David pushed back his chair and an alarm went off in Desmond’s head and he saw himself falling down a long dark staircase. “Anderton,” he said, “may not be a household name, but look who she palled around with: Judy Garland, Mel Tormé, Frank Sinatra.”

David’s chair rolled back toward his desk. “Sinatra?”

“I’ve been in touch with Liza Minnelli, who’s more than willing to consider doing the narration.”

“Really? You think you could get her to appear on film?”

“I don’t see why not,” Jane said. “You said she’s been helpful all along, didn’t you, Desmond?”

What amazed Desmond was that it had happened so effortlessly, this lapse into complete fabrication. Although he had to say, there was some grain of truth in it: Anderton did talk about Garland and had recorded some of Mel Tormé’s songs. Not true, but to quote Jane, true enough. At least for the moment.

Ten

The Spin Cycle

1.

Gerald was sitting at the table in the kitchen, grudgingly drinking his breakfast glass of milk. His pediatrician had told Jane that many children dislike milk. Go to the supermarket, he’d advised her, and look at all the products designed to disguise the buttery flavor of milk and its white viscosity. Sure enough, there were shelves of the stuff—powders and syrups and granules. So why did she take Gerald’s feeling of revulsion toward milk so personally, as if it were a subconscious rejection of her? She insisted he drink a glass of milk each morning for his bones and his teeth, but the real reason she made sure he choked it all down was that she wanted this daily reassurance of his acceptance.

Thomas was driving Gerald to school in half an hour, and he still hadn’t returned from his morning jog. It worried her that he was being so consistent about jogging. As far as she could tell, he’d missed only two days in the past two weeks, and there hadn’t been much improvement in the weather. She had managed to talk him into going out in the mornings when it was cool, although he still ended his runs pink and sweating.

“Did you finish your milk, sweetie?”

“Lyuuuck!” He shuddered, and handed her his empty glass.

She set a plate of toast in front of him and sat down at the table with her coffee. Gerald’s hair was beginning to grow in, which made him look less like a convict, but it was at that awkward middle stage of growth: spiky bristles sticking out all over. “What are you doing in school today?” she asked.

“Something stupid and babyish probably.”