family room?”
“Those are our only choices?” Sari said. “Doesn't this house have at least fifty other rooms?”
“Oh, don't exaggerate,” Lucy said. “It's a simple little fifteen-thousand-square-foot cottage. Don't make it sound like a mansion.” She took a small bite of her bagel shell, then put it down on top of the pile of discards and dusted off her fingers with the finality of someone who has had all the breakfast she intends to have.
“I should get dressed,” Kathleen said with another yawn. “But it seems like so much work.”
“You poor thing,” Lucy said. “You slave over a hot drink all night-”
“A hot bartender,” Sari said. “She slaved over a hot bartender all night. The drinks were cold. All fifteen of them.”
“I think there may have been fifteen,” Kathleen said. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and said wearily, “I’ve got to cut back.”
“What I don't get is how you stay so thin,” Lucy said. She reached down to the floor for her knitting bag and pulled out a ball of yarn, two knitting needles, and an attached length of sparkling blue scarf. “If I drank as much as you, I’d be the size of this house. Alcohol's fattening.”
Sari said, “Uh, Kathleen? I usually take coffee in my coffee.”
Kathleen turned to look. Steaming brownish hot water was dripping into the carafe. “Shit,” she said. “I forgot to put in the grounds.”
Lucy hooted. “Brilliant.”
“I told you I was still drunk from last night.” She punched the coffeemaker off.
A young woman walked into the room. They all turned. “Hi,” she said. She had an appealingly childlike round face, long, wavy auburn hair, and a narrow body that seemed too small for the size of her head. “Sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Sari said. “Hi.”
“It's your house,” Lucy added.
“Morning,” Kathleen said. The other girl didn't even acknowledge her but, with a nod at the other two, walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, took out a bottle of Voss water, then, with another nod and a “Later,” left the kitchen.
There was a moment of silence. Kathleen carried the carafe of dirty-looking water over to the sink and dumped it, then refilled it with clean tap water.
“Okay,” Lucy said. “Which one was that?”
“I don't know,” Kathleen said. “I can't tell them apart.”
“Yes, you can,” Sari said.
Kathleen reached into a cabinet above the coffeemaker and got out a canister of coffee. “Fine. It was Christa. Does it really matter to you?”
“She always that friendly in the morning?” Lucy said.
Kathleen shrugged as she shook some coffee grounds directly into the filter. “I think maybe she's mad at me about last night.”“Why?” Sari said.
“I told you-I can't remember.”
Lucy held her knitting up and studied it critically.
“It's beautiful, Lucy,” Sari said. She reached out and pulled the end of the scarf toward her. “This yarn is incredible. I love the way it glitters.”
“It's got these metallic pieces woven in… It's cool, isn't it?”
“Have you ever made anything besides a scarf?” Kathleen leaned back against the counter where the coffee was finally successfully brewing. “I mean, we've been doing this for years and all I’ve ever seen you make is scarves.”
“I like scarves,” Lucy said.
“I’ve never seen you wear one. Unless you're using them as part of some kinky sex bondage game…”
“Scarves are fun to knit,” Lucy said. She picked up her needles and started clicking away with them. “You just go on row after row, and when it's long enough, you're done.”
“How about some plates here?” Sari said to Kathleen.
The phone started ringing. Kathleen reached up to open a cabinet.
“Don't you need to get that?” Sari said.
“It's not for me-I only use my cell.” The phone stopped ringing. Kathleen put a stack of plates on the counter, then reached into the bag and took out a handful of bagels. She was piling them high on a plate when one slipped off and fell on the floor. She picked up the bagel and was about to drop it back with the others when Lucy thrust a hand in the way.
“For God's sake, throw it out. It's got hairs on it.”
“Picky, picky, picky.” Kathleen tossed it into the sink.
Sari pulled a container of cream cheese out of the bagel bag and opened it. “Get a knife, Kath, will you?”
“A clean one,” Lucy said.
“And cups for juice,” Sari said.
“And mugs for coffee.”
“You guys are a lot of work,” Kathleen said.
“When you come to my place, everything's already set up,” Lucy said. “Sari's, too.”
“I’m sorry I’m not Martha Stewart,” Kathleen said. “Somewhere around the seventeenth drink last night, I guess I forgot to clean the good china for you.”
“Party girl,” Sari said fondly.
Kathleen grinned at her. “Working on it.”
“Mugs?” Lucy said.
As Kathleen was reaching up to get them, her mother entered the room, flanked on each side by a girl identical to the one who had entered the room earlier. The two redheads made perfect bookends to their blond mother as they all stopped in the doorway. Sari and Lucy swiveled to greet them.
“Hello, Sari, darling,” said Kathleen's mother, who, with her regular features and small frame, looked more like the twins’ sister than their sister did, since Kathleen was tall and dark-haired. “Hello, Lucy. Kathleen, could we please have a word with you?”
“Why?” Kathleen said, turning around. “What is it? Is it about last night? What'd I do?” She seemed more curious than concerned.
“You know what you did,” one of the twins said. It was Kelly, but only her blood relatives could tell for sure-Sari and Lucy had no idea which twin was which.
“Yeah,” Christa said. “You know.”
“Honestly,” Kathleen said. “I don't. Last night is kind of a blur.”
Christa stepped forward, ruining their symmetry. “Oh, please. Like you don't remember talking to that Hollywood Reporter reporter?”
“Reporter reporter?” Lucy repeated under her breath to Sari.
“Not really,” Kathleen said. “I had a lot to drink-”
“Tell us about it,” Kelly said with a roll of the eyes. “You were so wrecked-”
“Like you weren't,” Christa said to her. “You were all over Munchie's nephew.”
“He was all over me. Jealous much?”
“The point is,” said their mother. “The point is, Kathleen, that you said some unfortunate things last night-”
“And now we're screwed because of it,” Kelly said.
“Well, we hope not,” their mother said. “Junie's trying to convince the guy it's worth killing the story to have her owe him a favor-but if he decides to go to print, well, then…”
“We're screwed,” Kelly said, and this time her mother nodded.
“Why?” Kathleen said. “What'd I say that was so bad?”
“What didn't you say?” Christa asked. “I mean, you started with our-”
“You let leak some confidential family information,” her mother said, cutting her off with a meaningful glance in Lucy and Sari's direction.
Kathleen was still trying to figure it out. “What? You mean about their age?”
“That. And some other things I’d rather we not discuss at the moment.”
“Shit, Mom, I didn't say anything that isn't common knowledge. What's the big deal?”
“The big deal is that you've betrayed your sisters’ trust,” her mother said. “Your sisters who house you and feed you and employ you… The least you could do is respect their privacy.”
“I was drunk,” Kathleen said. “It wasn't on purpose.”
“Then you shouldn't drink,” Kelly said.
“Neither should you,” Christa said to her. “You were as bad as she was.”
“I didn't say anything stupid.”
“No, but you did a lot of stupid things. Your tongue was so deep in his mouth-”
“I think,” said their mother, “that Kathleen owes you both an apology.”
Kathleen shrugged. “Sorry,” she said. “I was drunk. Sometimes I do stupid things when I’m drunk.”
“And sometimes even when she's not,” Lucy whispered to Sari, who hushed her.
“Oh, come on,” Christa said. “At least try to sound like you mean it.”
“She's right,” their mother said. “Kathleen, your sisters have been nothing but good to you and you don't seem to appreciate it. Everything you have you have because of them, but they get nothing from you in return-”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been working for them since college.”
“Yes, you have,” said her mother. “And that steady income you get is something else you owe them.”
“If you don't like the way I do my job-”
Kelly snorted. “Come on, Kathleen. All you do is make a couple of phone calls now and then.”
“No, really,” Kathleen said, standing up straight and squaring her shoulders. “If you guys don't want me around, just say so. I mean, I thought I was doing you all a favor by helping out with the company and keeping an eye on things here, but if you think the favors are all on your side…” She looked from one member of her family to another. No one said anything. “Fine,” she said then. “Fine. I don't have to stay here. And I won't. I have other options.”
“No, you don't,” said Christa, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don't.”
“Yes, she does,” said Sari, swiveling the bar stool around to face Christa directly. “I’ve been begging her for ages to come stay with me and help me out with the rent.” She rotated back around. “What do you say, Kathleen? You ready to move in with me?”
“Are you kidding? Just give me ten minutes to pack my bags.” Kathleen came around the island.
“Don't be silly,” her mother said. “Come on, Kathleen, if you're doing this to prove something, it's not worth it. You know we don't actually want you to leave.”
“Yeah,” said Kelly. “You're making too big a deal out of this.”
“We don't want you to move out,” Christa said. “We just want you to not get trashed and say stupid things anymore.”
“Live free or die,” Kathleen said, brushing past her. “That's my motto.”
“I thought that was New Hampshire 's motto,” Lucy whispered to Sari.
“It is,” Sari whispered back. “But I’ll bet you anything they don't know that.”
The twins may have been the ones with a successful television and movie career, but Kathleen had her own flair for the dramatic. She flounced out of the house half an hour later, with two packed bags, a toss of her head, and a haughty, “You can reach me on my cell,” leaving Sari and Lucy to murmur awkward goodbyes and follow her outside.
“At least it got her dressed,” Sari said as they walked toward the car.
“If you call that dressed,” Lucy said with a disgusted nod at Kathleen, who was wearing a pair of old, torn sweatpants and a tank top with no bra. Lucy only left the house in sweats when she was on her way to the gym. And she always wore a bra.
She snagged the front seat of Sari's car while Kathleen was still stowing her bags in the trunk.
Once they were well on their way down the long narrow driveway that led out of the twins’ property, Sari said over her shoulder, “Hey, Kath, you know I was just bluffing about the apartment, right? I mean, you're welcome to spend a night or two but you can't actually move in permanently. I don't even have room for me in there.”
“That's okay,” Kathleen said. “I can sleep on the floor.”
“There isn't enough space on the floor for you. For me, maybe, but not you.” Sari was almost a foot shorter than Kathleen.
“Then I’ll take the bed and you can have the floor,” Kathleen said. “Problem solved.”
“Try again, Sari said.
“I’m kidding.” Kathleen was slouched low in the backseat, her knees sticking up at chin height. She hadn't put her seatbelt on. “I’m kidding. I won't stay long. I’m planning to get my own place-there was this guy at the party last night who was bragging that he knows someone really big in real estate. I’ll see if he can help me find a cheap apartment.”
“You remember that?” Lucy said. She had pulled her knitting back out of her bag and was working on it, right there in the car. “You can't remember what you did that pissed off your sisters but you remember that some random guy at the party had a friend in real estate?”
“I wasn't drunk yet when he told me that.”
“She'd only had twelve margaritas by then,” Sari said. “Some brain cells were still functioning. So do you have that guy's number?”
“The guy who knew the guy, yeah.”
“You should call him soon. Like today soon.”
“Do I detect a note of panic?” asked Lucy, eyebrows arched.
“Not panic,” Sari said. She looked at Kathleen in the rearview mirror. Their eyes met. Sari smiled. “Notyet.”
“We'll have fun,” Kathleen told Sari's reflection.
“I know we will. But call that guy soon, anyway, will you?”
“Soon as we get to your place.”
“Oh, I know what I wanted to tell you guys,” Sari said suddenly. “Remember that woman at the knitting store in Santa Monica -the young one with the incredibly long black hair who's always just sitting there knitting, no matter what time you go in there?”
“A knitting junkie,” Lucy said. “When good girls go just a little bit bad.”
“Do you remember how the last time we saw her I said I thought she was pregnant?”
“No,” Kathleen said.
“You don't? I said her breasts had grown since the last time we'd seen her and either she was pregnant or had had a boob job and you guys voted for boob job.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lucy said. “I remember.”
“I still don't,” Kathleen said. “But I’m slightly disturbed to know you go around staring at women's breasts, Sari.”
“It's all about the envy,” said Sari, who was built like a twelve-year-old girl. She was small and slight, with cropped thick hair and enormous blue eyes-the kind of woman who would never get past being called “cute” her entire life. “Anyway,” she said, “the point is that I went in there the other day and we started talking and she is actually pregnant.”
“How old is she?” Lucy said.
“Twenty-eight,” Sari said.
“Twenty-eight?” Kathleen said. “That's way too young to start having kids.”
“No, it's not,” Sari said. “The majority of women in this country have babies by the time they're twenty-eight. Just because we're incapable of growing up-”
“Hey, hey. Speak for yourself,” Lucy said.
“Yeah,” Kathleen said. “I left home today.”
“Leaving home for the first time at the age of twenty-seven isn't grown-up,” Lucy said with a quick hard tug at a strand of yarn for emphasis. “It's pathetic.”
“It's not my first time-I went to college for four years.”
“And then moved right back in with mommy afterward. Face it-you've only ever lived off your family.”
“I wasn't living off of them,” Kathleen said. “I worked for them the entire time. Nine to five and all that.”
“Getting paid to sit at home and polish your toenails. It's a hard-knock life, isn't it?”
“I didn't say it was hard.” Kathleen leaned forward, putting a hand on each of the two front seats. She was so tall that her head barely cleared the top of Sari's small Toyota. “You sure knitting in the car is safe, Luce? Sari could hit the brake, and a needle could go right in your eye and-poof-no more hotshot research for you.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Lucy said.
“So who was the guy you met last night?” Sari said. She was stopped at another light, so she tilted the rearview mirror to look at Kathleen. “The one with the real estate connections?”
Kathleen fell back with a thud against the car seat. “No one special.”
Sari knocked the mirror back in place. “I know that tone. There's definitely more to this story. Was he cute?”
“People would probably say he was handsome.”
“Our age?” Lucy asked.
“Twice that.”
“Too old then,” Sari said. “Why was he at the party?”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Kathleen said. “It was my father.”
“Your father!” they both exclaimed. Sari turned to look at her. “You're kidding!” she said. The light changed, and the car behind them honked. Kathleen automatically raised her hand and gave them the finger without even looking. Sari lifted her own hand in an apologetic wave as she drove on.
“I thought your dad was completely out of the picture,” Lucy said.
“Oh, he resurfaces now and then when he needs money. He's such a jerk, it's unbelievable.” She wrinkled her nose. “And I had to be the one who looks like him.”
“You just said he was handsome.”
“Yeah, but who cares? What kind of a freak says to his wife right after she's given birth to triplets, ‘Sorry, babe, just realized I don't like kids,’ and takes off?”
“He came back,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, right-once the twins were rich.”
“Why was he invited to the birthday party?” Sari asked.
“He wasn't. He just found out about it somehow. He knows that if other people are around, the twins have to act like they're glad to see him or it'll be all over the tabloids that they hate their father.” She grinned. “But I’m not famous, so I don't.”“But you said you were talking to him at the party.”
“He was talking to me. He was going on about having met this real estate guy at a party some bimbo girlfriend of his took him to. I wasn't even paying attention. Oh-by the way-that's why my mother and sisters were so pissed at me. They said I told the Hollywood Reporter guy all about Lloyd-how he shows up asking for money and we're always bailing him out of trouble. And I guess at some point I also mentioned the twins’ real age.”
“Why'd you do that?” Sari asked.
“How should I know? I don't even remember doing it.”
“The first step is admitting you have a problem,” Lucy said.
“The second step is for you to fuck off.”
“Girls, girls,” Sari said. “Let's play nice.”
They dropped Lucy off at her place, and Kathleen hopped out and got into the front seat, folding up her long legs so she could cram them into the small space. “Let's go do something fun,” she said. “See a movie or something.”
“Can't,” Sari said. “I have like five thousand progress reports I’m behind on. I’ve got to work.”
“Okay,” Kathleen said. “I’ll just go for a run, then. Best way to get rid of a hangover.”
“You do that. And then-”
“What?”
“You'll make that call? To your father? To get the name of his friend?”
“Don't you love me anymore?” Kathleen asked, tilting sideways so she could rest her head on Sari's shoulder. “Don't you want me to live with you?”
“If you make me crash-”
“Fine. Be that way.” Kathleen righted herself. “Hey, I’m going to need a new job. You guys hiring at the clinic?”
“You wouldn't last an hour there,” Sari said.
“Why not? I like kids.”
“No, you don't.”
“No, I don't,” Kathleen agreed. “But kids with autism don't talk, right? I don't mind kids if they don't talk.”
“Some of them talk. And a lot of them hit people and bang their heads and scratch at your eyes and scream all the time.”
“Sounds like fun,” Kathleen said. “Think I’ll skip it.” She reached down for the lever that adjusted the seat and reclined the seat as far as it would go, so she was more lying down than sitting, then slipped her feet out of her flip-flops and shoved them against the dashboard, so her knees were way up in the air. She had a Chinese pictograph tattooed above her left ankle but always claimed to have forgotten what it meant. “So what kind of job can I get where you don't have to work all that hard but you make enough money to live in a nice house and hire people to do things like clean and pick up after you? I mean, I don't really want to give any of that up, just because the twins are acting like jerks.”
“There aren't jobs like that,” Sari said. “Not for someone at your level of expertise, which is none. The only thing you could do is marry someone who's already rich.”
“I love that idea,” Kathleen said. “I’ll marry someone rich. Rich and wonderful-I don't want a rich asshole. Know any wonderful rich guys?”
“Do you think I’d be driving this shitty car and living in that shitty apartment if I did?”
“Possibly,” Kathleen said, rolling her head to the side and studying Sari's profile. “The problem with you, my love, is that you raise self-sacrifice to an art. Look at you-you have the toughest job in the world, and you know you'll never make even decent money doing it. You're either an idiot or a saint.”
“I vote for idiot,” Sari said with a sigh. “I mean, I told you you could move in with me and I just remembered-”
“What?”
“You're a total slob.”
“See?” Kathleen said. “That's why I need to be rich enough to hire a maid. I’m a slob.”
“No,” Sari said, “that's why you need to find another apartment now.”
“I’m on it,” Kathleen said and took her cell phone out of her purse.
Kathleen's phone calls were so productive that she was able to land an appointment with the real estate guy early that very evening. At her request, Sari helped her pick out some “responsible” clothes-a pair of dark brown pants and a cream-colored silk shirt. Kathleen even put her hair up in a twist. “Wow,” Sari said. “You look almost like an adult.”
Sari insisted on driving her back to the twins’ house to pick up her car. Kathleen had intended to leave the car behind as a grand gesture to her newfound independence-the twins’ production company was leasing it for her. But Sari pointed out that Kathleen would have no way of getting around town without it.
“I could drop you off at work every day and use your car the rest of the time,” Kathleen said. “Play chauffeur.”
“No, you couldn't,” Sari said. “We're getting your car.”
They drove up to the house, and Kathleen jumped out of Sari's car and into her own without anyone even coming out of the house. And she was relieved, really-she loved her car. It was a turquoise-colored convertible Mini Cooper that had originally been leased for Kelly-Christa had the same car in red-but the twins had moved on to electric cars at the suggestion of Junie Peterson, who said that people liked their celebrities to be environmentally conscientious. So this one was now Kathleen's baby.
Kathleen was very good at changing her mind when it was expedient to do so, and by the time she had arrived at her destination, she had already decided that there was nothing morally compromising about her using the car, that she had earned it by working for her sisters as long as she had.
She parked the Mini Cooper in front of the address she'd been given, which turned out to belong to one of the high-rise buildings that line Wilshire Boulevard near Westwood Avenue. She entered off the street, through the building's big glass front doors.
Kathleen gave her contact's name-Sam Kaplan-to both the doorman and the security guard at the front desk. The elevator man, who wore a red suit and an air of frosty boredom, took her up to the penthouse floor, gestured toward the only door in the foyer, and closed the elevator doors behind her as soon as she stepped out.
Kathleen wondered if this meant that the penthouse apartment was available, and that Sam Kaplan might offer it to her. It would have to be at a hugely reduced rate, of course. She hadn't saved much while working for the twins-she liked to buy clothes and go out to clubs and bars. So there was no way she could afford a penthouse, except by special arrangement.
The door was slightly open. She knocked on it, didn't hear a response, and went on in, calling “Hello?” as she entered.
The living room was completely-and expensively and beautifully-furnished, and there were current newspapers on the coffee table. Which meant that someone was already living there, so she could forget about moving in.
A man's voice called out, “Come back here, to the kitchen,” in reply to her shouts.
Kathleen followed the sound of his voice out of the living room into a wide hallway hung with enormous framed paintings-all of them very modern and graphic-and then on into the kitchen. The owner of the voice stood at a six-burner Wolf range, his back to her.
“I assume you're Kathleen,” he said with a quick glance over his shoulder. “You're late. Sit down. Are you hungry? I’m making eggs.”
“I’m always hungry,” Kathleen said and sat down at the half-round dark green marble table that was attached to a higher and extremely long island made out of the same marble.
Sam Kaplan-she assumed-went back to his cooking. Kathleen craned her neck to see his face again. He was thin in a wiry way, with thick black hair that was graying at the sides and a hawkish face, pursed in concentration at the moment.
“You want toast?” he said after a little while.
“Why not?” she said. “I’m easy.”
He made no reply to that, just scraped the eggs onto a couple of plates, pulled some bread out of a toaster-oven, and tossed a slice on each plate, then brought the dishes over to the table. “I’ve got beer, if you want it and you're old enough. If not, there's orange juice.” He foraged through a drawer and transferred a couple of forks to the table.
Kathleen said, “Do you need to see some ID? Or will you take my word for it?”
He glanced at her briefly. “You're old enough.”
“Then I’ll take the beer.”
He nodded at that and extracted two beers from one of two Sub-Zero refrigerators. He also got two crystal highball glasses out of a glass-front cabinet.
“I’m fine with the bottle,” Kathleen said. In college, she had left a trail of beer bottles wherever she went. Her roommates once got so sick of her leaving her empties around their dorm room that they built a pyramid of them right in front of her bedroom door when she was asleep, so she had to dismantle it before she could go anywhere. Made her late for class that day.
No, wait-not late-she had just skipped class completely and gone back to bed.
Sam Kaplan said, “In my house, we use glasses.”
“Yes, sir,” Kathleen said, snapping him a salute.
He raised his eyebrows without saying anything, then flicked the beer caps off with a bottle opener, threw them both in the trash, and poured the drinks. The empty beer bottles went into a recycling bin under the sink. He put one filled glass in front of her and one in front of his own plate, then squinted at the whole presentation. “Have I forgotten anything?”
“Looks good to me,” Kathleen said. The plates were large and white without a single scratch, and the flatware was real silver and very heavy.
“Napkins,” he said, raising a finger, and turned around to slip two out of a drawer. They were linen and impeccably starched and ironed.
“It goes in your lap,” he said, handing one to her.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.” She spread it across her legs.
“All right,” he said. “Now we eat.” He sat down at the table, and, for a moment, they ate in silence.
Kathleen looked up to find Sam Kaplan studying her face.
“What?” she said. “Do I have egg on my chin?”
He shook his head. His eyebrows were heavy and dark and his eyes were even darker. “So you need a place to stay?”
“Yeah.”
“How much can you afford?”
“Not much. I’m momentarily unemployed.”
“Why?”
“I had a falling-out with my… employers.”
“Whose fault?”
“Mine,” she said with a shrug. “I was what you might call indiscreet.”
“Meaning what?”
She gave him a big smile. “If I told you, then I’d be even more indiscreet, wouldn't I?”
He didn't seem amused, but he let it go. “Who were you employed by?”
“A small production company.” Well, it was true, wasn't it? “I did PR, mostly.”
“I assume you finished college?”
She nodded.
“Any graduate school?”
“No.” She hadn't considered that for a second, having spent her entire academic career counting the days until she'd be done with school forever. Sitting in a dark classroom on a beautiful day was her idea of torture.
“What did you major in?”
“Economics. And I had a B minus average, if that's what you were going to ask me next. Do you always ask this many questions when you're helping someone out with an apartment?”
“I don't usually ‘help people out’ with apartments,” he said. “I’m in the business of buying, selling, and leasing real estate.”
“Well, you should know right now, I can't afford to buy or even rent an apartment.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m aware of that. Which is why I’m trying to figure out whether you're responsible enough to house-sit.”
“I am.” She was glad she had worn her responsible clothes.
“We'll see. So what kind of job are you going to be looking for now? Something else in entertainment?”
“Probably not. I never really wanted to go into it in the first place-”
“Then why did you?”
“I just kind of fell into the job.”
“Ah,” he said. “So what's next?”
“I don't know. I don't want to jump at the first thing that comes along. I want to figure out what's right for me long term.”
“And what have you figured out so far?” He dotted his mouth carefully with his linen napkin, then set it back across his lap. His fastidiousness was more suited to a fancy dinner party than to a couple of people sitting around a breakfast table on a Sunday evening eating eggs and drinking beer.
“I don't know,” she said again. “The only thing I liked in college was playing sports.”
“Sports? Well, have you thought about coaching kids? Maybe teach PE at a local school?”
“I’d hate that.”
“How about professional sports?”
“I’m not in that kind of shape anymore. I run, but I don't do much else.”
Sam Kaplan had finished his eggs. He leaned back in his chair. Up close, his face was craggier than it had looked from a distance. He said, “I think I can help you out.”
Turned out, there was an empty apartment on the floor right below him, and, for complicated legal reasons, they couldn't put it on the market. “It's all tied up,” was all Sam Kaplan would say about it. “And since we've got plenty of other vacancies right now, I’m not even going to show it until things are settled. You could live there for a while, but I can't make any promises for how long, and you might have to vacate very suddenly. You have family around, right? I mean, other than your father? You wouldn't end up on the street?”
“No, it's fine,” she said.
“All right, then. The apartment's yours if you want it. We can go see it now if you like.”
“I want it,” Kathleen said. “I don't even need to see it to know I want it.” She pushed her empty plate away, leaned far back in her chair, and stretched. “So,” she said. “Now that I’ve got a place to live, I need a job. Got any ideas?”
“You know,” he said, “I just might.”
While Kathleen was getting herself an apartment, Lucy was getting herself laid.
Right there, on the lab table, just feet away from the stinky paper-lined cages where the rats chattered and squeaked and ate and shat constantly.
She wasn't planning on having sex when she first headed into work late that afternoon. She was working on a grant proposal, and a lot of the information she needed was in the lab, so she figured she'd just take her laptop and write there. She had left a message for James letting him know that's where she'd be, and he called her back just as she was walking into the building to say, “I’ll meet you there with a bottle of wine in an hour-what goes well with rat, red or white?” and so she was smiling as she flipped her phone shut and didn't even hear David coming up the steps behind her until he said, “Hey, world, Lucy Cameron's smiling. This has got to be a first.”
She spun around.
“Jesus,” she said. “You scared me.”
“Imagine how I felt. Seeing you smile. Must be awfully cold in hell right about now.”
“You're so funny,” Lucy said. “You're just so incredibly funny, David. Has anyone ever told you how funny you are?”
“Frequently,” he said. “But I never get tired of hearing it.”
“Just too funny for words,” she said. They had reached the front door of their building. She waited, and he reached forward and opened the door for her, then gestured her through with an exaggeratedly gallant arm sweep. She walked through and kept going.
“But you were smiling,” David said, scuttling to catch up with her. He was a small guy and his legs were shorter than hers.
“Was I?” Lucy said. “I must have been thinking about how nice it was going to be to have the lab all to myself. Have you noticed the smile's gone since you showed up?”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He hunched into himself as they walked down the hallway, and she wondered if she had genuinely hurt his feelings. Not that she cared. She was annoyed at him for being there. As lab partners went, he was a decent one and she didn't really have anything against him, but just by showing up he was going to ruin her romantic evening with James.
“Why are you here, anyway?” Lucy said as he unlocked the door to their lab and held it open for her. “It's Sunday.”
“Picking up my laptop-I left it here last night.”
“You were here last night?”
“Yeah.” He shut the door behind them. “I had some writing to do and it's quieter here than anywhere else. My roommate had some kind of stomach bug and kept barfing in our toilet. I had to get out.”
“Still,” she said. “Saturday night, David? No parties? No nightclubs? You're ruining my image of you as a wild party animal.”
“Shut up,” he said. “What were you doing that was so wild and crazy?”
“Knitting and watching TV.”
“Woo-hoo,” he said. “Your life is just as exciting as mine. So where was our friend James that you were at home alone on a Saturday night?”
“Our friend James leads his own life. We're not joined at the hip.”
“That's not what I’ve heard.” He made his eyebrows go up and down.
“Oh, now that one's clever,” she said. “You should write that one down.”
He went to his desk. “Good. The laptop's still here. My entire identity is on that hard drive. Without it, I’m nothing.”
“Glad you found it then,” Lucy said, pulling out her own chair and sitting down. “Don't let the door hit you on the way out.”
“Oh, am I leaving?”
“You don't have to on my account,” she said. “But it's a beautiful day. You should be taking advantage of the sunlight before it's all gone.”
He squinted at her. “Why do I get the feeling you want me out of here? What are you planning, Lucy?”
“Nothing.” Lucy shrugged and opened a book. “Stay or go. I don't care.”
“Don't worry.” He thrust his computer into its carrying case. “I’m leaving. I can't stand the way the rats are looking at me tonight-like they know their hours are numbered.”
“Oh, right,” Lucy said. “Tomorrow's Monday.”
“If it's Monday, it must be rat-killing day. And they say there are no good jobs left in America.” He turned to the cages. “Goodbye, my friends. Enjoy your last meal in peace. Have sex, get drunk, say goodbye to the kids-do whatever needs to be done, knowing that tomorrow morning you will be sacrificing your lives for the greater good.”
“That would be our greater good, not theirs,” Lucy said.
“Shh,” David said. “Don't tell them that. I had them feeling all good and martyr-y about things. They'll be dreaming of little rat virgins in heaven tonight.”
“Just say goodbye to the rats and go, will you?”
“I’m gone. I’ll see you bright and early maÑana, Luce.”
“Bye.” He left, and she breathed a sigh of relief. So she and James would have the lab to themselves after all.
James was later than he said. He was always later than he said, but he always arrived with such a flurry of noise and energy that it was impossible to stay angry at him. He had also forgotten the wine, but when Lucy pointed that out, he said he figured instead of having wine there, they'd go out for a nice dinner as soon as-
“As soon as what?” she said when he paused, and he got that grin on his face, like he had heard a joke no one else had heard, and it was the wickedest joke anyone had ever told. And then he was on her like they hadn't had sex in days-which they hadn't, because he had been out of town at a conference where he was lecturing on adrenal insufficiency in rats with the JRL mutation and its implications for humans with Addison's disease-and she was resisting a little, laughing, and only a little and only because resisting made it more fun, meant he had to work a little harder to get her where he wanted her, which, as it turned out, was down on her back on her own desk, books and papers and computer shoved aside, just a couple of pencils left digging into her shoulders, her legs dangling off the desk, James standing between her thighs, busily working on the snap to her jeans and-
“Wait,” she said, pushing herself up on her elbows. “Lock the door.”
“Why?” he said. “You expecting company? It's Sunday.”
“David was here earlier. You never know.”
“The more the merrier,” he said, but he moved away and locked the door and by the time he was back she had not only unsnapped her snap for him but also unzipped her zipper, and it was clear that the resistance she had put up had been entirely for show, and that she was completely and entirely willing. The grin returned to James's face. His pants came down even more quickly than hers and he was nudging her thighs apart with his own before she had even settled back down in place.
“Go ahead,” James whispered in her ear at one point. “Make noise. You know you want to.”
She was able to gasp out the words, “Don't. Tell me. What I want.” But he was right-James was always right-and soon after that she had reached a place where even the fact that she could be overheard by someone walking down the hallway wasn't a sobering enough thought to control the moan of pleasure escaping from her lips.
As if in response, there was a sudden loud squeal from the other side of the room, which was soon followed by a chorus of squeaks and chatters.
“What the hell-?” James said. He had collapsed on top of her, but he raised his head a few inches off her chest to look around.
“It's the rats,” Lucy said hoarsely. “I think they approve.”
“Of course they approve. It's your basic biological drive at its best.” He kissed her shoulder. “And I do mean at its best.” He pushed himself up on his arms and gently pulled out of her. “We've got to stop meeting like this,” he added as he reached down for his pants, which were around his ankles. “The rodents are beginning to talk.”
Lucy quickly slithered down off the desk and pulled on her own jeans. The lights were on in the lab, and she wasn't comfortable having him see her naked. Residual self-consciousness from her older, fatter days. Of course, in her older, fatter days there were no gorgeous postdocs diving between her legs in the workplace.
“So… dinner?” said James before they had even finished adjusting their clothing. Lucy sometimes wondered if James might have a mild case of ADHD, since he always seemed to be moving on to the next thing and lost interest in subjects and activities with frightening speed. Things were always interesting when he was around. They were just never calm or quiet.
As they walked out onto the street together, she looked around, hoping people would see her with him. In college, she would have killed to have gone out with someone who looked like James-sleek and long-haired and thin-hipped… None of which she herself had been back then, come to think of it.
Actually, back then she would have killed to have gone out with James himself-she knew who he was because, even though he was also an undergraduate, just two years ahead of her, he was already famous in the department for having co-authored an article with a tenured professor. Someone pointed James out to Lucy at a party soon after, and she was shocked at how young and cute he was. She had assumed the famous James Shields would be your basic science nerd. But the guy was hot.
Unfortunately, Lucy was not. Not back then. She was a junior in college and weighed a good forty pounds more than she should have. The freshman ten had come and stayed for a nice long visit and invited its friend, the sophomore fifteen, to come join the party. And she hadn't exactly been svelte back in high school. So she went around in overalls and sweatshirts and figured she'd be the kind of girl who got by on brilliance instead of looks. Besides, she was still one of only a few females in her advanced bio classes, and guys were interested in her simply because she had breasts and a vagina. A few extra pounds didn't matter to most of them-just added to the mouthfeel.
Of course, the guys who were interested in her back then- fat butt, overalls, glasses, and all-were guys who themselves were… well, like David, her current lab partner. That is, perfectly decent guys without an ounce of flair or sexuality. Seeing James Shields in the midst of them all that night was like seeing a shining-coated yellow Labrador in a room full of gray and white mutts.
He was so far out of her league that Lucy hadn't given him another thought until they both ended up on the same research project years later-he was supervising it, and she and David worked under him. She had reinvented herself in the intervening six years, had lost over forty pounds, swapped the glasses for contacts, and learned to dress like an adult. James was no longer out of her league, a fact that he realized almost immediately but which took her a little longer to absorb. Even after dating him for a few months, she was still sort of amazed to find herself walking around arm in arm with someone like him.
“Oh, fuck it all to hell!” he said suddenly and dropped her arm.
“What?” Then she saw what he was looking at. “Oh, shit” she said.
Someone had thrown a pail of dark red paint over the top of James's Ridgeline pickup. Red had dripped down off the roof and onto all the windows. Scrawled in black spray paint across the doors and hood were the words “Killer,” “Murderer,” and, “Animals are people, too.”
“Jesus fuck it all!” James said, circling the car like an angry animal. “I was inside for less than half an hour. They must have been following me. God damn it! Now I’ll have to spend all night filling out reports at the police station and trying to get this clean. Those fucking, fucking, cocksucking assholes.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said. “I can't believe they did it again.”
“I should have parked in the garage,” he said. “I’m an idiot. I figured I was safe on a Sunday afternoon for twenty fucking minutes.”
“I’m sorry. If I hadn't asked you to come-”
He wasn't even listening. “This is the third time this year and the police still haven't caught them. They haven't even tried to catch them.”
“It's awful,” she said.
“We're talking hate crime here,” he said. “Punishable by law.” He thumped the truck with his fist. “Man, I’d like to see these fuckers locked up for years! Let them take it up the ass in prison for a while before they go around dumping paint on people's cars again.”
“Whoa there,” Lucy said. “Let's keep it in perspective-these guys aren't skinheads or anything like that.”
He turned on her with a pounce. “Are you defending this?”
Lucy put her hands up. “God, no! This paint thing sucks. But you have to admit it's not like they're racists or murderers or anything like that. They want to keep animals from being tortured and killed. They're wrong, but they're not totally evil.”
“Being this stupid is totally evil,” he said. “It's worse than evil. Jesus, Lucy, I can't believe you would defend them.”
“I’m not defending them,” she said. “They're stupid assholes for targeting scientists doing valid experiments. But sometimes it takes stupid asshole extremists to get people to really think about what they're doing. When we sac rats it's legitimate, but I don't think cosmetics companies should just go and-”
“Oh, please,” he said. “Don't waste my time with that shit.”
“I know you're mad about the car-”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fucking pissed.” He unlocked his front door and pulled it open. “I’m going to the police station. You can come with me or not. I don't care.”
“If you want the company-”
“I said I don't care.”
“Fine, then,” Lucy said. “Go by yourself.”
And he did.
Lucy spent the evening at home alone. Since they hadn't made it to dinner, she ate an apple and a small piece of cheese, just as happy not to have to face the calories of a full meal, then worked on a grant proposal for a while, but got bored with that after an hour or so and decided she wanted to do something more fun with her Sunday night than write about rat adrenal glands, so she took out her knitting and worked on it while she watched a soapy medical drama on TV.
After an hour or so, she tried the scarf around her neck and decided it was the right length. She bound off the end and held it up to look at it. It needed something more. Fringe. She searched through her leftover bits of yarn and found a deep blue that looked good with the metallic blue of the scarf. She cut it into short, even pieces and pulled several strands through the ends of the scarf about one half inch apart to make the fringe. She was so absorbed in what she was doing she didn't even notice that the TV channel she was watching had switched to showing a late-night rerun of an eighties sitcom she had never liked in the first place.
It took several rings before she realized it was her phone and not the TV set that was ringing.
She put the scarf down and reached for the phone.
“It's me,” said James.
“Hey,” she said. “How'd it go with the police?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. They took some photos and wrote up a report. Nothing will come of it. I went to the carwash and got most of the paint off.”
“That's good,” she said.
“I guess… So, listen, Luce, I’ve got some stuff to do tomorrow. And Tuesday I have this stupid thing down at Irvine and won't be back until late. Can I see you Wednesday night?”
“Yeah. Wednesday's good.”
“Great,” he said. “Sorry about losing my temper today.”
“It's okay,” she said. “You had every right to be in a bad mood.”
“Yeah, and you were saying some pretty stupid things. But it's okay. And by the way, I forgot to tell you I loved what we did earlier-too bad this had to ruin it. We'll try to keep the mood a little longer on Wednesday, okay? Maybe even make it to dinner? I’ll call you at the lab, or just come by.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there all day.” But he had already hung up.
She went back to her fringe, and in a fever of industry didn't stop until she had finished it all. She dampened and blocked the scarf and left it to dry on the ironing table. It was already after one when she crawled into bed.
The next morning she woke up with a delicious sense of possibility: she could start a new knitting project. Maybe she'd tackle something more intricate than a scarf this time. Before going into work, she spent an hour online looking through patterns and pictures, trying to find something that inspired her. Pretty soon she realized she was looking almost entirely at men's sweaters.
She and James had been going out for six months. She had never been so in love with a guy before, never felt her body leap to someone's touch the way it did at just the thought of James's hand on her.
It would be wonderful to see him in a sweater she had knit, to watch him walk out into the world wearing something that marked him as hers for everyone to see. If she started it now, she could have it done by Christmas.
Online again late that night, she found a design for an oversize man's cabled sweater in dark red. It was the kind of thing James tended to wear, anyway, only if she made it, she'd buy better yarn than he was used to-like a soft wool with a touch of silk or linen in it. It would be wildly expensive, but she didn't mind spending a lot on his Christmas present.
Later, though, it occurred to her that she probably shouldn't buy the wool in dark red. Another color might be… better.
Can you take on a new kid?” Ellen asked Sari first thing Tuesday morning. It wasn't really a question, since Ellen never accepted a refusal.
Sari looked up from the desk she shared on a first-come-first-served basis with several other clinicians. It was early and she was the only one there now, so it was all hers. “How many hours a week are we talking?”
“As many as you can give him.”
“Then there's no way,” Sari said. “I barely have enough time in the day for the workload I’ve got now.”
“Join the club,” Ellen said. “You want to call the parents and tell them you can't make time for their kid?”
“Am I allowed to mention that I work for a crazy zealot?”
Ellen laughed. “Come on, Sari. He's your kind of kid-melt-your-heart-cute with big Bambi eyes. Their first appointment's at ten this morning.”
“That's in less than an hour,” Sari said. “Seriously, Ellen-you said you needed Mary's progress report written up for her IEP this afternoon. I won't have time if I’ve got to-”
“You'll figure something out,” Ellen said. She tossed a file on the table in front of Sari.
“Who did the eval?”
“I did.”
“By yourself?” Sari raised her eyebrows. Ellen never had time to do the whole evaluation. She usually just came in at the end.
“Yes, all by myself. I taught you how to do them, if you remember.”
“You just don't, usually.”
“Well, they were desperate, so I squeezed them in late one night last week.” She pointed her finger at Sari. “You see? You can make more hours in the day, if you try hard enough.”
“We can't all be you,” Sari said.
“Mores the pity,” Ellen said with a wink and left.
And Sari sighed and opened the file, because Ellen-whose voice was too loud and who wore skirts that were too tight over torn black stockings and whose hair was too long and too red for someone over fifty-five-Ellen was her hero and her big sister and her best friend and the bane of her existence all rolled into one overwhelmingly dear package.
Sari had left home to get away from her parents and then somehow ended up working in a place where every woman she met reminded her of her mother. They weren't necessarily as pretty and well preserved as she was, but they all flickered with the same nervous terror.
Like the mother who had come in just the week before. The first thing she'd said when she walked in the door with her son was, “I wouldn't even be bringing him if his teacher hadn't made me. All this fuss and bother, just because he has a slight language delay.”
She smelled of cigarette smoke and Opium perfume and watched Sari's every movement with a ferocious intensity.
Sari tried to talk directly to the boy-a chubby four-year-old with dark rings under his eyes-but he wouldn't look at her, not even when she stuck a bright pink sticker on her nose and danced in front of him.
She put an M &M inside a cup, showed it to him, then covered the cup with a book. “If you take the book off, you can have the M &M,” she said. He sat there, hunched inside himself, and didn't move.
“He's not hungry,” his mother said. “He just ate lunch. He doesn't want the M &M.”
Sari put two cars in front of him and he lined them up next to each other, but when she took one and made vroom vroom noises, he just shoved the other one off the table with the side of his hand and didn't respond when she asked him to pick it up.
“He doesn't like to play with cars,” his mother said. “Everyone thinks boys like cars, but they've never interested him.”
The whole exam went like that. She kept making excuses for him.
When Ellen came in to meet with them at the end of the hour, she glanced through Sari's notes and told the mother that the boy had some clear delays in several key areas, areas that might suggest an Autistic Spectrum Disorder. She said they'd like him to return to the clinic for further evaluation and to arrange for a program of interventions.
The mother exploded. “Oh, for God's sake!” she said. “Look at him. He's sitting there quietly, as normal as you or me. But of course you won't admit that.” She stood up. “Do you ever say a kid is okay? No, of course not-why would you? There's no money for you in okay.”
“This isn't about money,” Ellen said.
The woman dragged her unresisting son by the hand to the door. “It's always about money,” she said over her shoulder and left.
Ellen and Sari looked at each other. “That poor kid,” Ellen said. “That poor kid.”
Sari was used to moms like that. She was used to moms of all types, really-she saw dozens of them at the clinic on any given day. Sometimes both parents came in with the kid, but ninety percent of the time it was just the mother, so it was definitely unusual for Zachary Smith to arrive at the clinic later that morning with only his dad at his side.
Sari rose to greet them, holding her hand out to the little boy, who had dark curly hair and large blue eyes. Ellen was right-Sari did prefer kids who were cute, although it was embarrassing to realize that her boss had noticed.
“Hi,” she said. She had to reach down and take his hand, since he wasn't responding. “You must be Zachary. My name is Sari.” She turned to the father, her hand still extended. “Sari Hill.”
“Jason Smith,” the father said, putting out his own hand in greeting.
The name and the face came together and she realized she knew him.
It was too late, though. She was already shaking his hand.
It hit him at the same moment, ‘“wait,” he said as their hands clasped. “That name. Sari Hill. Why does that sound so familiar?”
“High school,” Sari said. She withdrew her hand. “We went to high school together.”
“Oh, man,” he said with delight. “Of course! That's it! Sari Hill. I totally remember your name from attendance. Wow. What a weird coincidence.”
“Yeah.” She could have passed him a hundred times in the street and not recognized him, but, looking at him now, she thought he hadn't really changed all that much. He had been an athlete in high school, and he still looked fit but not beefy. His hair was still thick, but his face had gotten thinner, so the lines of his cheekbones and the slant of his jaw stood out more than they used to.
He was still just as handsome as he had been in the days when girls used to fall over themselves trying to sit near him in English class.
“So,” Sari said. Her voice came out unusually high. She cleared her throat with a little cough. “Excuse me. A lot's changed for you since high school, I guess. Tell me about your little boy.”
Jason looked down at his son, who held his hand patiently, staring at the opposite wall, oblivious to their attention.
“Zack's my pal,” Jason Smith said. “He's the greatest little guy in the world. Only-” He stopped. “You know.”
“Does he have any words?” According to the eval, he didn't talk yet, but it was good to go over the information again, in case the parents had left anything out. Plus it was easier to keep asking questions than to try to process the fact that Jason Smith-Jason fucking Smith-was standing in front of her.
“No. I mean, sometimes he'll surprise us by counting or making an animal sound or something, but no real words. He once recited part of the alphabet, but then he never did it again.”
He's very cute.
He smiled. “I agree.”
“He looks like you.”
“So they tell me.”
Sari cleared her throat again. “How's his frustration tolerance? Any tantrums when he can't make his needs known?”
“He cries a lot,” Jason said. “But he never throws anything or hits anyone or anything like that.”
“Any self-injurious behaviors?”
“God, no,” he said.
“Go sit down over there.” She gestured to a chair in the far corner of the room. “See if he'll stay here with me.” She took Zack's hand while Jason did as he was told. Zack didn't protest, just let her lead him to the corner where the toys were kept in a big cabinet. She spent the rest of the hour trying to see which ones interested him and what kind of candy he liked. They kept all sorts of treats and playthings in the clinic, positive reinforcement of good behaviors being the foundation of their behavioral approach.
Jason had been accurate: Zack didn't have any words that Sari could get out of him in that first session, and the slightest frustration-like having to wait while she took turns with a toy- made him open his mouth and wail. But he liked candy, and there were a couple of noise-making toys that seemed to fascinate him, and both those things were encouraging-it was the kids who didn't respond to anything who were hardest to teach. Zack didn't once strike out at her, no matter how frustrated he got, and that was a relief. She had plenty of bruises and scratches from kids who did more than cry when they were upset.
“So,” Jason Smith said when she beckoned to him to come talk to her at the end of the hour. “What do you think? Can this boy be saved?”
“He's really smart,” Sari said. “And sweet. He'll learn fast.”
His face lit up. “That's great,” he said. “You have no idea how great it is to hear that. It's been-” He stopped and then said, “How often can we see you?”
“I don't know yet,” Sari said. “It's complicated.”
“Ellen said that we should really push forward, not waste any time. She said some kids do as much as forty hours a week and that you can make the most progress when they're young. She said-”
“I know what Ellen says.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know there must be thousands of people who want your time and it's probably impossible to take care of us all. It's just… I want so much for him.”
“I understand,” Sari said. “And we'll do the best we can for you. But-” She looked down at her hands. “You should be aware that it might not be me who works with Zack. It might be another therapist. Just so you know.”
“I hope it's you,” Jason Smith said. “You seem so good at this. I think Zack likes you already. And we go back such a long way together, you and I.” She looked up again to find him smiling at her. “I won't hesitate to play the old friends card if there's a chance it might help.”
“I’ll talk to Ellen,” Sari said. “We'll figure it out and get back to you before the end of the day.”
As they said goodbye, Jason leaned forward and gave Sari a quick kiss on the cheek. Maybe, Sari thought, that was what you were supposed to do when you met someone from high school ten years later. “Sari Hill,” he said with a shake of his head. “An honest-to-God miracle worker. Who'd have thought?”
Sari watched him take his son's hand and walk out the door with one last wave. She sank into a chair and let her head fall back.
Even hand in hand with a small child, Jason Smith swaggered when he walked, just like he used to swagger a million years ago in high school-when he and his friends ridiculed and tortured Charlie on a daily basis.
Sari tried to remember the details, but it was all pretty foggy. Funny how hard it was to remember the most painful periods of your life really clearly. Maybe there was a reason for that- maybe that way you protected yourself from reliving them.
Jason Smith was one of a bunch of faces, a bunch of names. They all blurred. Had he ever led the charge against Charlie? Been one of the ones who called him retard and shoved him against the wall? Or was he one of the kids who just stood there and laughed while shit like that went down? Looking at his face-handsome as it was-had made Sari want to throw up, so she knew he'd done at least that.
Some things your gut remembered better than your brain.
Someone had pulled Charlie's pants down during recess, in front of a circle of cheering students. Had that been Jason? By the time a friend had found Sari to tell her, and she'd gone running to help him, it was too late. There was a teacher already there, but he hadn't seen anything, and in the end no one got in trouble because no one would say who did it. It could have been Jason. Or one of his rich asshole friends. It almost didn't matter. Whether you were the one who did the deed or just the one who stood by-applauding-and let it happen-what was the difference, really?
Sari hugged her arms across her chest and rocked, feeling cold and hot at the same time.
All the girls had crushes on him. You'd walk into the bathroom and see his name in a heart with someone else's, or two girls would be sitting perched on the edge of the sinks, talking and smoking, and you'd hear his name over and over again. Even Sari couldn't not look at him when he was in the same room. He was that handsome.
He had kissed her on the cheek just now, had said that they were old friends, and she was supposed to-
She was supposed to help his kid. Sari was supposed to help his kid just because Zack had a neurological disorder, and because that's what she did. She helped kids with autism learn to talk and behave and overcome the symptoms of their disorder. No matter who their parents were.
Sari helped kids with autism get better, and it shouldn't matter to her that Zack's father and all his friends had tortured her brother and ruined her life.
She sat up straight. It wasn't Zack's fault who his father was.
So. She had to help him. It was the right thing to do and she knew it. It wasn't even a choice.
But the finality of that didn't stop her from wondering-did Jason Smith really not remember about Charlie or did he just not care?
Could anyone be that cold?
She crossed to the desk and fished her cell phone out of her purse. “I have to see you tonight,” she said when Lucy answered.
“Meet me at the yarn store,” Lucy said.
Jason Smith,” Sari said, as soon as she had greeted Lucy. She had found her in the back of the store, where the wall was lined with diamond-shaped cubbyholes filled with different-colored balls of yarns. Skeins of wool were also piled up in wooden general store bins. Yarn stores usually gave Sari the same feeling that candy stores did when she was little-there was the same rainbow of choices spread out before her and the same anticipation made both wonderful and tense by the knowledge that all these choices had to be eventually narrowed down to a selection. Tonight, though, she barely glanced at the colors around her. “What do you remember about him?”
“Jason Smith?” Lucy repeated. She ran her fingers lightly along a row of blue wool skeins. “Too rough. I want it really soft… You mean Jason Smith from high school? Man, I haven't thought of him in years.”
“I know. Me neither. What do you remember?” Lucy thought for a moment as she slid along the wall, fingering more yarn. “Good-looking asshole.”
“How big an asshole?”
She plucked out a ball of wool and studied it thoughtfully. “Big. I think. But he kind of had a right to be because he was so hot.”
“Debatable,” Sari said. She leaned back against the cubbies and folded her arms. “He was one of the guys who tortured Charlie, wasn't he?”
“A lot of people did that,” Lucy said, tossing the skein back and picking up another one.
“I know,” Sari said. “But I think Jason Smith was one of the worst ones.”
“Maybe. I don't remember. What I do remember is he was always being followed around by a bunch of girls, because he was good-looking and a jock. Why'd you bring him up, anyway?”
“He brought his kid into the clinic today for treatment.”
“No way!” Lucy raised the yarn she was holding up to the light. “Pretty, don't you think?” She lowered her hand. “So Jason Smith has a kid with autism?”
“Yeah. And, by the way, I could probably get fired just for telling you that, so keep it between us.”
“He's not old enough to have a kid with autism, is he? How old is the kid?”
“Three.”
“Babies having babies,” Lucy said with a shake of her head. She searched through the bin of wool that matched the color she had picked out. “Do you think there are fifteen balls in here? I need fifteen.”
“Don't forget to check the dye lots.”
“Oh, right.”
“You know,” Sari said, watching her sort through the yarn, “we keep doing that. You, me, and Kathleen.”
“What? Forget to check the dye lots?”
“No-I mean, we keep acting like no one our age could possibly have kids. We even act surprised when people we know get married. But we're not that young anymore. People our age get married and have kids all the time. People a lot younger than us do. At some point, we've got to accept the fact that we're not college students anymore and haven't been for a while.”
“I’ve accepted it,” Lucy said, making a pile of the yarn on top of a chair. “I don't like it, but I’ve accepted it. Okay, that's nine, ten, eleven-”
“It's just…” Sari stopped and stared at the growing pyramid. Then she said, “It was really weird seeing this guy. Last time I saw him was probably high school graduation. And here he comes in with a kid and he's a parent like all the other parents I see every day. It was weird. Like he had become a grown-up but I hadn't.”
Lucy stopped counting and looked at her. “What are you talking about? You were the professional in the room, and all be did to be there was blow some sperm. Any fifteen-year-old can get a girl pregnant.”
“I’m not really a professional,” Sari said. “It'll be years till I get my license and can practice in my own right.”
“Doesn't matter. You were still the expert.” She turned back to the yarn and counted it again with little pecks of her index finger. “Twelve, thirteen… Shoot, I don't think there's quite enough.”
“What are you making, anyway?”
“A sweater.”
“For yourself?”
“For James, actually.”
“Wow,” Sari said. “That sounds serious.”
“It's just a sweater,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, right. Just hours and hours and hours of work. Hours and hours and hours.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “That's okay. I like knitting.”
“Still, knitting for a guy means you think it's going to last. I wish I knew James better-we've only ever met in passing.”
“We should all have dinner together,” Lucy said. “Could you do it next Friday night?”
“I don't know,” Sari said. “I’d have to cancel my date with this hot guy I’ve been seeing who gets really jealous when I go out without him. Have I mentioned that he's imaginary?”
“The problem is your job,” Lucy said. She scooped up the whole pile of yarn and dropped it back in its bin. “Every guy you meet at work is married.”
“Or on the spectrum. Hey, I like that green.” Sari picked up a skein and showed her. “Don't you think that would look nice on James?”
“Yeah, I do. Help me check the dye lots.” They started to search through the barrel of yarn. Then Lucy stopped. “Oh, wait-I just remembered something else about Jason Smith.”
“I’m counting D-44s. What?”
“He slept with Portia Grossman.”
Sari looked up. “Shut up! She was our class valedictorian.”
Lucy nodded. “He did. I’m sure of it. I remember her strutting around, telling her friends during homeroom. They were all so jealous, I was jealous.”
“You just said he was an asshole.”
“I said he was a good-looking asshole. There's no one hotter in the whole world than that, Sari.”
“Not to me. There are only twelve D-44s, Luce.”
“I think there are enough D-47s. See if you can find one more in there.” Lucy watched as Sari rooted through the bin. “There's just a vibe about bad boys, Sari. Like they could get a little angry, a little dangerous, and in bed that would be-”
“Jason Smith tortured my brother,” Sari said. “I could never be attracted to him.”
“Yeah, all right,” Lucy said.
The total for the yarn came to two hundred and fifty dollars. Lucy sighed and paid it.
Sari lay in bed that night feeling lonely. Kathleen had moved into her new place that afternoon, which was a good thing-she took up a lot of space, both because she was so tall and because she was… well, Kathleen. She had, for example, woken Sari up at four the previous morning because she thought it would be “fun” to bake cookies and talk, and Sari, who had to be up at seven to go to work, cursed at her and pulled a pillow over her own head so she could go back to sleep.
But tonight she could have used Kathleen's company.
For the first few years of her life, Sari had shared a room with Charlie, because the house had only three bedrooms and Cassie had thrown a fit when they tried moving newborn baby Sari in with her. Even at the age of five, Cassie was spending a lot of time alone in her room with the door shut-presumably living out a fantasy life that improved on her real one-and she wasn't about to give up her privacy without a fight. So Sari's crib was set up in Charlie's room, which he accepted without question. He accepted everything without question. Possibly because he didn't have the language then to ask a question. But also because he was, by nature, passive and accommodating.
When Sari turned five, they moved to a bigger house, and she got her own room. She was thrilled-no more worrying that Charlie would suddenly decide to empty everything off the shelves or methodically pull every hair out of her dolls’ heads as he occasionally had done in the room they shared.
But for years after that, if she woke up during the night because of a bad dream or because she heard a strange noise or because it was raining out-for any reason at all-the loneliness of her own room would become unbearable. She would slip out of her bed and dash across the hallway to Charlie's room. Before she had even reached the threshold, she could hear his snoring-he was already growing fat and had always had allergies, and the combination made him a noisy sleeper.
Sari would crawl into bed next to him, shoving him over to make room for her on the outside half of his narrow twin bed. He often muttered in response but never woke up, and Sari would snuggle up tight against him. He was big and warm and the familiar rhythm of his snores soon put her back to sleep.
In the morning, Charlie would wake up early and roll over her to get out of bed, as if she weren't even there. Sari would huddle under the covers then, still half asleep, and drowsily watch him while he walked in circles around the room, hooting and waving his hands in the air, an alien creature whom she could never completely come to know.