“Well, I did the first time I asked,” she said evenly.

“Ruth, I’m reading my mail!”

“I can see that,” she mumbled, bending over to pick up the empty, torn envelopes that lay on the floor.

“So what happened around here today?” he asked, opening another envelope. Another piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

“The usual madness. Marcia called a few times today, looking for you. When I could finally find the phone. Bud hid the handset again, the battery went dead, and it took me ages to find it. Anyway, she needs help with deciding on a venue for your dad’s party. What did you tell her?”

Silence. She patiently watched him reading the last page of a document and waited for an answer. When he had folded the papers and dropped them on the table, he reached for another envelope.

“Honey?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked you about Marcia,” she said, trying to keep her patience, then proceeded to pick up the new pieces of paper that had fallen to the floor.

“Oh yeah.” He unfolded another document and became once again distracted by the contents.

“Yes?” she said loudly.

He looked up and gazed at her, as though noticing for the first time that she was standing there. “What were we saying?”

“Marcia,” she said, rubbing her tired eyes. “We’re talking about Marcia, but you’re busy, so…” She began making her way to the kitchen.

“Oh, that. I’m taking the party off her hands. Alison’s going to organize it.”

Ruth stopped. “Alison?”

“Yes, my secretary. She’s new. Have you met her?”

“Not yet.” She slowly made her way back toward him. “Honey, Marcia was really excited about organizing the party.”

“And now Alison is.” He smiled. “Not.” Then he laughed.

She smiled patiently at the inside joke that she didn’t understand.

Lou looked away. He knew that Marcia had loved organizing the party, that she’d been planning it for months. But in taking it out of her hands he was, in fact, making it easier on himself. He couldn’t stand the twenty calls a day about cake tasting and whether or not he’d allow three of their decrepit aunts to stay overnight in his house or if he’d lend a few of his serving spoons for the buffet. Ever since her marriage had ended, Marcia had focused on this party. Maybe if she’d have given her marriage as much attention as she did the bloody party…Taking this off her hands was a favor to her and a favor to himself. Two things accomplished at once. Just what he liked.

Ruth took a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing as she exhaled. “Your dinner’s ready.” She began to move toward the kitchen again. “It’ll just take a minute to heat up. And I bought that apple pie you like.”

“I’ve eaten,” he said, folding the letter he’d just finished and ripping it into pieces that fluttered to the floor. It was either the sound of yet more paper hitting the floor or his words that stopped her, but either way she froze.

“I’ll pick the bloody things up,” he said with irritation.

She slowly turned around and asked in a quiet voice, “Where did you eat?”

“Shanahan’s. Rib-eye steak. I’m stuffed.” He absentmindedly rubbed his stomach.

“With who?”

“Work people.”

“Who?”

“What’s this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

“No, just a wife asking a husband who he had dinner with.”

“A few guys from the office. You don’t know them.”

“I wish you would have told me.”

“It wasn’t a social thing. Nobody else’s wives were there.”

“I didn’t mean—I’d like to have known so I wouldn’t have bothered cooking for you.”

“Christ, Ruth, I’m sorry you cooked and bought a bloody pie,” he exploded.

“Sssh,” she said, closing her eyes and hoping his raised voice wouldn’t wake the baby.

“No! I won’t sssh!” he boomed. “Okay?” He made his way into the parlor, leaving his shoes in the middle of the hallway and his papers and envelopes strewn across the hall table.

Ruth took another deep breath, turned away from his mess, and made her way to the opposite side of the house.

WHEN LOU REJOINED HIS WIFE a little while later, she was sitting at the kitchen table eating lasagna and a salad, the pie next in line, watching women in spandex jump around on the large plasma TV in the adjoining family room.

“I thought you’d eaten with the kids,” he remarked after watching her for a while.

“I did,” she said, through a full mouth.

“So why are you eating again?” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost eleven. A bit late to eat, don’t you think?”

“You eat at this hour.” She frowned.

“Yes, but I’m not the one who complains that I’m fat and then eats two dinners and a pie.” He laughed.

She swallowed the food, feeling like a rock was going down her throat. He hadn’t noticed his words, hadn’t intended to hurt her. He never intended to hurt her; he just did. After a long silence, during which Ruth lost her energy for anger and built up the appetite to eat again, Lou poured himself a glass of wine and joined her at the kitchen table. On the other side of the kitchen window the blackness clung to the cold pane, eager to get inside. Beyond it were the millions of lights of the city across the bay, like Christmas lights dangling from the blackness.

“It’s been a weird day today,” Lou finally said.

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “It just felt funny. I felt funny.”

“I feel like that most days,” Ruth said.

“I must be coming down with something. I just feel…out of sorts.”

She felt his forehead. “You’re not hot.”

“I’m not?” He looked at her in surprise and then felt his forehead. “It’s this guy at work.” He shook his head. “So odd.”

Ruth frowned and studied him, not used to seeing him so inarticulate.

“It started out well.” He swirled his wine around his glass. “I met a man called Gabe outside the office. A homeless guy—well, I don’t know if he’s homeless. He says he has a place to stay, but he was begging on the streets anyway.”

At that the baby monitor began crackling as Bud started to cry softly. Just a gentle sleepy moaning at first. Knife and fork down, and with the unfinished plate pushed away, Ruth prayed for him to stop.

“Anyway,” Lou continued, not even noticing, “I bought him a coffee and we got to talking.”

“That was nice of you,” Ruth said. Her maternal instincts were kicking in, and the only voice she could hear now was that of her child, his sleepy moans turning into full-blown cries.

“He reminded me of me,” Lou said. “He was exactly like me, and we had the funniest conversation about shoes.” He laughed, thinking back over it. “He could remember every single pair of shoes that walked into the building, so I hired him. Well, I didn’t, I called Harry—”

“Lou, honey,” she cut in, “do you not hear that?”

He looked at her blankly, irritated at first that she’d interrupted his story, and then cocked his head to listen. Finally the cries penetrated his thoughts.

“Fine, go on,” he sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “But as long as you remember that I was telling you about my day, because you’re always telling me that I don’t,” he mumbled.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She raised her voice. “Your son is crying. Do I have to sit here all night while he wails for help until you’ve finished your story about a homeless man who likes shoes, or would you ever go and check on him of your own accord?”

“I’ll do it,” he said angrily, though not making a move from his chair.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” She stood up from the table. “I want you to do it without being reminded. You don’t do it for brownie points, Lou, you’re supposed to want to do it.”

“You don’t seem too eager to do it yourself now,” he grumbled.

Halfway from the table to the kitchen door, she stopped. “You know you haven’t ever taken Ross for one single day by yourself?”

“Whoa. You must be serious if you’re actually using his real name. Where is all this coming from?”