IT HAPPENED QUITE by chance that Marya and Imogene Skillman were friendly acquaintances again, if not precisely friends. Shortly after Marya’s second book was published and she had moved to New York City, to a sublet apartment in the West 70’s (the apartment belonged to a friend of Eric Nichols), she was overtaken in the street one day by a lanky blond woman in jeans and a chic Italian sweater and sunglasses who pummeled her in the ribs and introduced herself as Imogene: “For Christ’s sake, Marya, don’t you know me? I’d recognize you anywhere.” Imogene had not only seen Marya’s book reviewed and on display in one or another bookstore in the city, she had actually bought a copy and read it and claimed to be “quite impressed” with it. And had Marya kept up her career . . . ? No, Marya wouldn’t have; that was just like Marya.

“You were always so totally self-absorbed, I envied you your concentration,” Imogene said.

She laughed so gaily, she was so breathless and charming, naturally Marya could not take offense.

Imogene Skillman acted now and then in “unusual” or “superior” off-Broadway productions; she had been associated for a while with the Circle Repertory; now she made a fair amount of money—kept the household going, in fact—from daytime television. Though she wasn’t particularly proud of the fact. Yes she was married, no they weren’t currently living together, no it wasn’t to the man—Richard—whom Marya had met in Port Oriskany (but Marya had not met him), yes she had children, two little girls, a seven-year-old and a three-year-old, beautiful and spoiled (“you must come and see them soon, Marya—they truly are beautiful”), yes her life was going well though it had become rather complicated recently with the prospect of a new play and a new lover. . . .

So Marya and Imogene were reacquainted. They saw each other occasionally for lunch or dinner. Imogene sent Marya tickets to openings of plays of hers, Marya introduced Imogene to people she believed Imogene might like and who might like her, including Eric Nichols, whom Imogene professed to admire. (Eric was less certain of Imogene. In her presence, he said, he was always quite enchanted; afterward he felt puzzled and cheated, as if he hadn’t met a woman at all, only admired a performance.) When Eric died Imogene telephoned several times, even sent Marya a terse, formal little note of condolence. Marya thought, If Imogene is a friend then I will see her, I will talk to her about what I’m going through. But she never got around to arranging a meeting.

EVEN BEFORE ERIC’S death, even before Marya had experimented carelessly with the idea of giving him up—of renouncing, rejecting, triumphing over him—she found herself thinking frequently about her mother.

Poor Vera Sanjek.

Poor Vera Knauer.