But I wasn’t in the mood to be kind and said something I knew would inflict far more damage than a full-frontal assault on her life.

“Well, I won’t have to live here much longer.”

She dropped her head and whimpered quietly.

“Gina,” I said, feeling like a complete shit and reaching across the table for her hand.

I was startled by how soft and vulnerable she looked when her eyes were wet with tears. For a brief moment she was the lovely little doe she’d been not so very long ago, the girl who strangers stopped in restaurants and airport terminals, remarking on her resemblance to Princess Diana. But she quickly composed herself, her face once again the tense mask she’s worn these past few years.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “You don’t need me dumping on you. I can’t believe how much this Randall Jarvis thing has upset me. I wish you were going to the funeral with me, but I know you didn’t like him.”

How could I have disliked Randall Jarvis when I’d seen him only once since her wedding, and then only briefly, in the incontinence aisle of Walgreens several months ago, so gaunt and sallow I didn’t recognize him when he called my name. I’d hemmed and hawed, promising to call, knowing that I wouldn’t since the last thing I wanted to do at this sorry juncture of my life was relive old times with a man who’d obviously come home to die.

“ Regina, that’s not fair. What do you think that fucking asshole boss of mine would say if I asked for more time off? He’d have fired me already if he wasn’t afraid I’d sue Shelton/Murray because it wouldn’t give me my family medical leave. Thank you, Bill Clinton.”

Actually, it might have been worth getting fired to see the look on the Born Again National Sales Manager’s face if I had cancelled my appointment with a VIP prospect in Connecticut so I could attend the funeral of a flamboyant fashion designer now known as Randy Sainte-Villaneuve, a man who had once danced with supermodels in the pages of People.

“Besides, he was your friend anyway,” I said.

“That’s not true,” she insisted, insulted by my casual rewrite of Nocera family history. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how close the three of us were.”

You bet your ass I’ve forgotten. I wouldn’t admit it under the pain of death. Not a bit of it. Not that he was “Barbie,” sloe-eyed, his face all cut glass angles and deep shadows, and she was “Midge,” the “best friend,” a natural born sidekick in corrective shoes with a half-moon pee stain on the seat of her pants. They spent days, weeks, entire summers, playing out his extravagant fantasies of Hollywood movie sets and European castles with her Barbie collection, all resplendent in outfits designed and stitched by a precocious little boy that were far more beautiful and elegant than the cheap costumes packaged by Mattel. And me? I was “Ken,” the man in the henhouse, sometimes fussed and fought over by the “women” in my life, other times so infuriated at being excluded from their nasty secrets that I tore up the bridal gown Randall had spent a week sewing for Redhead Ponytail Barbie and etched fuck and me into Blonde Bubble Cut Barbie’s tits with a ballpoint pen.

“I’ll never understand why you turned against him,” she sighed. “He was always such a sweet boy who loved you so much.”

My sister can be almost willfully obtuse at times. But that’s not fair to her. How could she know what happened whenever Randall Jarvis and I were alone? And what would she say if I were to tell her about all the times he talked me into putting my dick into his mouth or sticking my finger up his bum or persuaded me into lying on top of him, rubbing our naked weenies together until they were raw and chafed? All of which I was willing to do, wanted to do, even looked forward to doing, until the day he made the mistake of assuming he could confide in me.

“I wish I was a girl so I could be your girlfriend.”

Years later, he’d returned in triumph for my sister’s wedding, already famous beyond a small town’s ability to comprehend, his gift her wedding gown. He seemed lost at the reception, self-conscious, the wretched town of Gastonia still able to intimidate a man who’d conquered the world. Tipsy on champagne cocktails, he approached me shyly, thinking he’d found a friendly face. His accent revived by alcohol, he said I looked wonderful, that he’d always known I’d become a handsome man, a son of the South.

I responded like any respectable Vice President of National Sales would have been expected to, like a true son of the South.

“Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, Randall, or whatever you call yourself these days.”

My wife refused to speak to me the rest of the evening and well into the next day.

“You know, you still look like Princess Di,” I assured my sister, changing the subject and wanting to make some long-overdue amends to her and to Randall Jarvis for my despicable behavior.

She snorted, dismissing the compliment.

“Right, with this damn nose and my dago skin.”

“Well, she looked her best with a good suntan.”

She’s far too self-critical to accept a compliment, but I knew I’d pleased her and could end the dinner with a clear conscience.

“Oh, what the hell,” she said, happy, if only for the briefest moment. “You only live once. I’m gonna order the mousse, even though I know it’s probably Jell-O Instant Pudding in a champagne glass.”

The dinner finally over, I got to the Carousel twenty minutes before closing. He wasn’t there. I described him to the bartender. He shrugged, disinterested. I wouldn’t give up. He would have been wearing hospital scrubs or an East Carolina School of Medicine sweatshirt. Oh yeah, the bar man said, he left over an hour ago. Yes, alone, as far as I know, he said when I persisted. I wanted to call, to ask if I could come over, to confess I wanted to see him, but knew I would sound desperate. The next morning I was scheduled to fly to Hartford for a five-day swing through New England. I called from the boarding area. He answered on the first ring, sounding annoyed. What’s wrong? he asked. I’d gotten him out of the shower; he was dripping and shivering. I could tell he wanted to get off the telephone, to get dressed, to get to work on time. Was that a voice in the background? Was he wildly gesticulating to the man he’d brought home from the bar until he could get rid of me? Had the bartender lied? No, it was only the perky chirp of the morning news anchor. I’ll see you Saturday, he said, anxious to get off the phone. Don’t forget me this week. It seemed like forever since he’d said those words. The tables had turned; he was slipping through my fingers, this confident, cheerful boy.

I had too much on my mind. Airline schedules. Hotel reservations. Sales appointments. Doctor’s appointments. Oncologists. A pharmacopoeia of goodies for my mother needing to be picked up. And now Steve. No wonder I was always exhausted, wanting to do nothing but sprawl across the roomy bed in the Sheraton, and flush everything away with Budweiser and Johnny Walker and the crummy homegrown weed I get from the lawn boy at my mother’s club. What’s the difference if I slept through the wake-up call as long as I was up by noon?

“I’m so very sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I must be confused. I’m sure the appointment is for two.”

Meaning…what’s the big deal? I’m here now. Let’s go to work.

The honest mistake routine had worked in Buckhead, Georgia, and Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, before that.

But not in Darien, Connecticut, where I was four hours late for my appointment with the proprietor of an upscale kitchen-ware shop in the wealthiest zip code in the United States of America. Yes, I understand time is money and, yes, I understand that like everything else, time is more expensive within the boundaries of Darien, Connecticut.

“The appointment was for nine A.M. I verified it this morning with Shelton/Murray.”