"Nice room," he says.
"It's the same room I always have."
"Is it?"
She nods.
"Twisted ankle?" he asks.
"I wanted to buy a present for Ben, I was walking, and they just came after me, little wild dogs like a pack of miniature wolves. 'Sit,' I yelled. 'Stop. Stay.' They heard nothing. I tried to run, but those are not running shoes." She points to her Manolos, tossed off near the door. "They chased me down Rodeo and into Saks. I dove into the store kicking them off; one had his teeth sunk into my ankle, and I was shaking my leg trying to get him loose. The others were hurling themselves at the glass doors, scratching, barking.
"The security guys did a wonderful job, trapping them in garment bags and turning them over to the police. Apparently it's not the first time it's happened: there's a pack roaming Beverly Hills. They would have eaten me alive."
"And so one bit you?"
"At least one. I can't bring myself to look."
"Did you call a doctor?"
"I spoke to Charlie's office in New York, he said I have to get a rabies shot; do you have a doctor here?"
"It's a sore point," Richard says, lifting the ice pack to look at her leg.
Her panty hose are shredded; there are bite marks on her leg. Her calves are thin, ankles slim, but her feet are not the feet he remembers — thicker, hammer-toed, they are more like her mother's feet. He notices something on her toes — white, like fungus.
"Should you be taking that stuff I see advertised — Lamisil?"
She laughs. "It's not fungus, it's a bad paint job. I asked for French tips and they blew it."
He calls Dr. Anderson's office.
"It's Richard Novak," he says to the receptionist. "I'm calling because my wife has been bitten by a dog."
"I didn't know you were married," the receptionist says.
"She needs a rabies shot."
"Hold on." She comes back on the line. "The doctor was about to go home, but he says he'll stay, he'd love to meet your wife."
"Charlie told me to keep my leg up," she says.
He lifts her; he feels it in his back, but says nothing. She puts her arms around his neck. She is carrying the ice pack — cold between his shoulder blades. She leans her head against his chest; he breathes deeply. He loves her smell. He loves her; he has always loved her, that's why he had to leave.
"Nice to see you," he says, while they are waiting for the elevator.
She smiles. "How's Ben?"
"He's good, really good."
In the elevator going down, a disembodied voice speaks to them: "Can you hear me? This is a test, we are testing our system. Can you hear me?"
"Yes," they say in unison.
"Can you say a few words so we can be sure we hear you?"
"We are riding in the elevator," Richard says. "We are going down. Where are you talking to us from?"
"This is a satellite transmission from Burbank. Thank you for taking the time to assist us. This completes our test."
"LOOKS LIKE they found you very appealing," Dr. Anderson says, taking a look at her leg. "Any idea what kind they were?"
"Pointy ears, sharp faces, the kind that are in those ads for Mexican food."
"Chihuahuas?"
She nods.
"Sure it wasn't the saber-tooth?" the doctor asks, half kidding.
"Do you have saber-tooths on Rodeo Drive?"
"We've got everything," the doctor says.
"It was dogs," she says, "little dogs."
"Are you up to date on tetanus?"
"I'm up to date on nothing," she says.
"Have you seen this kind of thing before?" Richard asks the doctor.
"Can't say I've seen it, but I have heard about them, packs of untamed dogs. Have you ever had a rabies shot?" he asks the ex-wife.
"A shot in the stomach; isn't that what rabies is?"
"Actually, now it's in the arm."
"I wouldn't have thought it was something you kept in the office."
"I keep one of everything; I like to be prepared for all eventualities," he says. "Do you have any allergies, sensitivities — eggs, shellfish, nuts?"
She shakes her head. "Once some makeup remover gave me a rash, but that was years ago."
"OK, so we're going to give you two shots today, tetanus and a rabies, and then you'll have to have five more rabies shots over the next four weeks. It's very important that you get the full series of shots; rabies is fatal, but the shots are not."
Richard is looking at her — the planes of her face, the texture of her skin, the way she wears the passage of time — it all looks softer, warmer than he remembers.
"By the way, we found your EKG," the doctor says to him. "It was in a pile on Lusardi's desk." He steps out of the room to prepare the vaccines.
"I want to leave," she says, suddenly. "I don't like shots."
"It's not an option," Richard says. "I don't care."
"We need to stay," he says, taking her hand, squeezing.
"Since when are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"So kind?"
"I don't know," he says. And then, to fill the silence, he says, "Did you know I had polio?" — as though this is a good change of subject — but it's on his mind.
"You didn't have polio."
"I did, only I never knew. Why would you say I didn't?"
"Because you didn't. You weren't in an iron lung and you aren't in a wheelchair."
"There are a variety of forms."
The doctor comes back into the room. "We had a little bit of an earthquake this morning — did you feel it?"
"I felt nothing," Richard says.
He gives her the shots. "I'll have you sit in the waiting room for about twenty minutes, just to be sure there's no allergic reaction, and then you'll need the second shot in, say, three days. Your regular doctors can get it for you, but if you're still here, give a call and I'll do it."
"Thank you," she says. "Thank you very much."
"A pleasure to meet you."
Richard helps her off the table and into the waiting area.
"My plane was late getting in," she says. "We lost an engine over Ohio and had to go all the way back to JFK to get a new one."
Richard remembers the last time they made love; he did it knowing he was leaving, he kissed her cheek, her neck, her hair knowing it was the last time. "What were you thinking when we got married?" he asks her.
"I had high hopes."
"Do you remember what happened on our honeymoon?"
"The volcano erupted and we had to leave; there was ash, molten lava," she says; it was a game they used to play, always retelling the story of their relationship.
"The first time in more than a hundred and fifty years — we got out just in time — we went to Paris," he says.
She is quiet for a while. "What are you drinking?" he asks, assuming she will say something about him, something about Ben.
"I've been crazed," she says. "There's someone at the office who just does nothing; everyone else works like a dog, and this one guy does nothing, and I haven't had the nerve to say anything."
Like a kick in the stomach — same as it always was — it confirms what he felt long ago, what he knew. "Do you ever stop?"
"Why would I want to?"
"Do you love it — is it satisfying?"
"I don't have time to think about it."
"Is that why you do it, so you don't have to think?"
She doesn't answer.
"Do you?"
"I like to be active."
In the waiting room, the television is tuned to a local news station. "An Orange County mother is a hero. In a grocery-store parking lot, her car rolled on top of her toddler, pinning the child's arm. Maria Santiago lifted the car, and the child was able to crawl out with only a broken arm — the incident was caught on the store's external surveillance camera. 'What were you thinking when the car ran over your daughter's arm?' 'I just knew I had to get my baby out. I prayed to God to give me strength.' "