8

“Why are we going to this?” Diana asked, her question warring against the sound of Lida’s front tires rubbing the curb.

“Because”—Lida looked into the rearview mirror and scraped into reverse—“they have a pool.”

“I didn’t bring my suit,” Diana said.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” She cut the engine off and looked at Diana with mock amazement. “The Feltons swim naked.”

A fully clothed and immensely pregnant Lucille Felton came out of the house and greeted them. “Oh, you’re already laughing,” she said, as though she didn’t quite approve. “Well, did you bring your suits?”

Lida held up a handful of green bouclé.

“Good! Come on inside!” Lucille waved them in with a flabby arm.

“Can you believe that body?” Lida said sotto voce. “And she’s in her twenties.”

“Lida,” Diana defended, “she’s pregnant.”

“I’m not talking about her belly. I’m talking about her arms.”

“First,” Lucille was saying, “I want to show off my latest treasure.” She led them into a freshly painted alcove. “There!” she said, stepping to one side with overweight grace.

“It’s lovely!” Diana said.

“Yes …” Lucille picked up a little porcelain vase and hugged it. “Doesn’t it have the dearest shape? I got it for the bathroom, but Jerry thought it worked much better out here. Said it got in his way when he shaved or something. What is it, honey?” She finally took notice of her son, who had been standing patiently beside her.

“What’s that?” the boy said, pointing at the bathing suit that Lida held bunched in her hand.

“It isn’t polite to point,” Lucille chided.

“What is it?” he insisted, pointing nonetheless.

Lida held it up, one piece at a time. “It’s a swimsuit,” she told him. “A bikini.”

“Biki …” he began, but stopped.

“Bikini,” Lida repeated.

“Bikini!” he said, grinning.

“That’s very good, Jeff!” Jerry’s big voice filled the hall. He was an associate professor in the Geography Department and spoke every word as if it had seismic significance.

“Honey,” Lucille whined, “don’t encourage him!” She turned the boy around and gave him a little pat to start him off down the hall. “Honestly. And, Lida, I wish you’d …” She drew her lips into a little circle, fretting. “I wish you wouldn’t answer Jeff’s questions. Jerry and I are trying to encourage him to use deductive reasoning.”

“Absolutely,” Jerry said, winking at Lida over his wife’s shoulder.

“Lucille,” Lida said, “there is no way your son or anyone could look at these two pieces of cloth and deduce the word ‘bikini.’ Believe me, no way.”

“Oh, Lida,” Lucille said, patting Lida’s forearm. “Don’t be so serious. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Now, now, ladies,” Jerry said, laying his hand on Lida’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take Lida for a little walk and tell her all about the way we’re raising Jeff, and you take Diana into our bedroom and show her the canopy we made.”

He led Lida away, sliding his arm around her, big-brother fashion. “Let her alone,” he said, “please?” His arm still hung in place.

“Look. I’m not making a big deal out of this. It’s just that …” She stopped walking and took a deep breath. “Jer, your wife is an idiot. I’m sorry, but she’s a raving idiot.”

They walked around the pool and back into the house in silence. When Lucille and Diana met them, Jerry gave Lida a big, friendly squeeze and released her. “She’s convinced,” he told his wife.

“See?” Lucille said. “That husband of mine can convince anyone of anything.”

“He didn’t convince me, Lucille, but it sure felt good.”

Lucille squealed at the remark as though it had been clever.

Very late that night, Lida’s phone jangled.

“Do you know who this is?” a male voice began.

“If I knew,” Lida said, “I’d call the police.”

“It’s Jerry.”

“Oh.”

“What did you mean when you said that?” he asked.

“Said what?” Oh, God, that Lucille was an idiot.

“That it felt good. You said, ‘It sure felt good.’”

“Aw, Jer, I don’t know. I guess I meant that it felt good. Just forget it.”

“I’m not sure that I want to forget it,” he answered.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’d like to see you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay, sure.”

“When?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s a good time for you?”

God, was she that desperate?

Afterwards he stood in the bathroom, swabbing his genitals. “I’ll get a rash if I don’t,” he said, turning away.

God, that desperate?

She would have called it off. Only, before she could, Jerry was flat on his back in the hospital. He had called her, urging her to visit.

“But your family,” she protested, “Lucille.”

“She won’t be in until eleven.”