Molly’s thoughts move on a little. “I’m more than a generation older than you. My coming out was made quite difficult by the general ignorance that prevailed back then. Some of it happened in dyke bars that still had peepholes in the door. You know, knock three times. A lot of dykes hid for their whole lives inside marriages of convenience to men. Or shared apartments and their lives with roommates. I came into my sexuality in shadows that were dissolving, but they were still there. Shadows of shadows. Vita was even farther back, my grandmother’s generation. She was bold, but she still had to toe the line. She was an aristocrat, she had a small title and a famous garden. She had the Queen Mother over for wine and truffles, for crying out loud. I hate that this conversation with Gladys falls to me, but Lauren’s wary of busting her chops anymore. And you, you turn out to be a total chickenshit.”

It is kind of satisfying to see that even when you are Molly, you have to deal with people who are more arrogant than you are. It’s something to keep in mind. Cate watches her drain her martini. Her eyes water a little as she does this. The gin has entered her central nervous system. But also, Cate can see, the two of them are inching toward a camaraderie.

Molly says, “By the way, how are you doing?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, didn’t you just kill someone in Chicago?”

polka favorites

Graham puts a finger to his lips as Cate comes in. He points—dot dot dot—to his phone and computers and the ceiling; she always takes the last to mean the satellites roaming the stratosphere, scooping up private data. Cate isn’t impervious to his paranoia. By now she has a tiny paper circle taped over the camera in her laptop. She texts with an encrypted app.

He puts on a new CD—Polka Favorites—to white out whatever conversation they’re about to have. He seems alarmingly alert today. He’s wearing a gray gas station suit like the ones on the characters in the play he’s writing.

“How’s it going in here?” A question Cate feels obliged to ask but is afraid to hear answered. Most striking, he’s cut his hair. It’s basically gone, except for a military, flattop buzz cut. She tells him, “I’m having trouble processing your hair. I’m going to need a little time.”