The autobiographer wishes she could report that all is well with her and Joey, too. Alas, all is not. Joey still presents a steel door to Patty, a door cooler and harder than ever, a door that she knows will remain closed until she can prove to him that she’s accepted Connie. And, alas, though Patty has made great strides in many areas, learning to love Connie isn’t one of them. That Connie sedulously checks every box of good daughter-in-lawship only makes things worse. Patty can feel in her bones that Connie doesn’t actually like her any more than she likes Connie. There is something about Connie’s way with Joey, something relentlessly possessive and competitive and exclusive, something not right, that makes Patty’s hair stand on end. Although she wants to become a better person in every way, she has sadly begun to realize that this ideal may very well be unattainable, and that her failure will always stand between her and Joey, and be her lasting punishment for the mistakes she made with him. Joey, needless to say, is scrupulously polite to Patty. He calls her once a week and remembers the names of her co-workers and her favorite students; he extends and sometimes accepts invitations; he tosses her such small scraps of attention as his loyalty to Connie permits. In the last two years, he’s gone so far as to repay, with interest, the money she sent to him in college-money that she needs too much, both practically and emotionally, to say no to. But his inner door is locked against her, and she can’t imagine how it will ever open again.

Or actually, to be precise, she can imagine only one way, which the autobiographer fears her reader won’t want to hear about but which she will mention anyway. She can imagine that, if she could somehow be with Walter again, and feel secure in his love again, and get up from their warm bed in the morning and go back to it at night knowing that she’s his again, she might finally forgive Connie and become sensible of the qualities that everybody else finds so appealing in her. She might enjoy sitting down at Connie’s dinner table, and her heart might be warmed by Joey’s loyalty and devotion to his wife, and Joey in turn might open the door for her a little bit, if only she could ride home from dinner afterward with Walter and rest her head on his shoulder and know she’s been forgiven. But of course this is a wildly unlikely scenario, and by no stretch of justice one that she deserves.

The autobiographer is fifty-two now and looks it. Her periods have lately been strange and irregular. Every year at tax time, it seems as if the year just past was shorter than the year before it; the years are becoming so similar to each other. She can imagine several discouraging reasons why Walter hasn’t divorced her-he might, for example, still hate her too much to put himself even minimally in contact with her-but her heart persists in taking courage from the fact that he hasn’t. She has embarrassingly inquired, of her children, whether there’s a woman in his life, and has rejoiced at hearing no. Not because she doesn’t want him to be happy, not because she has any right or even much inclination to be jealous anymore, but because it means there’s some shadow of a chance that he still thinks, as she does more than ever, that they were not just the worst thing that ever happened to each other, they were also the best thing. Having made so many mistakes in her life, she has every reason to assume she’s being unrealistic here, too: is failing to imagine some obvious fatal impediment to their getting back together. But the thought won’t leave her alone. It comes to her day after day, year after similar year, this yearning for his face and his voice and his anger and his kindness, this yearning for her mate.

And this is really all the autobiographer has to tell her reader, except to mention, in closing, what occasioned the writing of these pages. A few weeks ago, on Spring Street in Manhattan, on her way home from a bookstore reading by an earnest young novelist whom Jessica was excited to be publishing, Patty saw a tall middle-aged man striding toward her on the sidewalk and realized it was Richard Katz. His hair is short and gray now, and he wears glasses that make him weirdly distinguished, even though he still dresses like a late-seventies twenty-year-old. Seeing him in Lower Manhattan, where you can’t be as invisible as you can in deep Brooklyn, Patty was sensible of how old she herself must look now, how much like somebody’s irrelevant mother. If there’d been any way to hide, she would have hidden, to spare Richard the embarrassment of seeing her and herself the embarrassment of being his discarded sexual object. But she couldn’t hide, and Richard, with a familiar effortful decency, after some awkward hellos, offered to buy her a glass of wine.

In the bar where they alighted, Richard listened to Patty’s news of herself with the halved attention of a man who’s busy and successful. He seemed finally to have made peace with his success-he mentioned, without embarrassment or apology, that he’d done one of those avant-garde orchestral thingies for the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and that his current girlfriend, who is apparently a big-deal documentary-maker, had introduced him to various young directors of the kind of art-house movies that Walter always loved, and that some scoring projects were in the works. Patty allowed herself one small pang at how relatively contented he seemed, and another small pang at the thought of his high-powered girlfriend, before turning the subject, as always, to Walter.

“You’re not in touch with him at all,” Richard said.

“No,” she said. “It’s like some kind of fairy tale. We haven’t talked since the day I left Washington. Six years and not one word. I only hear about him from my kids.”

“Maybe you should call him.”

“I can’t, Richard. I missed my chance six years ago, and now I think he just wants to be left alone. He’s living at the lake house and doing work for the Nature Conservancy up there. If he wanted to be in touch, he could always call me.”

“Maybe he’s thinking the same thing about you.”

She shook her head. “I think everybody recognizes that he’s suffered more than I have. I don’t think anyone’s cruel enough to think it’s his job to call me. Plus I’ve already told Jessie, in so many words, that I’d like to see him again. I’d be shocked if she hadn’t passed that information along to him-there’s nothing she’d like better than to save the day. So he’s obviously still hurt, and angry, and hates you and me. And who can blame him, really?”

“I can, a little bit,” Richard said. “You remember how he gave me that silent treatment in college? That was bullshit. It’s bad for his soul. It’s the side of him I could never stand.”

“Well maybe you should call him.”

“No.” He laughed. “I did finally get around to making him a little present-you’ll see it in a couple of months if you keep your eye out. A little friendly shout across the time zones. But I’ve never had any kind of stomach for apologies. Whereas you.”

“Whereas I?”

He was already waving to the bar waitress for the check. “You know how to tell a story,” he said. “Why don’t you tell him a story?”