I lifted the phone. “My mother,” I lied.
“Mothers come first,” Elaine said. “Although not for me.”
“Motherhood’s not for you?”
“That, too. Where’s yours?”
I explained that my parents lived in Florida, where I’d grown up. Elaine remarked that she worried she and Robert would end up down there. She said it seemed an inevitable destiny that all Jews finish their days in South Florida, with nothing to do but get skin cancer and complain.
“Some of us begin there,” I said. “Complaining from birth.”
“You’re Jewish?” she asked, and I nodded. She tilted her head, sizing me up, and clucked her tongue. “Yes. I see it now.”
“You and Robert seem happy at Sawyer.”
“Happiness, I’ve discovered, is something made not found. Same as misery. It doesn’t happen to you.”
“Are you sure you’re a Jew?”
She laughed and it made me glad. I liked Elaine, her costumey clothes and ridiculous house.
“Stephen’s great,” she said.
“He is.”
Two of the caterers came in, a young guy and a girl, both early twenties, both with jet-black hair and huge luminescent eyes. I could see it immediately—they were siblings. It was time to serve a dessert round, slices of dark, wet cake on ceramic plates. The girl of the pair sneezed, so light it made no sound, and reached for a dish.
“Throw that out,” Elaine said.
“What?” The girl froze, fingers skimming the edge of the plate.
“You sneezed on yourself and touched the food. Throw it out and wash your hands.”
The girl looked stricken and rushed for the sink, mumbling an apology. The boy lined his arm and moved from the room. The girl followed a few paces behind.
Elaine sighed. “It’s better, you know, to tell them when they make a mistake. Mexicans don’t have the same standards of hygiene. It’s not their fault, it’s cultural, but you’re not doing them any favors, letting it slide.”
A scattered crowed remained in the sitting room. Stephen was talking with Safie. She was laughing at something he’d said, hersmile broad and easy. Stephen waved his hands, reenacting some scene, and I thought about the care he put into his stories. It was an invitation. He wanted you to share the experience—the meal he’d eaten, the book he’d stayed up all night finishing, an unexpected view on a drive that took his breath away. Elaine might be racist, but she was right about one thing: Stephenwasgreat. There with Safie, he looked handsome in the late afternoon light. I felt bad about earlier on the stairs. Why did I act this way?
“He returns,” Safie said.
I smiled and squeezed Stephen’s arm. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Had enough?”
“I’ve had a nice time, actually. You were right.”
“See?” he said. “Sometimes I know a thing or two.”
We stepped into Stephen’s house, shutting the door on a cold gust behind us. Before he’d even taught his first classes at Sawyer, Stephen had closed on the house, a compact new build. “I just wanted to feel like this is home,” he’d said. He bought all the furniture at once, matching sets for the living and dining rooms, one for the main bedroom and another for the spare. A guest room seemed like something for another life.
I pulled two of Robert’s beers from my coat. “I grabbed these for us.” I dropped next to Stephen on the couch and passed him a bottle, taking a pull from mine. “We should order something. I’m starving.”
“There was so much food at the party.”
“I’m so gross when I eat. I didn’t want to force that sight on everyone.”
“You’re not gross.” Stephen lifted my legs across his lap.
