8

Sarabeth’s motto was “A bad movie is better than no movie at all,” and while it wasn’t true that she’d see absolutely anything, she rarely went more than a week without seeing something. Once, in her twenties, she attended eleven movies in seven days, and even now she viewed this less as proof that she’d had way too much time on her hands and more as a personal best.

The Heidts had people over most Sunday afternoons, which coincidentally—or maybe not?—was one of her favorite times to go to a movie. Thus it felt very familiar to be standing as she was now, staring out her living room window at the seven or so kids playing in the Heidt backyard while the minute hand on her watch ticked toward the time when she absolutely had to leave.

But she lingered. Through the Heidts’ kitchen window she could just make out someone moving around: Bonnie, no doubt, whom Sarabeth understood to be quite the cook; she had even knocked once at Sarabeth’s door and asked apologetically if Sarabeth had any star anise she could borrow. Dumbfounded and flattered, Sarabeth went into her kitchen and pretended to look.

Pilar had brought outside with her a zoo’s worth of stuffed animals, and Sarabeth watched as she arranged them on a blanket, with a refreshing disregard for potential interspecies problems: giant floppy lion next to fuzzy pink flamingo, T-shirted Babar surrounded by little yellow chicks. Her hair was in braids today, short little braids that stuck out just below her ears.

The back door swung open, and now Bonnie stepped outside. She wore an orange polar-fleece vest over a red turtleneck, a lot of color even for her. She was the type of fortyish woman whose sexless personal style owed as much to kindergarten as to spinsterhood, and Sarabeth wondered what she’d been like at the time of her romance with Rick, if even then she’d clothed herself in brightly colored, shape-hiding garments; eschewed makeup; air-dried her hair. What would a person like that have worn for a wedding dress?

Liz had worn her mother’s gown, but with the sleeves removed and the neckline altered to expose her gorgeous shoulders. Sarabeth had had so much fun with her in the months leading up to the wedding: racing around the city looking at lace, flower arrangements, who-knew-what-all. It was during that time that the idea of making things had really taken root in Sarabeth.

She had to get going. With a nod at Bonnie, she hurried down the driveway and out to her car, then sped through the orangest of traffic lights toward the theater.

Nina was there ahead of her, waiting with her hands in the pockets of her leather trench coat, her strawberry blond hair framing her face in ringlets and waves. She shook her head indulgently as Sarabeth ran up.

“You do know you’re two minutes early.”

“Leave me alone!” Sarabeth panted, only half kidding.

They made their way through the empty lobby and on into the darkened theater. It was a sunny afternoon outside, and there were only six or seven other people in the place.

The lights went down, and Sarabeth felt herself sink in as she waited for the first preview. That wide grass-green preview screen—she gladdened each time at the sight of it. Six previews, seven, there could never be too many. She liked the fact that, during the previews, she often forgot what movie she was going to see.

Which was what? Oh, right: the Canadian film about sibling incest, or at least that was what the press was all about—maybe they were just being sensationalist.

“Remind me to tell you about Mary and Mark Murphy,” Nina whispered, just as the first preview started.

Sarabeth turned to her. “What?”

Nina shook her head. “After.”

Sarabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again. What about Mary and Mark? What? She found her heart was pounding, and she was glad she’d seen this preview before. She thought of Mark and the canoe, a few weeks ago, and his odd, pained smile as he said, Mary does. Mary likes canoeing. What was up? Mary was a law school friend of Nina’s, but whereas Nina had gone to work for the state, Mary was in private practice. She and two other Boalt graduates had their own firm, and she specialized in divorces. “Berkeley divorces” was the phrase in Sarabeth’s mind. Meaning enlightened. Was Mary going to have her own Berkeley divorce? Impossible, Sarabeth thought, but of course nothing was impossible. And Mark had seemed odd, with the canoe. Preoccupied.

Two and a half hours later the lights came up, and Sarabeth and Nina turned to each other with their mouths agape.

“Oh, my God,” Sarabeth said.

“The thing with the ax.”

“And he was so gross at the end—that noise he made.”

The press had been scant preparation for the movie. About an hour in, after they’d had sex on every surface imaginable, the brother had chopped off the sister’s hand with a wood ax. Things got worse after that, and at the end, the sister finally murdered, he wandered naked through the house, pulling on his penis and emitting a sound, half screech and half growl, that no human should be able to make or have to hear.

“Watch those taboos,” Nina said with a mischievous smile.

“Stop,” Sarabeth said, but she smiled, too: Nina had a pet theory about the reducibility of all narrative art. At their book group, Sarabeth usually figured it was time to wrap things up when Nina started throwing out possible summarizing slogans.

They made their way up the aisle and through the lobby. It wasn’t until they were standing outside the theater, trying to decide where to eat, that Sarabeth remembered what Nina had said just as the lights went down. “Wait, wait,” she said, pulling Nina out of the way of the passersby, “what about Mary and Mark?” Her heart was pounding again, and she was annoyed with herself for being so eager, or looking so eager—whichever, she was annoyed.

“Oh,” Nina said, eyes wide, “I completely forgot. This is so amazing. They’re leaving for China on Wednesday.”

“China?” Sarabeth said, and then she remembered: they wanted to adopt a baby. They were going to adopt a baby, evidently. “You mean it’s happening? Mary must be so happy.” She herself, on the other hand, was strangely sad; or perhaps she was simply moved, given the long story of infertility, drug treatments, failed IVFs, and despair that she’d heard, in installments, from Nina. Mary had been through the wringer. Sarabeth sluiced a tear from under her eye and forced herself to smile.

“It’s intense, isn’t it?” Nina said. “She’s taking at least a year off work.”

“I’d better make some lampshades,” Sarabeth joked, “or they’ll go broke.”

They stood on the sidewalk, people walking past them: full of purpose, or so it seemed.

“So dinner,” Nina said at last. “Do you want to go to Frisée? I could go for one of those little pizzas—maybe they’ll have the goat cheese and sun-dried tomato.”

This struck Sarabeth as inordinately funny, and she laughed a nervous, giggly laugh she feared would get out of hand.

“What?” Nina said.

Sarabeth shook her head and laughed harder. It was just…goat cheese and sun-dried tomato pizza. It was…Mark and Mary going to China to adopt a baby. It was…a movie about sibling incest, dismemberment, and murder. It was a yard full of children, and the idea that she might have star anise!

“What?” Nina was saying, her hair surrounding her face like a flame. “Sarabeth, what? Are you OK?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Sarabeth said, but she had imagined herself in Bonnie Heidt’s kitchen, and a feeling of intense unhappiness overcame her.