On all the nights that year Charlie had escorted Frankie to the opera or a play, he never came upstairs. Charlie always made excuses about running late or having to get up early for morning rounds.

“I thought you’d have a lot of books,” he said, examining the book-lined living room while she hung up their coats. “Samantha never let me put my books in the living room. She told me only Hollywood decorators did that.”

“Really?” It was a concept that had never occurred to Frankie.

“Yes, they buy up used books by the caseload to warm up the living rooms of ex-television stars’ homes.”

“So you mean my books make me like an ex-star of The Partridge Family?” Frankie asked.

“No, your books make you exactly who I hoped you would be,” he answered, and immediately took down a volume of Edwin Arlington Robinson poetry.

“Would you like a drink?” Frankie asked.

“No, no. If I have one drink I’ll want thirty-six, and you can’t possibly have enough for that. I’d like a cup of tea and some very junkie cookies. Chips Ahoy! or some other thing full of BHT and riboflavin. If this isn’t a night for additives, then I don’t have any other answers.”

Frankie went into her kitchen to make a pot of tea and took a look at her face. She was ashamed of herself for being vain on a night when she had seen body bags on Columbus Avenue. But on the other hand, she knew that nothing affirms life like random death.

Charlie had sat down on the living room couch with the cat. He was still reading the Robinson when Frankie came back into the room.

“It’s nice, Frankie. It’s very warm,” Charlie said. “I’ll be happy thinking about you living here.”

“Thank you. I really should do more with it, or move,” she mumbled. “Sorry, the only cookies I’ve got are Fig Newtons. They might be too healthy.” She handed the bag to him.

“Darn tootin’. I love Fig Newtons.” Charlie closed his book and popped a cookie in his mouth. “Okay, I’m ready. Should we turn on the television and find out if the rest of us are blowing up tonight?”

“Maybe we should just avoid it and go out eating Fig Newtons. That would be all right with me.” Frankie grabbed two cookies. “I’m double-fistin’.”

“C’mere, honey.” Charlie outstretched his arm around her. “We’re gonna do this together. You, me, and Edward Arlington Robinson.”

“You left out my cat. Gilda’s coming with us, too.”

As Frankie cuddled into Charlie and signaled for her cat to jump on her lap, Charlie put on the television.