They’re treating me, thought Jeremy, with the edgy reverence reserved for a bright but unpredictable offspring.

As if I’m some kind of prize.

Edgar Marquis shifted in his chair. “Dr. Carrier,” he said in a shockingly resonant voice, “I’m no longer bound to be diplomatic, so forgive me if I occasionally lapse into reality.”

“As long as it’s occasional,” said Jeremy, aiming for banter. Wanting Marquis- wanting all of them- to feel at ease.

Marquis said, “Definitely, sir. Anything more than occasional reality would be oppressive.”

“Words to live by,” said Tina Balleron, tapping her silver goblet with long, curving nails.

The man next to her- the black man- said, “The occasional brush with reality would be a step upward for Mr. Average Citizen.” He faced Jeremy: “Harry Maynard. Obviously, I’m slated for last. Back of the table, too. Hmmph. Apparently, some things never change.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Norbert Levy, beard splitting in a grin.

Edgar Marquis said, “A matter of social import has intruded upon our little conclave. Shall we establish a committee of inquiry?”

“What else?” said Harry Maynard. “I appoint myself de facto chairman. You’re all guilty as charged. Feel thoroughly chastened.”

“Guilty of what?” said Levy.

“Take your pick.”

Edgar Marquis said, “All in favor, say aye.”

Laughter, all around.

“There you go,” said Judge Balleron. “Participatory democracy at its finest. Now, behave yourself, Harry, and we’ll get to you in good time.”

Maynard wagged a finger. “Life’s too short for good behavior.” He turned back to Jeremy, “Your training will do you well, here. Pleased to meet you, kid.”

Large and bulky in a navy suit, baby blue shirt and teal blue tie, he was probably the youngest- midsixties or so. His complexion was a couple of shades lighter than the walnut paneling. Iron-filing hair was cropped short, and his toothbrush mustache was precisely as wide as his mouth.

Arthur said, “Last and never least is the inestimable Harrison Maynard. He lives in a world of his own.”

Tina Balleron said, “Harry writes books.”

“Used to,” said Maynard. To Jeremy: “Trashy stuff. Pseudononymous trashy stuff. Great fun. I’ve mined the mother lode of estrogen.”

Tina Balleron said, “Harrison is a past practitioner of what used to be termed The Romance Novel. Countless women know him as Amanda Fontaine or Chatelaine DuMont or Barbara Kingsman or some other such vanillish alias. He’s a master of the crushed bodice. God only knows how you did your research, Harry.”

“Looking and listening,” said Maynard.

“So you say,” said the judge. “I think you’ve been a fly on too many walls.”

Harrison Maynard smiled. “One does what one needs to do.” His eyes shifted to the rear of the dining room. The right door had swung open, and Laurent emerged pushing a cart on wheels. The monkey-faced man had changed to a starched white serving jacket. On the cart were six silver domes. Behind him marched a woman his size and age, wearing a black shirtwaist dress and toting a magnum of wine. Her dark hair was drawn back in a bun. Her skin was the color of clotted cream, and her eyes were toasted almonds- tilted by the faintest trace of epicanthus.

Eurasian, Jeremy decided. As she drew near, their eyes met across the table. She smiled shyly and stopped at Edgar Marquis’s seat.

“At last, food,” said the ancient diplomat. “I’m wasting away.”

Jeremy looked at Marquis’s shriveled frame and wondered how much of that was jest. Laurent let the cart come to rest at Tina Balleron’s right.

“Smells delish,” said Marquis. “Alas, ladies first.”

“Ladies deserve to be first,” said the judge.

Marquis groaned. “It’s times like these, dear, that one understands those poor wretches who opt for sex-change surgery.”

“Wine, sir?” said the Eurasian servingwoman.

Marquis looked up at her. “Genevieve, fill my cup to the brim.”

Genevieve poured a white wine, and Laurent served a first course of fish mousse quenelles in a peppery reduction with citrus overtones.

Edgar Marquis tasted, licked his lips, pronounced, “Pike.”

“Pike and turbot,” said Arthur Chess.

“Scallops and lobster roe in the sauce,” added Norbert Levy.

Tina Balleron said, “Enough speculation,” and pressed a buzzer at her feet. Moments later, Laurent emerged.

“Madame?”

“Composition, sir?”

“Whitefish, turbot, and gar.”

“Gar,” said Edgar Marquis, “is basically pike.”

“I,” said Harrison Maynard, “am basically Homo sapiens.”

Tina Balleron said, “The sauce, Laurent?”

“King crab, crawfish, lemon grass, a splash of anisette, ground pepper, just a touch of grapefruit zest.”

“Delicious. Thank you.” As Laurent left, the judge raised her wineglass and the others followed suit.

No toast; a moment of silence, then crystal rims touched lips.

Edgar Marquis sipped faster than the others, and Genevieve was there, as if by magic, to refill his glass. The wine was pale and crisp, with a lemony nuance that harmonized with the delicate mousse.

The quenelle was so light it dissolved on Jeremy’s tongue. He found himself eating too quickly, made a conscious effort to slow down.

Take discreet bites. Chew inconspicuously but energetically. A young gentleman doesn’t gulp.

A young gentleman doesn’t tell anyone when upperclassmen creep into his bunk at night…

Jeremy drained his wineglass. Almost immediately, his head began to swim. He’d had breakfast but no lunch, and the fish mousse was substantial as crepe. The wine had gone to his head.

Laurent emerged again with a basket of flatbreads and slices of softer baked goods. Jeremy selected olive bread and something studded with sesame seeds. A few seeds rolled onto his tie. He flicked them off, unreasonably embarrassed.

No one had noticed. No one was paying attention to him, period.

Everyone concentrating on eating.

He’d seen that before in old people. Knowing time was short and every pleasure needed to be savored?

Jeremy’s forkful of buttery fish paused midair as he observed his companions. Listened to the clink of tines against china, the barely audible samba of determined mastication.

So single-minded. As if this could be their last meal.

Will I be that way, he wondered, when the passage of time hits me hard?

Arthur Chess had labeled the group “our grayed little assemblage,” but as Jeremy looked around the table, he saw alertness, self-satisfaction, self-sustainment. Were these people looking back on lives well lived?

A blessing… then he thought of Jocelyn, never afforded the luxury of a gradual fade.

Tyrene Mazursky.

He tried to salve the resultant flood of images with a greedy swallow of cool wine. The moment it emptied, his glass was refilled. In the next chair over, Tina Balleron glanced at him- was he being indiscreet? Had he betrayed his feelings?

No, she’d returned to the food. He’d probably imagined it.

He drank too much and ate more bread, cleaned his plate. Conversation resumed- floated around him. The old people talked steadily but at a leisurely pace. No conflict, nothing ponderous, just several light glosses over the day’s headlines. Then Norbert Levy said something about a hydroelectric dam project slated for the next state over, quoted facts and figures, talked about the Aswan disaster in Egypt, the futility of trying to conquer nature.

Tina Balleron cited a book she’d read about the inevitability of Mississippi floods.

Harrison Maynard pronounced the Army Corps of Engineers “Frankenstein monsters in khaki,” and quoted Jonathan Swift to the effect that if one learned to plant two ears of corn where one had grown previously, he had serviced mankind better than ‘the entire race of politicians.’ ”