Mostly, she talked about Papa, her sweet Henning, her oldest friend, twenty years of knowing each other through many hard things even before they married. After they’d each been widowed, Dee took the train to Los Angeles—he was forever meeting her at a train—and he drove her around town in his fancy car, took her to dinner and to gardens and gave her too much wine. She always called him Hen, a silly name for a scary man, and he always called her Dulcy but that night he teased her with Dulcinea, her full name. It meant sweetness but it was a name for tilting at windmills, meant for a windy place, and when they drove to his beach cottage that night and went swimming in the ocean, it was as if the water were a magic potion. The world changed, and they were in love. That was all, and it was everything.

She snapped her weak, knotted fingers for emphasis, just a whisper of a sound.

“Shazam,” said Edmund, putting down the cards and climbing up on the bed.

“Abracadabra,” said Dee, kissing Edmund. “Life is good,” she said. “Try not to forget that.”

Nothing seemed wrong, or more wrong than usual, but that night, through the bedroom wall, Polly heard the wavery edge of Jane’s voice as she talked to Merle: “Something’s going on. They aren’t telling the truth about the doctor.”

On Wednesday, Papa and Dee planned to be in the city again, and said they’d be gone until dinner. Jane was in class until 5:00. Merle was supposed to meet a plumber at 3:00 at the house. Once again, he welcomed an excuse to skip teaching, and said he’d be home when Polly and Edmund got off the bus at 3:30. Papa got up early to make a better breakfast, a Swede spread. He peeled their soft-boiled eggs, spread raspberry jam on their toast, and gave them $5 of belated school-starting money. They kissed Dee, in bed with coffee, and bopped off in relative happiness.

But the plumber called Merle at the college office to cancel, and with a rare free afternoon, Merle shopped for a good bottle of wine and a big bag of clams, in hopes that Dee would be up to cooking, because though Jane tried, she wasn’t Dee yet. He stopped at a bookstore and bought a novel by John Fowles, and he didn’t forget the children, exactly, but he did forget to check his watch. He was still walking to his car in the village, laden with bags, as they climbed off the bus at the house.

Polly poured herself some milk, found the cookies, spread out the envelopes and magazines from the mailbox. Edmund covered an apple with peanut butter. Polly wondered what Dee and Papa would do in the city, besides visit the doctor. She thought of the old men on the sidewalk, with their endless chess game.