Final Option

three—‘You’ll be able to wear the dress again.’ „
    “You’re right. I wouldn’t want to be buried in this dress. I can’t wait to see Camille’s sister in it. She’s five-two and weighs two hundred pounds. You’ve got to see the shoes.” She darted out to her desk and came back with a pair of open-toe pumps with three inch heels dyed lavender to match the dress.
    “Lovely,” I said. “You’ll definitely get a lot of wear out of those.”
    “Oh, sure, every woman has a place in her wardrobe for a pair of lavender FMPs.”
    “What, pray tell, are FMPs?”
    “Didn’t your mother teach you anything? FMP—fuck me pumps.”
    I was still laughing when the phone rang. Cheryl answered it and handed it to me. “It’s Barton Jr.,” she whispered, her hand covering the mouthpiece. “I assume you want to talk to him.”
    “Can we get together?” he asked when I took the phone. “I think I did saw my branch off today.”
    “Sure, when’s good for you?”
    “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to come out to the house tonight. I promised Jane I’d be home for dinner. Wednesday is our au pair’s day off, and by six Jane’s just beat. Maybe you could come and have pot luck with us.”
    “Oh, no. I don’t want to impose. Why don’t I come out after you’re done eating?”
    “No, really. Dinner’s best. To be perfectly honest, I’m a little nervous about telling Jane what happened today. I wouldn’t mind having you around.”
    “You mean in case she tries to deck you?“
    “Something like that.”
     
    Barton and Jane Hexter lived in a pleasantly restored Victorian house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Evanston. Theirs was a comfortable, family neighborhood, with tricycles on the front walks and wooden swing sets out back. Prosperous and serene, it was remarkable only when viewed from the vantage of the house in which Barton Jr. had grown up.
    Jane met me at the door holding a kicking two-year-old high up over the crescent of her belly. She wore a flowered jumper in a dull shade of dark red that only accentuated the paleness of her thin skin and the fine lines that pregnancy, fatigue, and the hideous stress of the past few days had etched there.
    “Welcome to the monkey house,” she said, managing a smile. “This little monkey is named Peter.”
    “Eeee, eeee, eeee,” obliged Peter happily with monkey noises.
    “Now run upstairs and find that other little monkey,” she said, releasing him and giving him a good-natured pat on the bottom. “Come on in. Barton’s in the dining room. He says he’s trying to get some exams graded, but he’s really hiding from me. Did he tell you that he fired Carl Savage today?”
    “I was there. I hope that doesn’t mean I get arsenic in my soup.”
    “You’ll get soup. I’ll think about the arsenic. Let’s go chase him out of there.”
    Jane led the way through the house, which was decorated in the manner of university professors the world over: comfortable, vaguely modem furniture in neutral tones, polished wood floors, and books jammed into every conceivable space. A Steinway concert grand piano dominated the living room. A harp graced the bay window. Toys were strewn everywhere in between.
    At the sound of our voices Barton ducked out of the dining room, tucking his shirt into his jeans. “Oh, hi, Kate. Gosh, is it already dinnertime? Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine?”
    “Wine would be lovely,” I ventured.
    “Done,” said Jane. “I’ll get it. Why don’t you two have a seat. I’ve got to check on dinner anyway.“
    “Are you sure I can’t help?” I asked.
    “No. I’ve got it under control.”
    Barton and I made ourselves comfortable. Above us I could hear the sound of little running feet and shrieks of what I hoped was laughter.
    “I see you came clean with Jane,” I said.
    “She took it surprisingly well. I think the worst she called me was idiot.”
    “So how did the day’s trading go?”
    “Okay. I’m not like Dad. I can’t keep a running total in my head, which means I’m going to have to come up with some sort of record-keeping system. Tim doesn’t seem too happy about it. He and Dad used to meet at the end of every trading day to go through the trades, but I think it took them twenty minutes. We were at it for better than an hour today, and we only got through two commodities. When I told him he’d have to come in at six tomorrow morning so that we could finish up, he didn’t seem too