Invasion of Privacy

breast cancer, but I did learn something about how you deal with the risk of cancer in general. You notice what might be a problem, like we did on Tuesday night, and you get tested, like you did this morning. And then you have to wait for the results.”
    A tentative nod.
    I brought my hand up to her cheek, tracing my fingertips down toward her chin. “And the person who loves you does the wait with you.”
    She closed her eyes, the tears starting again, following after my fingers. “John, you don’t understand. They took this needle, and they had to stick it in—”
    “Can I see?”
    Nancy opened her eyes.
    I said, “Can I see where they did this?”
    She shook her head. “Not yet, I’m not... ready.” Okay. “Then how about if I touch but don’t look?” Another weak smile. “Give me your hand.”
    I let her take the left one, as though she were a palm reader, about to predict my fortune.
    Nancy brought my index and middle fingers toward her, then beneath the robe but outside the turtleneck, before stopping short. “It’s still very tender under the bandage.”
    “I understand.”
    “It really hurt, even to have my bra on over it.”
    This time I just nodded.
    Nancy brought me in contact. I could feel the bandage as she flinched.
    “Sorry,” she said, giving my hand back and shaking her head. “It didn’t hurt when you touched it, I was just afraid it would.”
    “Tell you what, then.”
    “What?”
    “How about if I go to the kitchen and get that Alasdair Fraser tape and put it on? Then we might have some wine and kind of cuddle up here until you fall asleep.”
    Nancy swiped at her tears, once with the forehand, then with the back. “I think that would be the bestest couple of hours I’ve had in two days.”
    “It’s going to be more than a couple of hours, Nance.” I took both of her hands in mine. “It’s going to be all night, every night.”
    “What comes after... ‘bestest’?”
    We both laughed, but as I stood and walked toward the kitchen, I heard the faint rustling sound of tissues being torn from their box. And I tried to close the door in my heart on what I remembered from years before, with the only other woman I’d ever loved.

15

    W hile Nancy was in the bathroom the next morning, I picked up the phone to check with my answering service. No message from Olga Evorova, but “Mr. Zuppone” had called twice, the service operator telling me she thought somebody was yelling at him in the background and did that sound right? When I tried my telephone tape at the condo, another, or the same, two messages from Primo. Nothing from Evorova. Again. Same when I called her at work (voice-mail) and at home (answering machine).
    After Nancy and I had a quiet breakfast, talking around the things we’d talked through the night before, she left for work. Killing time until I figured the bank would be functioning, I took the Scottish fiddle album from the cassette player. The music had carried just the right “normality” echo for us on Nancy’s couch, and now reading the quaint titles of the pieces somehow seemed doubly reassuring.
    At 9:00 a.m., I slipped the cassette into my jacket pocket and tried my client again at the bank. Her very formal secretary said Ms. Evorova was in conference and could not be disturbed. When I asked for a transfer to Claude Loiselle, I drew a very brusque male secretary who said Ms. Loiselle was in conference and could not be disturbed as well. When I asked the second secretary if Ms. Loiselle was in conference with Ms. Evorova, I got a firm “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    That’s when I hung up. Whenever you’re waiting for something, including test results, it’s a good idea to do something else. Nancy had her trial, I had Evorova. If I could see her.
    But first, a visit with someone I didn’t have to look for.

    The breeze blowing down her hillside toward the harbor was warm, that Indian Summer tease still in the air. Carrying the dozen tulips wrapped in clear plastic, I walked the rows of stones until I reached hers, the engraving somehow looking less sharp now, the freeze-thaw of winters rounding the letters of ELIZABETH MARY DEVLIN CUDDY to the point they truly seemed only a memory.
    John, I wasn’t... expecting you.
    “It’s been a while, Beth.” I went to one knee, laying the flowers diagonally on the grave. “Mrs. Feeney had only a couple of roses, but these just arrived.”
    Tulips in October?
    “She said they were from