Other People's Houses(67)

“Sure,” said Lilian, after taking a thoughtful swig of coffee. “All of the above. Plus, he’s amazing in bed, and who needs that?”

“Never mind,” consoled Frances. “That will fade. I promise.”

Lilian looked at her. “Sex life not what it used to be?”

Frances shook her head. “Actually, much as it used to be, if you only go back a decade or so. My mother once memorably told me if you put a coin in a jar every time you had sex the first couple of years of a relationship, and then, once you’d been married a year started taking one out every time you had sex, you’d never empty the jar.”

Lilian frowned. “I’m not good enough at math to understand that.”

“Me neither, when she told me. I thought she was wrong, and told her so. She laughed, and I think now I understand why. You don’t have very much sex after you’ve been married twenty years. Or at least, we don’t.” She coughed. “How on earth did we get onto this?”

“My hunky Dutch guy.”

“Oh yeah. Well, anyway, get it while you can. Enjoy.”

“I have two little kids. There’s not all that much time for chandelier swinging.”

“Get a room.”

Lilian suddenly looked animated. “Oooh, like Anne Porter? Is that all true?”

Clare came running over, with the dolphin in her hand. “Mom, can you hold this for me?”

“Wasn’t Edward holding it?”

“I was.” The tall Dutch guy had shown up behind Clare. Frances looked him over surreptitiously. Jeez Louise. He noticed her and smiled, holding out his hand. “Hello, I am Edward.”

“Hi there.” Frances shook his hand, enjoying Lilian’s obvious discomfort. She was dying to say, “Hey, Lilian says you’re great in bed,” but decided to save it for when there wasn’t a child present. She looked at Lilian, who clearly saw the internal debate she was having. “Are you having dolphin problems?”

He cleared his throat. “The game is over, and Clare wanted to go to the playground. Is that OK?”

Lilian nodded. “Sure, knock yourselves out. Annabel’s game will be over in another fifteen minutes or so. I’ll hold Pinky and meet you down there.”

“It’s not Pinky,” said Clare.

Lilian looked at the dolphin. “It’s not? Who’s this then?”

“That’s Dolphy.” Edward kept a straight face. “Pinky used to be her name, but she changed it.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but Clare was tugging on him. “Mom,” she said, “can we just go? We can talk about names later.”

Lilian raised her palms and nodded.

“See, Edward?” Clare took his hand and dragged him away. “You just need to be firm, then she can understand anything!” Edward looked apologetically over his shoulder at Lilian and Frances, then turned back to the child at hand.

“Yeah,” said Frances. “He’s awful.”

“So, is it true, about Anne?”

“The cheating part or the getting divorced part or both?”

“All of it. Tell me all of it.”

Suddenly Frances was tired. “Do I have to? I’m bummed out about it and I just can’t get excited about it as a piece of gossipy news. I’m sorry, but you’re an actual friend, so I’m being honest. I realize I’ve talked about other families like this many, many times, but for some reason now it’s my life, so to speak, or at least this close to my life, and it feels wrong to talk about it. It may ruin gossip for me permanently. You know Anne, you can ask her directly.”

Lilian looked at her. “Are you OK? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how upsetting it would be. You’re right, when it’s someone else it’s all fun and games, but when it’s your own life it’s not the slightest bit funny.” She sighed. “After my husband died people I didn’t know very well suddenly became very interested in me. They wanted to chat, wanted to know stuff, wanted to make inquiries, do you know what I mean? Most of them meant well, wanted to help. But after a few months you start to hate the smell of dropped-off rotisserie chicken and the obligation to make coffee and rehash your pain for someone else’s vicarious experience.” There was a silence. “Everyone brings a fucking rotisserie chicken.” Another silence. “I call them The Birds of Grief.”

There was a short pause, then Frances said, “Have you tried the rotisserie chickens at that weird little place on Eighth and Western?”

“The one with all the wood piled outside? The one that looks like it might be condemned at any moment?”

“Yeah. Those chickens would help you get over your rotisserie chicken issue. In our house we call it Bacon Chicken, even though there is no bacon involved. It’s that good.”

Lilian grinned suddenly. “This is what I like best about you, Frances,” she said. “You’re the most comforting yet most unsympathetic person I’ve ever known.”

“Is that good?” Frances was a little taken aback.

“Yeah. Oh, look, Annabel’s finished, thank GOD.” Lilian drank the rest of her coffee and gave Frances a hug. “Thanks for being you, and thanks for respecting Anne’s privacy. I’ll go get the gossip from someone with lower standards of friendship.”