“I don’t know what made you think such a thing. This is midway through the semester. I’m sorry I didn’t call, but—”
“I said to Daddy, ‘She’s driving home tonight. She’ll be home in two hours.’ So I made a buttermilk cake, the kind you always liked—”
“You made a cake? Mother, that’s absurd. Just because I missed calling you, there was no reason to expect me home.”
There was a pause long enough for Sarah to know she must have said something terrible. She was steeped in guilt without knowing why.
Then her mother’s voice said, “You didn’t forget what day tomorrow is? You didn’t forget, Sally?”
Sunday, May fourth.
May fourth.
Into Sarah’s mind flashed the image of a stretch of highway east of Philadelphia near a town called Friendship. A single line scored on the tarmac surface. A crazy, twisting line that became two. Two that crossed and then stayed parallel as she had tracked them across the three lanes of the road and into the ditch beside it. There she had seen scorched grass. No one could say for certain what had caused her brother, Marty, to lose control of his new Yamaha. He had died the day before his eighteenth birthday. Two years ago. May fourth, 1978.
Sarah talked, plugging the silence with words. “I remember, of course. You can’t believe I’m so insensitive. You don’t think I would forget the only brother I had in the world. Only I thought maybe it would distress you more if—”
“I thought we would come together as a family this weekend. Like last year.”
Last year had been like the funeral all over again, only worse, because it was unbidden. Standing by the grave. Dark clothes and prayers in church. The empty place at the table. An evening with Mother mawkishly sifting through old photos, wallowing in misery. Every topic barred except Marty, Marty, Marty.
Was this to be an annual ritual?
“It helps to share the grief, Sally. I planned for us to go to church Sunday, you and Daddy and me. I’m okay now; I promise. I won’t break down this year. You know you’re all we’ve got now.”
Now that Marty was dead. Before, when Marty was trying for Yale, and astronomic fees had to be met for school and private tutoring, and parties given for teachers supposed to have influence on Yale admissions, no one had pleaded with Sarah to come home for a weekend.
“Mother, I’m sorry, but I have to tell you that I simply cannot get away right now. I can’t tell you how busy I am with this research. Aside from that, I really think you shouldn’t make too much of this. I mean, I know you can’t dismiss Marty from your thoughts, but is it right to make a big occasion out of the anniversary?”
Before she finished the question, she knew it was a mistake to have started it. There was outrage, followed by weeping, followed by her father on the line.
“Sarah, I don’t altogether know what this is about,” — oh, but he did, absolutely — “but your mother can do without you upsetting her at this time. Shall we see you tomorrow when Marty’s name is read in church?”
She found it easier to say no to him. If there was still a residue of pity for her mother, for him there was nothing. There had been nothing for as long as she could remember. She told him coolly and firmly that she had work to do that could not be put off. Marty would be in her thoughts on Sunday and she would pay respect to his memory in her own way. She guessed Mother would understand when she gave the whole thing some thought.
And she replaced the receiver.
She almost ran downstairs and hailed a cab. She felt shaken up, but she was not having her evening ruined by them.
At La Fondue, Ed Cunningham was waiting at the bar. Seeing him in this new setting was like meeting him for the first time. They greeted each other stiffly. He helped her out of her coat and handed it to one of the restaurant staff. He said she looked dazzling and blinked so much he could have meant it literally. The compliment pleased her, yet she was uncertain how to react to it. Last Wednesday in the lab, accepting his invitation to dinner had been a snap decision. Of the people there, only he had shown consideration for her, or given practical help when the spiders had escaped. The suggestion of dinner had seemed in keeping with his concern, as if he hadn’t wanted her to leave with a totally bad impression. To have refused would have been mean, especially after he had described himself as a silver-haired shrink.
Yet now that she was here, facing an evening alone with him, apprehensions bore down, making her ultrasensitive to each inflection in his voice. What did he expect from this evening? Was this purely a public-relations exercise on behalf of the film unit? Or was Ed Cunningham here on his own account? She knew there were men of his generation who liked being seen with girls half their age. She didn’t object to that. Older men had style; it would be no hardship to have the undivided attention of one. If at the end of the evening he made it obvious he wanted something besides conversation — this was strictly hypothetical — she would not necessarily turn him down. Making it with a man in his fifties would be new in her experience, and he couldn’t be less of a turn-on than the guys of her own age she had slept with. It might just be a whole lot better.
She let him order her a drink; then she asked him, straight out, “Why am I here?”
He smiled, and the lines sharpened at the edges of his eyes. “That’s easy. You’re here, Sarah, because you were generous enough to give a positive answer to my invitation to dinner and considerate enough not to cancel when I phoned and asked you to meet me here. I really appreciate that.”
“Yes, but why?”
“You want to know my intentions?”
She hoped she had not gone crimson. “Well... yes.”
He looked steadily back at her. “You interest me. Personally and — don’t be alarmed by this — professionally. I believe you are a very special person, Sarah. I’d like to know you better.” He stopped and smiled again. “I know. You’ve heard that line before. Let me put it another way. I’m as charmed as any guy could be to have dinner with a girl as attractive as you, but I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. I promise you solemnly that you won’t feel my knee pressing yours under the table. My approach begins and ends with words.”
Sarah was grateful for the timing as their cocktails were placed in front of them. “To words, then.”
“Plenty of them.”
“Shall I call you Ed?”
“Please. Everyone does. Each day I see Edmund on my office door I get another white hair. A psychiatrist called Edmund. It just doesn’t figure. My parents had no imagination. ‘Sigmund’ I could have lived with. What about your name — are you happy with it?”
“I’m reconciled to it.” It was not so easy to make this sort of conversation with a psychiatrist who had just admitted to a professional interest. “Could I have a little more ice in this, do you think?”
“Sure.” He made a deft switch of subjects. “Your TV manner is riveting — did you know that? Greg Laz intends to use practically all the film footage he shot of you. He claims all the credit for finding you. ‘Serendipity,’ he calls it.”
“I ought to know what that means, but—”
“The faculty of making happy discoveries by accident. Greg doesn’t underestimate himself, as you may appreciate, but he’s a nice enough guy and a red-hot film director. Do you mind if I ask you something? Was it just an accident that you happened to be working in the lab when we arrived to set up?”
Sarah frowned slightly. “You mean was I there to try and get a part in the program? No. I was checking the spiders. It’s a job we do each day.”