Denise, pleading exhaustion, made Brian leave. Early the next morning a tropical depression slid up the seaboard, a humid hurricane-like disturbance that set trees thrashing moodily and water spilling over curbs. Denise left the Generator in the hands of her sous and took the train to New York to bail out her feckless brother and entertain her parents. In the stress of lunch, as Enid repeated verbatim her narrative of Norma Greene, Denise didn’t notice any change in herself. She had a still-working old self, a Version 3.2 or a Version 4.0, that deplored the deplorable in Enid and loved the lovable in Alfred. Not until she was at the pier and her mother kissed her and a quite different Denise, a Version 5.0, nearly put her tongue in the pretty old woman’s mouth, nearly ran her hands down Enid’s hips and thighs, nearly caved in and promised to come at Christmas for as long as Enid wanted, did the extent of the correction she was undergoing reveal itself.
She sat on a southbound train while rain-glazed local platforms flashed by at intercity speed. Her father at the lunch table had looked insane. And if he was losing his mind, it was possible that Enid had not been exaggerating her difficulties with him, possible that Alfred really was a mess who pulled himself together for his children, possible that Enid wasn’t entirely the embarrassing nag and pestilence that Denise for twenty years had made her out to be, possible that Alfred’s problems went deeper than having the wrong wife, possible that Enid’s problems did not go much deeper than having the wrong husband, possible that Denise was more like Enid than she had ever dreamed. She listened to the pa-thum-pa-thum-pa-thump of wheels on track and watched the October sky darken. There might have been hope for her if she could have stayed on the train, but it was a short ride to Philly, and then she was back at work and had no time to think about anything until she went to the Axon road show with Gary and surprised herself by defending not only Alfred but Enid as well in the arguments that followed.
She could not remember a time when she had loved her mother.
She was soaking in her bathtub around nine o’clock that night when Brian called and invited her to dinner with him and Jerry Schwartz, Mira Sorvino, Stanley Tucci, a Famous American Director, a Famous British Author, and other luminaries. The Famous Director had just finished shooting a film in Camden, and Brian and Schwartz had roped him into a private screening of Crime and Punishment and Rock and Roll.
“It’s my night off,” Denise said.
“Martin says he’ll send his driver,” Brian said. “I’d be grateful if you came. My marriage is over.”
She put on a black cashmere dress, ate a banana to avoid seeming hungry at dinner, and rode with the director’s driver up to Tacconelli’s, the storefront pizzeria in Kensington. A dozen famous and semifamous people, plus Brian and the simian, round-shouldered Jerry Schwartz, had taken over three tables at the rear. Denise kissed Brian on the mouth and sat down between him and the Famous British Author, who appeared to have an evening’s worth of cricket-and darts-related wit with which he wished to regale Mira Sorvino. The Famous Director told Denise he’d had her country ribs and sauerkraut and loved them, but she changed the subject as fast as she could. She was clearly there as Brian’s date; the movie people weren’t interested in either of them. She put her hand on Brian’s knee, as if consolingly.
“Raskolnikov in headphones, listening to Trent Reznor while he whacks the old lady, is so perfect,” the very least famous person at the table, a college-age intern of the director, gushed to Jerry Schwartz.
“Actually, it’s the Nomatics,” Schwartz corrected with devastating lack of condescension.
“Not Nine Inch Nails?”
Schwartz lowered his eyelids and shook his head minimally. “Nomatics, 1980, ‘Held in Trust.’ Later covered with insufficient attribution by that person whose name you just mentioned.”
“Everybody steals from the Nomatics,” Brian said.
“They suffered on the cross of obscurity so that others might enjoy eternal fame,” Schwartz said.
“What’s their best record?”
“Give me your address, I’ll make you a CD,” Brian said.
“It’s all brilliant,” Schwartz said, “until ‘Thorazine Sunrise.’ That was when Tom Paquette quit, but the band didn’t realize it was dead until two albums later. Somebody had to break that news to them.”
“I suppose that a country that teaches creationism in its schools,” the Famous British Author remarked to Mira Sorvino, “may be forgiven for believing that baseball does not derive from cricket.”
It occurred to Denise that Stanley Tucci had directed and starred in her favorite restaurant movie. She happily talked shop with him, resenting the beautiful Sorvino a little less and enjoying, if not the company itself, then at least her own lack of intimidation by it.
Brian drove her home from Tacconelli’s in his Volvo. She felt entitled and attractive and well aerated and alive. Brian, however, was angry.
“Robin was supposed to be there,” he said. “I guess you could call it an ultimatum. But she’d agreed to go to dinner with us. She was going to take some tiny, minimal interest in what I’m doing with my life, even if I knew she’d deliberately dress like a grad student to make me uncomfortable and prove her point. And then I was going to spend next Saturday at the Project. That was the agreement. And then this morning she decides she’s going to march against the death penalty instead. I’m no fan of the death penalty. But Khellye Withers is not my idea of a poster boy for leniency. And a promise is a promise. I didn’t see that one fewer candle in the candlelight vigil was going to make much difference. I said she could miss one march for my sake. I said, why don’t I write a check to the ACLU, whatever size you want. Which didn’t go over so well.”
“Writing checks, no, not good,” Denise said.
“I realized that. But things got said that are going to be hard to unsay. I frankly don’t have a lot of interest in unsaying them.”
“You never know,” Denise said.
Washington Avenue between the river and Broad was lonely at eleven on a Monday evening. Brian appeared to be experiencing his first real disappointment in life, and he couldn’t stop talking. “Remember when you said if I weren’t married and you weren’t my employee?”
“I remember.”
“Does that still hold?”
“Let’s go in and have a drink,” Denise said.
Which was how Brian came to be sleeping in her bed at nine-thirty the next morning when her doorbell rang.
She was still full of the alcohol that had fueled completion of the picture of weirdness and moral chaos that her life seemed bent on being. Beneath her soddenness, though, an agreeable fizz of celebrity lingered from the night before. It was stronger than anything she felt for Brian.
The doorbell rang again. She got up and put on a maroon silk robe and looked out the window. Robin Passafaro was standing on the stoop. Brian’s Volvo was parked across the street.
Denise considered not answering the door, but Robin wouldn’t be looking for her here if she hadn’t already tried the Generator.
“It’s Robin,” she said. “Stay here and be quiet.”
Brian in the morning light still wore his pissed-off expression of the night before. “I don’t care if she knows I’m here.”
“Yeah, but I do.”
“Well, my car’s right across the street.”
“I’m aware of that.”
She, too, felt strangely pissed off with Robin. All summer, betraying Brian, she’d never felt anything like the contempt she felt for his wife as she descended the stairs now. Annoying Robin, stubborn Robin, screeching Robin, hooting Robin, styleless Robin, clueless Robin.
And yet, the moment she opened the door, her body recognized what it wanted. It wanted Brian on the street and Robin in her bed.