Early Warning

“Didn’t see any of that. He talked mostly to Joe and Lois, as a matter of fact.”

“What about?”

“Crop prices with Joe, and ear infections with Lois.”

“How is Henry?”

Rosanna clucked again. Lillian waited. Rosanna said, “I thought Henry was going to bring home this girl, what was her name, Sandra. But he said that was all over.”

“Really?” said Lillian. “He seemed to like her.”

“Did he bring her there?”

“He was going to, but she got the flu or something. She sent along a tin of cookies with him. In the spring sometime. I did think they were serious. She has her Ph.D. from the University of Manchester.” Then she said, helpfully, “In England. I thought she was kind of his dream girl. Her last name is Boulstridge. He said it was very rare.”

“He would know,” said Rosanna. “But you never saw her.”

“I saw a picture of them. She was cute. He had a picture when he visited.”

Rosanna clucked, then said, “Same thing happened with that other girl, the Canadian girl. He talked all about her for months and months, said she couldn’t wait to come visit, and then she was gone with the wind.”

“He’s picky,” said Lillian.

“Where does that get you?” said Rosanna. “He’s too good-looking. He’s smart, he’s got himself a good job at Northwestern, teaching crazy old languages; he goes to Europe every summer and has a ball digging up old junk, if you can believe that.” Lillian could almost see her mother’s eyes rolling. Then, “How is Arthur?” Rosanna spoke suddenly and sharply, in order, Lillian thought, to take her by surprise and trap her into saying some revealing word. But all words were revealing—“fine,” “better,” “okay,” “not bad,” “the same,” “eating well,” “sleeping sometimes,” “roaming the house and the yard,” “sitting in the car without doing anything.” Losing his mind. When they were having just one drink before dinner (beer for Lillian and Frank, martini for Andy and Arthur), Arthur had asked Andy what she thought of psychoanalysis, and when she answered that she enjoyed it, that, yes, it was worth the money (she and her analyst, Dr. Grossman, were learning a lot of things), he had stared at her almost, Lillian thought, in pain. She said, “Arthur is working hard.”

“I never met anyone like Arthur,” said Rosanna.

“There is no one like Arthur,” said Lillian.

There was a pause; then Lillian said, “Did you make the gravy?”

“Always do,” said Rosanna.

“I made mine just like you make yours,” said Lillian. “When dinner was over and we were all just so full, Arthur took the gravy boat and poured the last few tablespoons right into his mouth. Then he licked his lips and rubbed his stomach. I thought Debbie was going to disinherit herself, but the other kids were laughing.”

“Oh yes, your Arthur is one of a kind,” said Rosanna.

—

DR. GROSSMAN’S OFFICE was farther up Riverside Drive, at Seventy-eighth Street. It was easy to get to, there was plenty of parking, and Andy could imagine herself and Dr. Grossman as friends rather than doctor and patient. It wasn’t just that Dr. Grossman was a woman, it was that she seemed to have a naturally sunny disposition, and also that she was nicely dressed — not only expensively, but with thought as well as taste. It was sort of a perverse victory, Andy thought, that Dr. Katz had fired her, or, rather, kicked her up the ladder to someone more expensive, and less accommodating. Dr. Grossman didn’t let her get away with telling stories as dreams, or lying silently on the couch for more than a minute or two. Sometimes Dr. Grossman even argued with her. Now Andy felt that she was truly brave, forging ahead as Dr. Grossman uttered one skeptical noise after another.