“She doesn’t leave us much of an out. Unless we close the house and go away and pretend we never got her letter.”

He looked at me. “Why would we want to do that?”

“I was just making conversation.”

“You cover all bets with that line, don’t you? Whenever you don’t want to explain some dumb thing you’ve said, you say you were just making conversation.”

“The work didn’t go well this morning, huh?”

“Cut the shit, Priss, will you?”

“I guess I thought you might not welcome her visit, that’s all. And that you wouldn’t say anything to that effect, so I would say it for you.”

“Not welcome it? I’ve always liked Rhoda.”

“I know.”

“Of course, I never had the chance to know her as well as you did, pudding-pie.”

“You know, you’re a real son of a bitch.”

“Hey, don’t!” My eyes were misting, and a lump forming in my throat. He took my arm. “I’m sorry, baby. I never thought you’d be so uptight about it.”

“I never should have told you.”

“But it doesn’t bother me, for Christ’s sake. You were kiddies, right? Groping toward awareness of self. Nothing unnatural about it.”

I didn’t say anything.

He was putting his arms around me and giving me awkward ursine brotherly hugs. I did not much feel like being touched, but endured it. I looked at my wedding ring and had the sudden and blindingly graphic image of myself dropping it gaily into a Las Vegas sewer. Twenty-nine, and eight years married, and happily so, and all at once longing for divorce? For Heaven’s sake, what is going on here?

I said, “You’re not going to say anything to Rho?”

“Honey, what do you think I am?”

“Because I couldn’t bear it, I don’t think.”

“You’re not ashamed of it, are you, baby?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Because you sound like it. Look. You used to ball your college roommate. You liked her, she liked you-”