Part 6 (1/2)

- What were you going to say?

- Oh. My theory . . . My theory is, they remember you longer if you don't do it.

- Maybe, Kathrin said, but then, what's the point?

- It's just my theory. They want to divide and conquer.

- Divide?

- Something like that.

Jane had had less to drink. She wasn't feeling well. She had spent the afternoon waiting to talk to the doctor and emerging onto the unreal street.

She was wandering around the room and picked up a photograph of Leslie and Bunning taken around the time they got married.

- So, what's going to happen to Bunning? she asked.

- Who knows? Leslie said. He's going to go on like he's going. Some woman will decide she can straighten him out. Let's dance. I feel like dancing.

She made for the CD player and began looking through the CDs until she found one she liked and put it on. There was a moment's pause and then an uneven, shrieking wail began, much too loud. It was bagpipes.

- Oh, G.o.d, she cried, stopping it. It was in the wrong . . . it's one of his.

She found another and a low, insistent drumbeat started slowly, filling the room. She began dancing to it. Kathrin began, too. Then a singer or several of them became part of it, repeating the same words over and over. Kathrin paused to take a drink.

- Don't, Leslie said. Don't drink too much.

- Why?

- You won't be able to perform.

- Perform what?

Leslie turned to Jane and motioned.

- Come on.

- No, I don't really . . .

- Come on.

The three of them were dancing to the hypnotic, rhythmic singing. It went on and on. Finally Jane sat down, her face moist, and watched. Women often danced together or even alone, at parties. Did Bunning dance? she wondered. No, he wasn't the sort, nor was he embarra.s.sed by it. He drank too much to dance, but really why did he drink? He didn't seem to care about things, but he probably cared very much, beneath.

Leslie sat down beside her.

- I hate to think about moving, she said, her head lolled back carelessly. I'm going to have to find some other place. That's the worst part.

She raised her head.

- In two years, Bunning's not even going to remember me. Maybe he'll say ”my ex-wife” sometimes. I wanted to have a baby. He didn't like the idea. I said to him, I'm ovulating, and he said, that's wonderful. Well, that's how it is. I'll have one next time. If there is a next time. You have beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she said to Jane.

Jane was struck silent. She would never have had the courage to say something like that.

- Mine are saggy already, Leslie said.

- That's all right, Jane replied foolishly.

- I suppose I could have something done if I had the money. You can fix anything if you have the money.

It was not true, but Jane said, - I guess you're right.

She had more than sixty thousand dollars she had saved or made from an oil company one of her colleagues had told her about. If she wanted to, she could buy a car, a Porsche Boxter came to mind. She wouldn't even have to sell the oil stock, she could get a loan and pay it off over three or four years and on weekends drive out to the country, to Connecticut, the little coastal towns, Madison, Old Lyme, Niantic, stopping somewhere to have lunch in a place that, in her imagination, was painted white outside. Perhaps there would be a man there, by himself, or even with some other men. He wouldn't have to fall off a boat. It wouldn't be Bunning, of course, but someone like him, wry, a little shy, the man she had somehow failed to meet until then. They'd have dinner, talk. They'd go to Venice, a thing she'd always wanted to do, in the winter, when no one else was there. They'd have a room above the ca.n.a.l and his s.h.i.+rts and shoes, a half-full bottle of she didn't bother to think of exactly what, some Italian wine, and perhaps some books. The sea air from the Adriatic would come in the window at night and she would wake early, before it was really light, to see him sleeping beside her, sleeping and breathing softly.

Beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s. That was like saying, I love you. She was warmed by it. She wanted to tell Leslie something but it wasn't the time, or maybe it was. She hadn't quite told herself yet.

Another number began and they were dancing again, coming together occasionally, arms flowing, exchanging smiles. Kathrin was like someone at one of the clubs, glamorous, uncaring. She had pa.s.sion, daring. If you said something, she wouldn't even hear you. She was a kind of cheap G.o.ddess and would go on like that for a long time, spending too much for something that caught her fancy, a silk dress or pants, black and clinging, that widened at the bottom, the kind Jane would have with her in Venice. She hadn't had a love affair in college-she was the only one she knew who hadn't. Now she was sorry, she wished she'd had. And gone to the room with only a window and a bed.

- I have to go, she said.

- What? Leslie said over the music.

- I have to go.

- This has been fun, Leslie said, coming over to her.

They embraced in the doorway, awkwardly, Leslie almost falling down.

- Talk to you in the morning, she said.

Outside, Jane caught a cab, a clean one as it happened, and gave the driver her address near Cornelia Street. They started off, moving fast through the traffic. In the rearview mirror the driver, who was young, saw that Jane, a nice-looking girl about his age, was crying. At a red light next to a drugstore where it was well lit, he could see the tears streaming down her face.

- Excuse me, is something wrong? he asked.

She shook her head. It seemed she nearly answered.

- What is it? he said.

- Nothing, she said, shaking her head. I'm dying.

- You're sick?

- No, not sick. I'm dying of cancer, she said.

She had said it for the first time, listening to herself. There were four levels and she had the fourth, Stage Four.

- Ah, he said, are you sure?