Cathy’s thumbprint worked on the door lock. She went in first and Peter followed behind. Cathy shouted out, “We’re here,” and her mother appeared at the top of the stairs to greet them. Bunny Churchill — God help her, that was her name — was sixty-two, short, trim, with gray hair that she refused to dye. Peter liked her immensely. Cathy and he headed up into the living room. Peter had been coming here for years, but had still never quite gotten used to its

appearance. There was only one small bookcase, and it held audio CDs and some video laser discs, including a complete run of Playboy Video Playmate Calendars since 1998.

Cathy’s father taught Phys. Ed. Gym teachers had been the bane of young Peter’s existence, the first inkling he’d had that all adults weren’t necessarily intelligent. Worse, Rod Churchill ran his family like a high-school football team. Everything started on time — Bunny was rushing even now to get food on the table before the clock struck six. Everybody knew their positions, and, of course, everyone followed the instructions of Coach Rod.

Rod sat at the head of the table, with Bunny at the opposite end and Cathy and Peter facing each other on either side — sometimes they played footsie when Rod got into one of his boring stories.

This was turkey month — the first-Sunday dinners rotated between turkey, roast beef, and chicken. Rod picked up the carving knife. He always served Peter first — “our guest first,” he’d say, underscoring that even after thirteen years of marriage to his daughter, Peter was still an outsider. “I know what you want, Peter — a drumstick.”

“Actually, I’d prefer white meat,” said Peter politely.

“I thought you liked dark meat.”

“I like dark chicken meat,” said Peter, as he did every third month. “I like white turkey meat.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rod.

No, I’m fucking making this up as I go along. “Yes.”

Rod shrugged and carved into the breast. He was a vain man, a year from retirement, hair dyed brown — what was left of his hair, that is. He grew it long on the right side, and combed it over his bald pate. Dick Van Patten in a track suit.

“Cathy used to like drumsticks when she was a little girl,” Rod said.

“I still do,” said Cathy, but Rod didn’t seem to hear her.

“I used to like giving her a big drumstick and watch her try to get a bite out of it.”

“She could have choked to death,” said Bunny.

Rod grunted. “Kids can take care of themselves,” he said. “I remember that time she fell down the stairs.” He laughed, as if life should be one big slapstick comedy. He glanced at Bunny. “You were more upset than Cathy was. She waited until a big enough audience had arrived before she started crying.” He shook his head. “Kids got bones made out of rubber.” Rod handed Peter a plate with two ragged slices of turkey breast on it. Peter took it and reached for the bowl of baked potatoes. Friday evenings at The Bent Bishop somehow didn’t seem that bad right now.

“I was bruised for weeks,” said Cathy, a bit defensively.

Rod chuckled. “On her bum.”

Peter still had a long scar on his leg from a high-school gym accident. Those darned Phys. Ed. teachers. Such funny guys. He waited until everyone was served, helped himself to the gravy boat, then passed it to Rod.

“No thanks,” said Rod. “I’m not eating much gravy these days.”

Peter thought about asking why, decided against it, and passed the gravy boat to Cathy instead. He turned to his mother-in-law and smiled. “Anything new with you, Bunny?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m taking a course Wednesday nights — conversational French. I figure it’s about time I learned.”

Peter was impressed. “Good for you,” he said. He turned to Rod. “Does that mean you have to fend for yourself Wednesday evenings?”

Rod grunted. “I order in from Food Food,” he said.

Peter chuckled.

Cathy said to her mother, “The turkey is delicious.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Bunny. She smiled. “I remember that time you played a turkey in the Thanksgiving play at school.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that, Cathy.” He looked at his father-in-law. “How was she, Rod?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t go. Watching children dressed up as livestock isn’t my idea of a fun evening.”

“But she’s your daughter,” said Peter, then wished he hadn’t.

Rod helped himself to some cooked carrots. Peter suspected he would have gone to watch a son play in Little League.

“Dad never took much interest in children,” said Cathy, her tone neutral.

Rod nodded, as if this was a perfectly reasonable attitude for a father to take. Peter stroked Cathy’s leg gently with his foot.

CHAPTER 4

The world goes through two seasons in six months. Should it be surprising that other things change a lot in that time, too?

Peter had downloaded this week’s Time from the net and was glancing through it. World News. People. Milestones.

Milestones.

Births, marriages, divorces, deaths.

Not all milestones were so cut-and-dried. Where were things such as the disintegration of a romance noted? What was the journal-of-record for lingering malaise, for empty hearts? Who marked the death of happiness?

Peter remembered how Saturday afternoons used to be. Lazy. Loving. Reading the paper together. Watching a little TV. Drifting at some point to the bedroom.

Milestones.

Cathy came down the stairs. Peter looked up briefly. There was hope in lifting his eyes, hope that he’d see the old Cathy, the Cathy he’d fallen in love with. His eyes fell back to the text reader. He sighed — not theatrically, not for her ears, but for himself, a heavy exhalation, trying to force the sadness from his body.

Peter had inventoried her appearance in that quick glance. She was wearing a ratty U of T sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans. No makeup. Hair quickly combed but not brushed, falling in black bunches around her shoulders. Glasses instead of contacts.

Another small sigh. She looked so much better without the thick lenses balancing on her nose, but he couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her contacts.

They hadn’t made love for six weeks.

The national average was 2.1 times each week. Said so right here in Time.

Of course, Time was an American magazine. Maybe the average was different here in Canada.

Maybe.

This year had been their thirteenth wedding anniversary.

And they hadn’t made love in six fucking weeks. Six fuckless weeks.

He glanced up again. There she stood, on the third stair up, dressed like some goddamn tomboy.

She was forty-one now; her birthday had been last month. She still had her figure — not that Peter saw it much anymore. These sweatshirts and too-big sweaters and long skirts — these bags she’d taken to wearing — hid just about everything.

Peter stabbed the PgDn button. He tipped his head down, went back to his reading. They used to make love a lot on Saturday afternoons. But, Christ, if she was going to dress like that…

He’d read the first three paragraphs of the article in front of him, and realized that he hadn’t a clue as to what it had said, hadn’t absorbed a single word.

He glanced up once more. Cathy was still on the third step, looking down at him. She met his eyes for an instant, but then dropped her gaze, and, hand on the wooden banister, stepped down into the living room.

Focusing on the magazine, Peter said, “What would you like for dinner?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

I don’t know. The national anthem of Cathyland. Christ, he was sick of hearing that. What would you like to do tonight? What would you like for dinner? Want to take a vacation?

I don’t know.