she tried the radio again, and Ned came in clearly. “. . . reduce this to a bunch of genes? Let’s take another call.”
All at once, Francie had a crazy idea. She had a phone, it was a call-in show, she knew the number. Why not call him? He’d never said not to call the show. Free-form Thursday. She picked up the phone and dialed; no chance of getting through anyway.
“Intimately Yours,”
said a voice. “Who’s this?”
“Iris,” said Francie. “On a car phone.”
“And what did you want to talk about?”
“Genes.”
“Mind turning off your radio? You’re next.”
Francie waited, her heart beating its Thursday beat again. What was the saying? Hide a tree in the forest. Did it apply to what she was doing? Maybe not. Maybe this wasn’t such a good—
“You’re on.”
Ned spoke, right in her ear, but with a tone he never used with her: “Iris on her car phone, welcome to the show. What’s on your mind, Iris?”
Maybe not a good idea.
“Iris? You there?”
Francie said, “I just want to tell you how much I like your show. Thursdays especially.”
Silence. It seemed endless. Then the line went dead. She turned the radio back on, felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl.
“. . . lost Iris. Let’s take another call.” Ned, his voice pitched higher than she’d ever heard it. Not a good idea, not well executed, not funny. Francie pounded her hand on the steering wheel.
Early retirement: an infuriating suggestion. On the computer in his basement office, Roger opened the file containing his résumé and made a single change, adding
IQ—181 (Stanford-Binet)
on the line below the date of his birth. He printed the résumé, read it over. The new entry didn’t look bad, no worse than a long list of specious awards, for example. Quite professional. He prepared a mailing list of potential employers for the revised résumé.
After that, Roger logged on to the Puzzle Club, started the
Times of London
crossword. Where was he? Hell, in ideal form: that would be
dystopia
. Seven across, six letters: ugni, sylvaner. He typed in
grapes
. Ten down, nine letters: loss. Roger paused, sat for a few moments, then went up to Francie’s bedroom; their bedroom. He bent, looked under the bed. The painting of the grapes and the skateboarding girl was gone.
Roger grew aware of Francie’s clock radio, broadcasting to an empty room; she was like that, leaving on lights, running the tap the whole time she brushed her teeth. “Genes or no genes, Ned, ” a woman on a phone line was saying, “it’ll always be cheating in my book. ”
“Sounds like the first line of a country hit,” said a studio voice, gentle and sympathetic: the kind of male tone suddenly common in broadcasting, a tone Roger hated.
“Let’s take another caller,” the man said as Roger moved to shut him off. “Who have we got? Iris on her car phone, welcome to the show. What’s on your mind, Iris?”
A long pause. Roger was unfamiliar with Francie’s clock radio; he fumbled for the switch, found the volume instead, turning it louder.
“Iris? You there?”
“I just want to tell you how much I like your show,” a woman said. “Thursdays especially.”
Roger froze. Time seemed to freeze with him. The radio went silent, until at last the smooth-voiced man cleared his throat and said, “Oops, looks like we lost Iris. Let’s take another call.”
“Hi, Ned. Can we get off this adultery thing for a minute? I’m having a problem with my—”
Roger turned off the radio, stood motionless by the bed.
Francie. Beyond doubt. What had become of her, calling any talk show at all, to say nothing of a smarmy, prurient one like that? To let herself be used by them, like one of those pathetic big-haired women on television? He left the room, closed the door, stopped. And why would she call herself Iris?
Car phone. What was the number of Francie’s car phone? Roger didn’t know, had never called it. He went downstairs to the kitchen desk
All at once, Francie had a crazy idea. She had a phone, it was a call-in show, she knew the number. Why not call him? He’d never said not to call the show. Free-form Thursday. She picked up the phone and dialed; no chance of getting through anyway.
“Intimately Yours,”
said a voice. “Who’s this?”
“Iris,” said Francie. “On a car phone.”
“And what did you want to talk about?”
“Genes.”
“Mind turning off your radio? You’re next.”
Francie waited, her heart beating its Thursday beat again. What was the saying? Hide a tree in the forest. Did it apply to what she was doing? Maybe not. Maybe this wasn’t such a good—
“You’re on.”
Ned spoke, right in her ear, but with a tone he never used with her: “Iris on her car phone, welcome to the show. What’s on your mind, Iris?”
Maybe not a good idea.
“Iris? You there?”
Francie said, “I just want to tell you how much I like your show. Thursdays especially.”
Silence. It seemed endless. Then the line went dead. She turned the radio back on, felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl.
“. . . lost Iris. Let’s take another call.” Ned, his voice pitched higher than she’d ever heard it. Not a good idea, not well executed, not funny. Francie pounded her hand on the steering wheel.
Early retirement: an infuriating suggestion. On the computer in his basement office, Roger opened the file containing his résumé and made a single change, adding
IQ—181 (Stanford-Binet)
on the line below the date of his birth. He printed the résumé, read it over. The new entry didn’t look bad, no worse than a long list of specious awards, for example. Quite professional. He prepared a mailing list of potential employers for the revised résumé.
After that, Roger logged on to the Puzzle Club, started the
Times of London
crossword. Where was he? Hell, in ideal form: that would be
dystopia
. Seven across, six letters: ugni, sylvaner. He typed in
grapes
. Ten down, nine letters: loss. Roger paused, sat for a few moments, then went up to Francie’s bedroom; their bedroom. He bent, looked under the bed. The painting of the grapes and the skateboarding girl was gone.
Roger grew aware of Francie’s clock radio, broadcasting to an empty room; she was like that, leaving on lights, running the tap the whole time she brushed her teeth. “Genes or no genes, Ned, ” a woman on a phone line was saying, “it’ll always be cheating in my book. ”
“Sounds like the first line of a country hit,” said a studio voice, gentle and sympathetic: the kind of male tone suddenly common in broadcasting, a tone Roger hated.
“Let’s take another caller,” the man said as Roger moved to shut him off. “Who have we got? Iris on her car phone, welcome to the show. What’s on your mind, Iris?”
A long pause. Roger was unfamiliar with Francie’s clock radio; he fumbled for the switch, found the volume instead, turning it louder.
“Iris? You there?”
“I just want to tell you how much I like your show,” a woman said. “Thursdays especially.”
Roger froze. Time seemed to freeze with him. The radio went silent, until at last the smooth-voiced man cleared his throat and said, “Oops, looks like we lost Iris. Let’s take another call.”
“Hi, Ned. Can we get off this adultery thing for a minute? I’m having a problem with my—”
Roger turned off the radio, stood motionless by the bed.
Francie. Beyond doubt. What had become of her, calling any talk show at all, to say nothing of a smarmy, prurient one like that? To let herself be used by them, like one of those pathetic big-haired women on television? He left the room, closed the door, stopped. And why would she call herself Iris?
Car phone. What was the number of Francie’s car phone? Roger didn’t know, had never called it. He went downstairs to the kitchen desk
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