“Stomach hurts.”

“Feels fine to me,” she said.

“My stomach hurts.”

“Ohhh, why didn’t you say so? I think you should take off your shoes and lie down on that couch over there.”

“You lie with me.”

“No; Irene and I are going to sit at the dining room table. You’ll be able to hear me.”

He took off his shoes and crawled onto the couch. “I’ll hear you?” he said.

“Now don’t you dare go to sleep. You have to hear me.”

“I won’t go to sleep,” he murmured, his eyes already closed. “I can close my eyes but I can hear you.”

“That’s right. You can close your eyes, but don’t go to sleep.” As we moved into the dining room, she shook her head and smiled. “Oh, the little games they teach us.”

I nodded but said nothing. Already I was running a comparison: the past year with Regina had not been a light-hearted experience. She had taught us a game, all right, but it was one Frank and I reacted to differently and argued over. At the end of March, when she had recovered from the rheumatic fever, the doctor warned us to watch her carefully if she ever complained of a sore throat because it could lead to strep, which in turn could bring on a relapse of the rheumatic condition. Frank relayed this information to Regina and told her to let us know if she felt even the slightest tickle. Too many times, when she wanted to stay up late or found out she was going to spend an evening with a baby-­sitter, she would begin hinting about her throat. The doctor would come, only to discover that her throat showed no trace of redness at all. Finally, one night when Frank was working, I decided this game had to come to a halt. I told Regina if her throat really did hurt, we could not take chances: she would have to have a penicillin shot to protect her. She decided her throat really didn’t hurt. Frank was livid when I told him what I had done. “You’ve made her afraid to tell us,” he said. I said I hadn’t, that I had explained to her the difference between real danger and no danger. After that, her complaints did subside a bit, but when she had them, she always went to Frank.

“How’s Regina?” asked Gloria.

“Fully recovered, the doctor says. Naturally, she’s anxious to start school. It’s been a tough year for her. Her friends sort of abandoned her and I don’t think she’s quite forgiven them. There’s a new family on the next block and she’s taken up with their little girl, so she does have someone. I must say Frank made everything a lot easier for both Regina and me.” I told her how he had arranged his teaching schedule so I could go back to work. She looked a little embarrassed, then said:

“I’m happy things have turned out well for you and Frank. I think I’ve grown up a little since—well, since I’ve had Brian. And since my father died.”