In college, I had been attracted to my roommate, Peter Townsend. But after fifteen years of marriage to Amanda, my thoughts of Peter had faded, until I heard a rumor that he would interview for Chairman of the Department of Psychiatry at the University where I was a professor of botany.
I called to invite him to our house for a dinner while he was in town. I told Amanda. There were a few minutes at my twentieth college reunion when I thought Amanda could never get enough of Peter. I was surprised at my anger. We had so little between us. Amanda was a proud cook of exacting proportions, frequently adjusted temperatures, and rigid freshness. Peter deserved the best.
Madeleine was in library science, thirty-five years old and never married. But I said nothing to Amanda. We gathered together on a Thursday night. I had insisted that Peter be presented as the honored guest, and he fit easily into the role as if he expected nothing less.
Ester started the dinner conversation. The department here is close to broke. The previous chair left under a cloud of harassment accusations. Amanda came in from the kitchen wearing oven mitts and carrying a hot ceramic dish filled with a bubbling parsnip puree. For the next two courses the conversation came in spurts and we drank wine in the silences. But just before dessert, Madeline told a story about her schnauzer falling into the bathtub, and Ester expressed concern about the poor quality of students applying for admission this year.
Even Amanda seemed warmed to chatty—at least a little—and told of her recent trip to the Bahamas with her boss, the university Chancellor, for a conference.
