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organizing against the war.
    They’re a little superior about it. During the war I was busy marrying Bruce Andalusia, who had a good lottery number and wasn’t drafted. I tried not to think about Vietnam. Now and then, all my life, I’ve imagined myself tossing something over my left shoulder with my right hand, walking on and not seeing where it falls. I tossed the war like a button I pulled off my coat and didn’t keep to sew on again.
    Now my mother said to Pekko, “I promised Daphne I’d ask if you have room for her anywhere.”
    â€œShe getting evicted?”
    â€œOh, no,” said Roz, “but her place is expensive.”
    â€œHow old are her kids?” Pekko said.
    â€œI think nine and seven.”
    â€œI suppose she’ll pay the rent if it’s me.”
    â€œOf course,” Roz said. “Thank you.”
    â€œI haven’t done anything yet,” Pekko said. He climbed the stairs at his steady pace.
    I’d offered my mother a cup of coffee not to be hospitable but because I wanted one myself. She was too pleased to have had her leaves raked by the remarkable Daphne, and I wanted her to leave so I could call Gordon back. That impulse made me angry with myself, so I drank the coffee too fast and burned my mouth. As I drank, I formed a policy about not making client calls over the weekend.
    My mother drank only a few sips of coffee but lingered, talking about my brothers. The oldest of us, Carl, is gay and lives with a man and two adopted children. Stephen is still married to his first wife, and they have a daughter. Sometimes I am sure Roz is about to blame me for being childless, but the truth is that Roz doesn’t want me to be more conventional than I am. She wants to prove that she’s as unconventional as I, and she wants me to delight her with stories. That day she probably hoped for confidences and intimate talk. When I was single, I often told her about my men. She didn’t disapprove, nor did she grow wistful as I aged out of my fertile years, but prided herself on her appreciation of another way.
    Married, though, I’d gone into our bedroom, so to speak, and closed the door. I thought my mother disapproved not of any way of life but of people who don’t know how to get what they want. Possibly, these days, my silence made her think I was unhappy, but I didn’t want to talk about Pekko. Now she said, “After she finished raking, she came inside and I gave her a glass of water. Then we talked for an hour. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the clock. I never do that with anybody but you. She’s a lonely person. She hasn’t time for boyfriends, just taking care of those kids. All of a sudden she looked at her watch and skedaddled—time for school to let out. She’s so skinny she looks twenty, but she’s past forty. Would you have guessed that?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œHow well does she know Pekko?” she asked.
    â€œHow should I know?” Finally my mother left, and I called Gordon right away. He needed to change our next appointment. And he wanted to know if I minded that he wouldn’t be in the office while I worked. He’d just let me in and leave. I said I’d be fine.
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    K atya was tall and wide, given to exaggerated gestures and mild bullying (“Use your body, Daisy! This isn’t radio!”) but maddeningly wary of deciding anything definitely. While the rest of us—except for Muriel—sat on the floor, Katya would pace, looming hugely when she came near. She’d expostulate—and then say, “But what do you guys think?”
    I found I looked forward to rehearsals, though after each one I promised myself I’d quit. Then I’d decide to stay in but keep silent as much as possible. Yet I always went, and talked a lot, both in character and out of it. As I’d begin to move around the area we called the stage—with exaggerated