Sheila listened, listened hard, baring her teeth in a small smile to show that she wasn’t taking Halleron’s words too seriously—she wasn’t hurt, or upset, or confused, or angry—that simply wasn’t Sheila Trask’s style.

In any case, Halleron said, more kindly, Sheila had interesting problems to solve.

“Yes,” Sheila said in a subdued voice, staring at the glass in her hand, “—I suppose you could say so.”

When Monica rose to leave Sheila said she should stay for dinner if she liked, but Sheila’s manner was distracted, her invitation not very convincing or persuasive. Saying good night, with Halleron in close attendance, Sheila made an impulsive, uncharacteristic gesture: she brushed Monica’s cheek with her cold lips in a hostess’s perfunctory farewell, and squeezed her fingers with the promise of telephoning soon.

Monica felt the imprint of that ghostly kiss, that cold improvised farewell, and wondered at its significance, all the way home.

Though perhaps it had no significance, apart from the fact that Halleron had been close by, observing.

9

No call came; but Sheila herself dropped by, uninvited, without giving Monica a warning, clearly high—alcohol, pills?—the strain of Halleron’s visit?—the following evening.

She brought a six-pack of beer, she seemed rudely unaware of Monica’s concern (for Monica had work to do: truly, Monica had a good deal of work to do), she sat on Monica’s sofa and talked, chattered, yawned, joked, complained wistfully and bitterly and with a wild despairing humor, for an hour—for an hour and a half—while Monica made an effort to calm her, to puzzle out what was wrong. This visit, impromptu and not entirely desired, reminded Monica uncomfortably of Sheila’s very first visit to the house—that surprise visit—it seemed so long ago, now—years ago—when Monica had been too confused to know whether she liked Sheila Trask, felt a powerful attraction to her, or was, in fact, repulsed by her. So brash!—so loud!—so self-absorbed, even as she expressed the most damning sort of judgment against herself, as if challenging Monica to agree.

Yes, she was drunk. And though Monica had no choice but to “like” her now—they had gone too far for that—she wished the woman gone for the evening—for the night. For the remainder of the year.