st he stay the night; they don’t want him cracking up on the road. They give him the guest room, which will be the baby’s room, she says, “that is, if we ever have one.” “Sure we will,” Braxton says. “Three, four if you want — We’ve gone in for tests, everything’s clear, count’s up to par, the doctor says it’s a shoo-in — so don’t be surprised if you’re carrying in a year.” “I know, and one at a time please, sweetie — Braxton’s family’s noted for its twins and triplets every third conception. Both his sister and brother and also his parents with the three of them.” “Triplets? Jesus, I’ve never met anybody who was one,” and is sorry he didn’t know sooner because he’d like to hear about it. They share a common wall. He listens through it — then his ear flat against it with his hand over his other ear — but only hears mumbling for speech, the word “filibuster” from Braxton very loud, a light switch clicking on and off several times, no sex sounds. He shakes his penis a little, thinks he should do it into his handkerchief — maybe there’s even some good cheesecake in the magazines on the shelves above him — then thinks he’d only be doing it to say to himself he did it in their house, and goes to sleep. He has a quick dream of her coming into the room in a nightgown and holding a towel, sitting on the bed and jostling him awake: “Up, you up?” That was inevitable, he thinks, and wishes it had gone on longer. He goes to the bathroom late at night, when he comes back stands in front of their door thinking of them sleeping close, maybe a little entangled, after probably having made quiet sex — all the talk of conception and semen might have led to it or maybe they try doing it every night to up the chances of them conceiving. “Lucky fucking stiff,” he whispers, low. Braxton’s gone by the time he washes up in the morning and goes into the kitchen for coffee. She’s reading the paper there, in her bathrobe. They talk a little more and then he kisses her cheek, hopes they can do this again some time, she says “Without doubt we will. Braxton really liked you, thought you a very stimulating person and would like to get to know you better.” “I liked him very much too,” and goes. That’s the last time he sees her. Neither calls or writes again. Bumps into an actor friend of hers from when they first met who says he still speaks to her about twice a year and was out to her house a year ago; she and Braxton have two children and decided that’ll be it, though he wants more. Braxton’s still making industrial films and television ads but owns his own company; she’s a language arts teacher in a private school and writing children’s books, but none have sold so far and she’s done about a dozen. “She read me one; about a horse and a cow who get married because of some dumb farmer’s blunder; it was hilarious and ends with them producing some animal called a how.” He’ll give her Howard’s regards next time he speaks to her, whenever that’ll be. The gallery she worked at is having a twentieth anniversary party. He knows a woman — met and became friends with her at an art colony he went to that summer — who’s represented by the gallery and she told him about the party. “Look out for a beautiful blonde woman named Janine. Maybe not as blonde and beautiful anymore, I’m sure lovely features still, an intelligent kind of dignified look, and about so high. She used to work there — receptionist, hanging up paintings, writing some of the catalogs — fifteen years ago — but became close friends with the owner, even stayed at her apartment when she couldn’t afford a room or was between this place and that lover, and long weekends at her beach house, so I’m sure she’ll be there. Last name was Austin but now it’s Jameson or Jimson or Johnson — her husband’s first name is Braxton — and I only remember one of those was her last name or something like it when I read an obit of her father last year and it gave that name as one of the deceased.” The woman says “Maybe you’d like to go; I’m sure I can bring more than one friend,” and he says “Nah, I don’t know if I want to see her again like that — wangling an invitation. And I hate gallery parties; jug wines in fancy carafes and no chairs, and how would I tell it to Denise — that I’m going to a party where I’m almost sure to see an old girlfriend, love of my life till I met her?” The woman reports back to him. She did see a beautiful blonde woman, in her early forties but looked ten years younger, “asked about her, was told her name was Janine, went up to her and said I knew you. She was immediately all interest; asked me questions about you for an hour. In fact most of my talking time there I spent with her and was taken up by you. What are you doing? How do you support yourself? What do you look like? Where do you live? Is your mother still alive? Are you married or have you been since she last saw you and do you have any children? — somehow she felt you would by now, in or out of marriage. What’s my relationship to you? When I said ‘friend’ she gave me this double take, for she didn’t think you could ever know a single attractive woman long, as she put it, and just be friends. ‘Well, he’s changed — people do,’ she said, and then she asked what’s the woman like who you are involved with. She said you two were once engaged, but so many years ago that she forgets when. You never told me that. And that you were on and off with one another for a while after that, and much in love as she was with you at times, it never seemed to work out. She obviously has a high impression of your intelligence and talent and character and thinks you were the nicest man she ever was close with, other than her husband, who wasn’t there, by the way, or never came over to her while we talked, and she never looked around for him. Never for no one, in fact. She wasn’t one of those people at parties who are always darting their eyes about while you’re talking to them or standing with their backs to the wall so they can see everyone and be seen by everyone too. That says a great deal about her. When I told her of all you’ve written and also got published lately, she said she was going out the next day to buy everything of yours she could. That she hadn’t known you had stuck with it, but didn’t see why you wouldn’t, and what are some of the book titles and so on? I couldn’t remember one, not even the newest. But you know me; I’ve little to nil interest in books except for the art ones and if I did ever read one of yours I probably wouldn’t understand or like it, which is possibly why we stay friends — that I only talk about the covers.” “What’s she doing — she say?” “I think teaching. Or maybe she said she’s the principal of an all-girls’ school, or dean, or in admissions — head of it or assistant to head. I’m sorry, I forget. Also some artwork too, she’s doing — besides devoting lots of time to her children, of course — which she seemed too embarrassed to talk about, the art, maybe because I’m a professional painter and she thought it presumptuous talking to me of it. I should have pursued it because I knew you would have wanted to know what exactly in art she was in.” He wanted to ask about her hair, what style was it in and the color, but that would have sounded funny and he didn’t quite know how to phrase it, though he tried a few times in his head. And her body — was it still slim, with that tiny waist and strong legs, and energetic, or had it grown, got a little fleshy and slowed down? but he’s sure she would have said something like “You men — only interested in our bods, or mostly, and after we reach a certain age, go for the younger flesh and throw us away; I hate that,” and not answered it. Also what she smelled like — from the carnation soap she was famous to him for? Doesn’t remember even thinking of it last time he saw her, and forgets if it was in the bathroom of their house when he slept over? If it was, wouldn’t he have thought of it then? He doesn’t know. But he does remember that every time he did smell it — at her place or someone else’s — after he hadn’t seen her for a while, he thought of the smell and of her. But what’s he talking about? That soap wouldn’t smell on a person an hour or so after she washed herself with it; it’s perfume he’s thinking of, which he doesn’t think she ever used, and it’s someone else he’s thinking of who always had on one particular identifying kind. He says “Did she show you any pictures of her kids or say what sex they were or how old?” and she says “No, only that she has them; two, but I said that. What else about her? Nothing, except that she’s a lovely woman in every way. I felt immediately at ease and in rapport with her and could see myself becoming good friends with her if I had the chance, and of course why you were so attracted to her.” “In love with her. I could have killed myself over her. I think I almost did once. No, that was over someone else, much earlier on.” “Well, you were young, with her and all of them before her, and since no person’s worth killing yourself over, good thing you didn’t.”