Connie opens the door before I can ring the bell.

“Come in, Gideon,” she instructs me without any warmth in her voice.

Not that I expected her to fall all over me, but I was hoping that once

she actually saw me, some of her natural friendliness would resurface.

No such luck.

“Hi, Connie,” I chirp, knowing I sound insincere, “you look great!” In fact, she does not.

Like most of us, she has put on some weight. Her face, once oval, is round as a volleyball, and her waist, so tiny as a girl, has thickened.

She is not obese by any means, but beneath her loose blue trousers and matching tunic, which remind me of those grim documentaries on China before they embraced capitalism, it is clear that her once delightful figure has taken early retirement.

“I would have thought you’d be a professional cheerleader by now, but Tommy tells me you’re just a physicist.” “I knew you’d become a lawyer,” she says, at least interested enough to banter with me. She always had less of an accent than Tommy, who, now that I think about it, seemed more Chinese than she did.

It doesn’t sound as if she is paying me a compliment.

“Did I run my mouth that much when I was a teenager?” I ask, willing to make a fool of myself to draw her out.

“You always had an excuse,” she says succinctly, “when Tommy beat you in tennis.”

So she was paying attention.

“Which was every time we played,” I complain, good-naturedly.

“Tommy didn’t say much about how you’ve been doing. I’ve got a daughter in college. My wife died from breast cancer when Sarah was in junior high,” I babble, hoping to make her talk.