They were good at this, she and her mother: nursing men. From those first few days of Jerry in the hospital, Rachel recognized the inherent rhythms of a medical crisis, and she and Winnie seemed to pick right back up how they’d been when it was Bob in the adjustable bed, pale-faced and pinned with tubes, the subject of tests, IV drips, and hushed conversations just outside the door. The same woman was working the cash register at the cafeteria, and she even recognized Rachel, gave her a measured nod. Rachel knew the shortcuts between wings, and she remembered which color scrubs designated nurse, resident, attending. She and Winnie had taken turns at Jerry’s bedside, and they knew to feel no compunction about watching their own television shows while he slept or helping themselves to the leftovers from his unfinished lunch tray. They knew the west side of the building got better cell phone reception, and they never went into the depressing, shadowy central courtyard for a “breath of fresh air.” Rachel filled most of her shifts at Hand Me Down and drove the girls to and from their activities. In between, she called Winnie, and their conversations were direct, full of medical shorthand, instantly meaningful. The world had shrunk, once again, to the boundaries of Valley Park, and any minute shift in the hour-to-hour status of Room 341 needed to be reported and thoroughly discussed. By the time Jerry was allowed to go home, Rachel had already spent hours online; she’d arranged for rotating home care from a local provider, and from various other websites she ordered a collapsible cane, seat cushions, incontinence pads, no-rinse bath products, plastic plates with dividers and suction cups, and three different CDs billed as “soothing” or “calming” for Alzheimer’s patients.

Yes, she was good at this, Rachel thought, as she turned into the driveway at 50 Greenham. Winnie had a long-overdue hair appointment, and the next nurse shift wasn’t until 3 pm. Jerry couldn’t be left alone anymore—without saying so outright, everyone agreed that he had passed that point.

And it was good that she was good at it, this nursing of men, for several reasons. Rachel cut the motor and grabbed the plastic bag on the seat next to her. The reasons, in descending order of worthiness, were: because her mother needed help, and Rachel had enough experience with this exact kind of situation to be able to help. Okay, fine. Good enough. But also—less nobly, she knew—because being thrown into the crisis together with Winnie staved off the growing divide between them. It gave them something to talk about, in the same way combing through the details of Hartfield town life—whose stepdaughter got into MIT, which storm in what year had flooded the school’s basement—had always raised their spirits. And last—here was the line of thinking that Rachel, hurrying across the driveway, wanted to squelch—because she had other, less generous motives.

Well, all right, so what if she did? Did it matter what was under the surface of all the hours she spent with Winnie, coaxing Jerry back from la-la land with pills and exercises and fruitless one-sided conversation (just like with an infant, you were supposed to talk your way through every activity—“Now we’ll put your other arm in, that’s right, here’s the sleeve”)? Did it defeat the care and effort themselves, if while providing them Rachel’s heart had a different goal, if the reasons she needed Jerry to come back were not the same as the ones driving Winnie’s endlessly patient labors? Rachel wanted his wise counsel again, and his friendship; she also wanted him to offer another loan, without her having to ask. Honesty about such things was overrated, Rachel told herself. Plenty of good could come from her bedside ministrations, even if their hoped-for outcome was—well, let’s admit it—not exactly some pure, altruistic ideal.

Her mother’s front yard was a wreck. There was that god-awful hole sunk deep in the ground, and filled with all sorts of crazy boards and what looked like chicken wire. And the piles of dirt everywhere! The flattened bushes—that blue Porta-John sitting right there, out by Franklin, for anyone driving by to see! The two workers glanced up at Rachel as she strode past, staring as one foot skidded out and she wobbled sharply—undignified—but she did her best to ignore them, as she continued to ignore the entire pool project with Winnie. Why should she bring it up, when her mother must already feel ridiculous about it, must be regretting every dollar she had thrown away on this folly? And anyway, they had other things to discuss.

“They didn’t have jelly,” Rachel called, kicking off her boots in the back hall. “I got raspberry jam, though—think he’ll mind?”

“You didn’t try the Associated?” Winnie said too loudly, her faux-fur earmuffs already on. “Those seeds get between his teeth and I can’t for the life of me get them out.”

“I didn’t have time.” It was as drafty as ever in the small sitting room off the kitchen. Rachel zipped up her fleece sweater. Probably no one had caulked the windows in years.

“He’s watching the Bears game,” Winnie said, keys already in hand, hurrying to the door. “The Namenda will wear off in another hour, so make sure he takes it in the applesauce—you’ll see the tray in the fridge, it’s all set up.” Rachel pulled her mother in for a quick hug. “There was something else, what was it?”

“I’m sure you wrote it down,” Rachel said under her breath. Her mother’s endless, detailed notes were legendary. They now covered this place—Jerry’s food preferences, his medicines, his need for certain orders and routines with everything from newspaper sections to when the doorbell rang to going to the bathroom.

“Oh well, I’m sure I wrote it down,” Winnie said, reassuring herself. She hadn’t heard Rachel. “I have my cell phone, of course—call at the first sign.”

“I will,” Rachel said. The first sign of what? She ushered her mother out and shut the door on the blast of cold wind—and the sight of the pool men, and that hole in the yard. On her way upstairs to Jerry, she stopped in the kitchen. Already the house was taking on characteristics of sheltering someone who was sick. Little signs pointed to the fact that, essentially, only one person was living in these rooms—her mother’s things were scattered across the den and kitchen table, sweaters, books and eyeglasses set down on surfaces with no thought toward anyone else using them or needing space. The kitchen counters looked just as they had when Winnie lived alone, in her apartment, messy and cluttered: there was her unrinsed mug of tea, there a notebook, a package of those scented tissues she used to have everywhere, before they must have seemed too feminine, for Jerry’s sake. Even the smell here was of Winnie, a touch of her perfume, which lingered on her sweaters, and the cinnamon breath drops she favored. A damp heap of newspapers was on a chair, each still rolled in its blue plastic bag. No sign of Jerry anywhere.

Rachel privately looked forward to these babysitting sessions, a mini-vacation from her own noisy, crowded home, a chance to luxuriate in the big, old grandeur of 50 Greenham. But now she had to avoid the sadness this all presented, the sense of her aging mother struggling to keep up with everything in this huge, empty house. She finished loading the dishwasher and wiped down the sticky table and counters. She took a soda from the fridge and a container of yogurt, and found a spoon. She did not forget to bring her purse upstairs with her, and what it held inside.

“So, any chance we’re going to win this game?” she said, knocking on the wood of his open doorway.

“Win the game,” Jerry agreed, from his bed. He was sitting up, in a blue cotton robe, unshaven and slack-faced. He raised an arm to point at the small television across the room, one finger brushing back and forth in midair, as if he wanted to say something else. But he said nothing else, only stared at Rachel. She pulled his bedside chair closer to the bed, talking emphatically about the Bears’ chances for the season (about which she knew nothing), and peeled off the top of her yogurt container. There was a TV tray set up next to him, overflowing with empty glasses, celebrity gossip magazines (for the nurses, Rachel assumed), orange pill bottles, and a couple of deadly looking books from the library—immense histories or biographies—untouched.

He tended to go through cycles—she’d read about this on an Alzheimer’s website—and she hoped that something she said could trigger a chatty, clear-minded one.

“You feeling okay? How’ve you been, since Monday?” But this brought nothing. Jerry’s eyes were on a commercial for cat food. She took the remote from his lap—he didn’t protest—and turned the blaring volume down.

“How can you stand that racket?” She gestured at the window behind him, and the faint voices of the pool men, calling to each other. With the sycamore tree gone—she and Winnie had said nothing to each other about its absence—it was possible to see clear across Greenham and down the hill to the south part of town, where Hartfield shaded into Mount Morris. Rachel shook her head again at how brazen her mother had been in the face of so much disapproval.

“She really did go out on a limb for you. So to speak. Ha.” But using the past tense about Winnie and Jerry—she’d spoken it inadvertently, but still—frightened her a little, as did the betrayal she had planned. There was no other word for it, and as stupid and crazy an idea as she knew it must be, Rachel told herself she had no other choice. And no one would know.

She reached into her purse and felt for the tape recorder. The same one Melissa used to interview Winnie for social studies.

“Jerry?” she said, ignoring the high, nervous tone of her own voice. Maybe that could be edited or cut entirely. “What do you want to happen, with this house? Can you tell me about it?”

Two nights ago, she’d attended a cocktail party in her own house. In Vikram’s part of the house, that is. The invitation had come through their mail slot unstamped, with a handwritten note appended: Please try to come! Sorry in advance for any noise.

“He’s being neighborly,” Bob said, chewing his toast. It was morning, Rachel had been on her way to work, and Bob looked exhausted. He had already been up for hours, writing. “He doesn’t mean for us to come. It’s just good form—you know that.”

“Good form is warning us about the noise. An invitation is something else.” Rachel slid it under a fridge magnet that said, PIZZA THE WAY ITALIANS DO IT! 555–4200. “I’m going to go.”

Bob turned a page of the newspaper. “Suit yourself.”

The night of the party, she had to change outfits three times—black silk skirt, too dressy. Jeans, too casual. Finally, she’d settled on wide, swishy gray pants and a short-sleeve green top. As Rachel brushed her hair, she listened to her daughters in their room. They were trying to whisper.

“You go with her. I would hate it. I’d stand by myself and look like a freak.”

“Why do I have to go? There won’t be anyone our age.”

“You know why. She shouldn’t go by herself. She’ll get all…”

“I don’t want to be over there. With that Indian guy, like, hanging out in my room? No, thanks.” Rachel could hear the clicking away of the computer’s keyboard.

“He won’t be in your room. Duh. Parties are, like, in the living room and stuff.”

“You go then, if it’s so important. And if you want to see what your room looks like now.”

There was silence.

“See? I didn’t think so.”

With this exchange stinging in her heart, Rachel walked coatless into the wet night, around the side of her house, and to its front door. Vikram pulled it open at once, like he’d been waiting for her. He greeted her warmly, politely ignored her edgy babble—I don’t even know why I’m here, I didn’t plan on it or anything, but I just thought—and introduced her to a few people standing just inside the living room (the dining room, Rachel said to herself). The next hour was a blur—Vikram’s friends and colleagues were friendly and voluble. Rachel drank two glasses of merlot, fast, and ate a handful of pecans even though she detested nuts. She smiled so much her face ached, she made a joke about already knowing where the bathroom was, ha ha, and she milled and laughed and admired the art until her eyes and cheeks were burning.

But it didn’t really hurt until she overheard a couple talking about real estate in Hartfield. They rattled off sale prices higher than anything Rachel had heard and were unfazed by them. “Vik’s on to something,” the woman said, eyeing the bookcases Bob had built into the breakfast nook. She had high black boots on, and long, buttery hair. “I’ve been giving him shit for moving, but who knows, if I actually get pregnant this year…” “God,” her husband said, in his rectangle glasses and Pac-Man T-shirt. “You did not just talk about moving to the suburbs.” “But it doesn’t feel like the suburbs,” the woman insisted, as they moved past Rachel. “That’s the genius of this place! It’s like this little town, tucked away—you know?”

Rachel knew. She downed the rest of her wine and set the glass down hard on her kitchen counter. Look at me, she thought, wandering around, secretly appraising the airy kitchen, just like any other guest with a real-estate gleam in her eye. But Rachel understood the basic difference, though she wasn’t sure it made things any better: she wasn’t scoping out a good deal or some picture-perfect place worthy of a shelter magazine. What she longed for was her own home.

And since when did rich couples move here from the city, bringing their “green” SUVs and eight-hundred-dollar strollers and high black boots? That hadn’t been Hartfield’s way, not ever. This wasn’t Scarsdale, or Bronxville, or any of those status suburbs closer to the city. For the first time, it hit her—the bitter irony of her own grandfather’s role in connecting this small town to Metro-North, and thus to Manhattan. Without that, Hartfield might have remained isolated, obscure, borderline upstate. Is that what she wanted? It used to be that the only people who wanted to settle here were people who grew up here, like herself.

But now she saw that things were changing. Or maybe they had already changed, the terrain irreversibly shifted. That had been herself once, and Bob, on the threshold together and about to begin everything.

In the foyer, Vikram leaned close, closer than he needed to, to say his good-byes. Rachel thought she could taste his breath in her own mouth. It wasn’t unpleasant. His hair was rumpled in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, with your mother?” He had to yell, almost, above the sound level. “The house on Greenham? Has that been settled yet?”

“No,” Rachel admitted. She started to say something else, but Vikram cut her off.

“It’s too bad her husband didn’t make his wishes more clear, for the record—oh, hey!” He turned and swept a younger woman into a one-armed hug, almost lifting her off the ground. Rachel slipped out the door. His words rang in her ears. Had he said for the record? Or on the record. Or something about recording…

An idea took hold, there in what was once her front walkway, a desperate and silly idea, built on merlot and a misheard phrase. But still—and maybe…

“Do you want to say anything about…anything? Winnie’s not here, Jerry—you won’t upset her, you can speak freely.” Last night, Rachel had scanned dozens of websites, with names like elderlaw.com, or respectmywishes.alz.net. She had quickly realized how in over her head she was, how little she knew—did anyone know?—about Jerry’s plans or intentions, before that slight car accident sent him spiraling down. Did he have a durable power of attorney? Was that now Avery? What about a living will? Was that related to a regular will? It was a huge mess. Of course the person Rachel knew she could ask, whom she should ask, but whom she couldn’t ask—obviously—was Bob. Well, someone had to find this stuff out—for Jerry’s sake, Rachel told herself. And the one thing she had gleaned from the websites was the importance of an “advance directive,” when it came to what they unflinchingly called approaching dementia. Rachel couldn’t find many details, but she gathered this was some kind of document (maybe it could be a tape recording?) that set out a person’s wishes about their future care—and possibly the future ownership of their legally contested, family-disputed, five-bedroom beautiful wreck of a house, which came with a half-installed pool right smack in its front yard.

Rachel cleared her throat and tried again. “We can be straight with each other, Jerry. Right? You’ve been a real friend to me, this year. I’m not just talking about the loans, either, which really—” Her throat caught, and she had to stop. His eyes were pinned to the television, where men in white helmets scattered and regrouped against a green background. “I didn’t know how much I needed that, someone who could just…say what needed to be said, who could cut through all the bullshit. You know? I can’t do that, or when I want to, something stops me.” Rachel took a deep breath. “But I want to return the favor, all right? I hope you don’t take offense. I don’t know what the doctors are telling you, or how much you realize what’s going on. But here’s the deal: I think this might be toward the end for you—not your life, I mean—but of really knowing what’s going on around you, being able to say what you mean. If you don’t come back from this, I want you to have had the chance to tell us what you want. We’ll go by whatever you say, all of us, I mean, Annette and my mom and Avery—about your wishes—about the house.”

Nothing; no response.

“You can be frank now, Jerry.”

At this, his eyes slid over to hers. “Frank?” he said, his voice thin and flat.

“Yes?” Rachel moved closer. “Do you want to talk? Do you have anything to say?”

Jerry’s mouth worked for a while, his jaw pumping up and down, before the words came out. “Likes a good joke,” he said finally. “He here? Where is he? Frank. Tell him I’m onto him.”

Rachel felt something curdle and die inside her. She gathered her hair and let it drop; she touched a pen on the table next to her, the spoon, lining them up. He was gone. And so was this temporary alliance, the thing that had kept her going. Still, that was nothing compared to what her mother had lost, would lose, and the pure ache of the thought washed over Rachel, renewing her, rinsing her clean.

Does she know? Will I have to tell her? That he’s gone.

Jerry was still rambling on about his brother, Frank, over the noise of the television. When he stopped to look at her, for confirmation, Rachel blew her nose, wiped at unshed tears and said, “Definitely; you said it. So, what else? What else about Frank?”

He talked and talked, a sudden fount of energy. Rachel put her hand into her purse to shut off the tape recorder, and then, on second thought, left it on. She wandered away to get his medicine and applesauce; when she came back, he was still telling the same story about Frank—or was it now another one? The football game was forgotten; she switched channels and put her feet up on the bed. He took the pills she handed him; she ate the applesauce. Frank hid the hubcaps from someone’s car—he pretended to be Chinese—he was a whiz with numbers. Frank sounded like kind of a pain, Rachel thought, but Jerry didn’t agree. He told story after story, mixing up the past and the present, as if Frank was just in the next room and would walk in any minute. After a while, he dozed off.

“Hey,” a voice said from the doorway.

Rachel froze, her feet suspended in midair. Her first thought: Pool guy? In here? But it was Bob, half smiling, a little out of breath.

“Fuck,” she said. “Why do you always—”

“I don’t mean to. He’s sleeping?” Rachel looked over at Jerry, tucked peacefully on his side, mouth open. She clicked off the TV and went into the hall, tugging Bob with her.

“Very weird,” she said. “That was the most I’ve heard him talk in—”

“I sold the first chapter,” Bob said. Facing her directly with a strange, sheepish smile. “To The Atlantic. It’s a magazine. They’re going to run the first chapter of my book in the magazine.”

Rachel just looked at him, the mottled red and white of the skin on his head, that yellow and black rugby shirt he’d been wearing for twenty years, and the way he seemed to be nodding slightly. At her. He was waiting for her to say something.

“Is that—how did you—when?”

“I just got an e-mail. Jesus, I almost deleted it! I saw the address and thought it was some subscription deal. God, can you imagine? I was sitting there, reading this from the editor, him saying how much he loves the piece and they want to put it as the first person feature, not the next issue but the one after that.”

“You know him? The editor, I mean? How did you—”

“My writing teacher has a friend! At the magazine!” Bob seized both her upper arms; his eyes were wide and sparkling behind smudged glasses. “She mentioned once a while ago that she was going to pass it on to this guy, but I totally forgot! Okay, I didn’t really forget, but I just assumed nothing would come of it!”

Her mind spun. Was this for real? How could it be, when the writing he was doing was just…therapy?

“—and Nona might even be able to meet me there, if she’s not already in Italy—”

“Wait. Did you say…Nona? That girlfriend of Avery’s?”

“Yeah,” Bob said, enjoying her confusion. “We’ve been e-mailing, and she knows this open-mic reading series I may go to. I thought it might be fun to bring the girls.”

Rachel didn’t know what to say. Nona? And Bob? E-mailing? She couldn’t keep up; everything about this news was topsy-turvy. Something occurred to her.

“Where are the girls?”

“Lila’s at practice, of course, and Melissa’s over at Terry’s. Why?”

“Did you need the car, or something? I mean—you walked here?”

“I walked here,” Bob said slowly, as if she were dense. “To tell you. In person.”

His voice rose, as it always did, but before Rachel could shush him, Bob pulled her down the hallway even farther from Jerry’s room. He was talking the whole time, about print runs and proof deadlines and how this would seal the deal for a book contract—he was sure of it. Rachel could hardly get in a word, although it didn’t seem expected of her anyway. Bob was busy tugging open door after door in the hallway, still talking.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Here,” he said, thrusting her ahead of him into one of the rooms—dark, musty, closed-up. She turned back to him—what is this?—and suddenly, his mouth was on hers, muffling her surprised squawk. They grappled together there in the half-lit doorway, Rachel stumbling backward and Bob trying to kiss them both farther into the room. She clutched at him to avoid falling backward over some boxes, and he slid a hand up her shirt.

“Are you”—the shock of his fingers on her skin made her cough—“kidding?”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he murmured, elbowing the door shut. “All those years I wasted in the firm, when I should have been writing.”

Rachel didn’t want to hear about that, so she kissed him deeper, more thoroughly. Thoughts collided in her head—sold the chapter? Had she showered this morning? Was The Atlantic the one with the cartoons, or was that—as she helped Bob pull her sweater over her head. They shuffled in the dark over to a bed, no, not a bed, a bare mattress that sent up a whoof of dust when they tumbled down onto it.

“This is amazing,” Bob said, his breath hot in her ear. “I never thought I’d be here, like this.”

“I know.” Were they talking about his book? Or the sex? Maybe it didn’t matter. She wrapped her leg around his back, amazed at the way it still fit there. This was crazy, she thought, their having sex in this house. Their having sex period. She couldn’t remember a time they had fucked—yes, that’s what this was—in any place other than 144 Locust, and God knows she couldn’t remember the last time they had done it there in any case; but this was good, it broke through something inside Rachel—the sudden weight of her husband’s body, this strange, musty room—it was like being someone else, or maybe it was like being herself again, which she hadn’t been for some time. It was a surprise, to know you could still be surprised like this, in your own marriage.

“It’s been so long since—”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it. I’m—you’re—”

“I know.”

Then there were no words at all, nothing else in Rachel’s head, only the scratching, rhythmic heave of the mattress against the wood floor, moving across the wood floor, bit by bit, sure and steady on its inevitable way—no other sounds until the footsteps on the stairs and a voice out in the hall—Miz T? Anybody up here?—as Jerry’s nurse made her way up to his room. But even that was quite a while after the mattress had stopped moving, and Rachel and Bob—asleep for how long?—woke naked together with pounding hearts, and told each other to shut up, not to laugh so loud, lest someone find them like this.